Page 80 of Unmanageable

Finn O’Connell

The thin air hits you right in the back of the throat the second you open the door, but Scottie doesn’t notice because she slept through the entire highway stretch, the entire suburban sprawl, and most of the interstate leading up to the facility.

Her head had been pressed against the passenger window for the drive from Charlotte, her red hair obscuring her face. Even now, as I pull the old van into the parking lot, she’s still blinking like a nocturnal animal suddenly forced into the daylight.

“We’re here, Scottie-girl,” I say. “Welcome to Atlanta. Grab your legal pads. And your dignity, if you can find it.”

We’d had to come straight here for a practice, with absolutely no time to stop at the hotel first.

Scottie lets out a low grunt, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her cheeks are slightly flushed from the nap, and her jacket is hopelessly wrinkled on one side.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she mutters, voice thick with sleep. “I was just… resting my eyes.”

“Right. Is that why you were drooling on the seatbelt?”

“That wasn’t me,” she says, immediately swinging her door open and stepping out into the crisp, bright morning.

She doesn’t even look back at me, just stretches her arms over her head with a loud yawn.

I smile, shaking my head as I kill the ignition of the engine.

A week ago, after that disaster with the ice cream and the subsequent miracle at the jazz club, I thought things would get weird. I thought the agent-client boundary would turn into a big, awkward wall of professional panic.

But Scottie is too… Scottie for that.

She’s just choosing to ignore the fact that we completely crossed the line, acting totally carefree, which honestly makes me want to push the line even further just to see how much she can handle.

We walk through the front doors of the rink, and a man in a bright yellow track jacket and a pristine white whistle comes marching across the lobby floor.

He’s about forty-five, but he’s got this deep, rich tan that looks like he just got back from a tropical scouting trip, thick dark hair that completely defies gravity, and a perfectly trimmed, sharp mustache.

He looks less like a hockey coach and more like a guy who should be captaining a yacht in the Mediterranean.

I look over to Scottie.

Scottie is staring at him, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly parted. Then, with absolute zero shame, she literally lets out a low, appreciative whistle.

I blink at her, my hand freezing on the strap of my gear bag. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, her eyes still locked on him as he approaches. “Just… checking the room’s acoustics.”

“You just whistled at the guy,” I say, a strange, sudden prickle of irritation hitting my chest. I step closer to her, trying to block her view. “What do you mean? Do you find him hot? He’s literally old enough to be your uncle, Scottie. I’m standing right here, looking like this, and you’re catcalling the staff?”

“I didn’t say I liked him. I just have eyes, Cash,” she whispers back, her cheeks flushing a bright, guilty pink. “The man has a majestic mustache. It’s a statement piece. It screams confidence.”

“It screams midlife crisis,” I mutter, putting a hand over my heart. “I’m deeply wounded. My emotional state is compromised. I thought I was your favorite athlete, but I guess I just don’t have the fluffy hair requirements.”

Before she can defend herself, the man stops right in front of us, sporting a thick, wireless headset microphone that hooks over his ears and hovers exactly two centimeters from his mouth, connected to a small battery pack clipped to his hip.

“Ah! The travelers approach! The protagonist enters the arena!”

Scottie’s eyes bulge.

The romantic illusion instantly shatters as she looks at the headset, then looks at me, her mouth twisting into a tight line as she tries to process what’s happening.

“Coach Vance,” I say, dropping my bag and reaching out a hand, trying to hide the smug satisfaction rolling through me. “Good to meet you.”

“And the handshake is executed! Clean grip, solid extension, a textbook display of confidence from O’Connell!” Vance says, his voice projecting with an unnerving, broadcast-quality clarity.