Page 85 of Unmanageable

“Finally,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

“What?”

“You’ve been pacing out there for twenty minutes. The shadow under my door has been doing laps.” He tosses the remote up a few inches and catches it. “I was starting to think I was going to have to come out there and rescue you.”

My face instantly heats up.

I stammer, my tongue suddenly feeling twice its normal size. “I—I wasn’t pacing. I was checking emails. The reception in my room is terrible.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Anyway,” I say, my voice squeaking slightly.

I clear my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, hyper-aware of how close he is, how warm the air moving out of his room feels.

“Do you want to… uh… I mean, I was thinking about the schedule, and…” I trail off, my brain totally blanking.

He’s just staring at me with those ridiculous, clear eyes, enjoying my breakdown.

I shake my head, taking a step back toward the elevators. “You know what? Never mind. Forget it. Go back to your movie.”

I turn on my heel, ready to sprint down the maroon-and-gold carpet, but before I can take a single full stride, a large, warm hand clamps down on my shoulder.

“Hey,” Cash says, his grip firm but gentle as he easily catches me, his fingers sinking into the soft fabric of my sweater.

He guides me back around until I’m facing him again. His expression has softened, the smug smirk turning into a genuine smile. “I’m kidding. Come here. What did you want?”

I look at his hand on my shoulder, then up at his face. The casual touch makes my stomach do that stupid, familiar flip.

I let out a defensive sigh, crossing my arms over my chest to keep myself from reaching out to touch him back.

“We have three free days,” I say, the words coming out in a rush. “Before we have to start the drive to Nashville. So… I was just wondering if you wanted to do something. Like, anything that doesn’t involve an ice rink or an older man screaming about municipal zoning.”

“Come inside. Let’s look at the options.”

I hesitate for a grand total of one second before I walk past him.

His room is identical to mine—king-sized bed, generic beige curtains, a desk covered in sports drink bottles and laptop chargers—but because it’s Cash’s, it feels smaller, dominated by his presence.

I sit down on the edge of the desk chair, pulling my knees up toward my chest, while Cash drops onto the foot of the bed, leaning his back against one of the wooden posts.

“Three days,” he repeats, looking up at the ceiling as he thinks. “No skates. No coaches. No video review.”

“Strictly civilian activities,” I agree. “I can book us a museum tour, or there’s a really highly rated steakhouse downtown—”

“A hike,” Cash says, cutting me off instantly. He looks over at me, his eyes bright with a sudden, terrible enthusiasm. “We’re in Atlanta, Scottie. We should head up north into the Blue Ridge Mountains. Get some real air into our lungs before we get stuck in the humidity.”

I stare at him.

The silence stretches between us for three full seconds before I let out a flat, horrified laugh.

“Oh, fuck no.”

“Why not?”

“Cash, look at me,” I say, gesturing wildly to my entire body. “I am the least athletic person on the North American continent. My entire identity is built around sitting in air-conditioned offices and signing things with expensive pens.”

“You’re an athlete’s representative,” he points out. “You have to understand the physical relationship with nature.”