Chapter 13
thirteen
MIKE
My nerves spike as I push through the bar’s heavy door, where I see undergrads nursing watery happy-hour beers, townies who’ve worn grooves in the same barstools since the Reagan administration, and a surprising cluster of black-turtleneck types who look like they’d rather be at a wine bar discussing Proust.
Right near my apartment , I remind myself. Three-minute sprint to safety if this implodes. Four minutes if my ankle acts up.
Though after today’s game, I’m not sure I’ve got any sprint left in me.
We won 4–1, but Coach worked me like I owed him money.
I played thirty-eight minutes, and my legs feel every second of it.
Still, the ankle held. More than held, actually.
One goal, one assist, and only one twinge I’ll pretend doesn’t exist.
But now, the real highlight of the day.
And it isn’t the poetry reading.
I scan the entrance for our table, supposedly reserved under my name.
Then I spot her.
Sophie sits alone at a corner table, and everything else in the bar becomes background static. She hasn’t noticed me yet, giving me a dangerous moment to just... look. The burgundy sweater should be illegal—the way it clings and drapes in all the right places.
Just friends , the reasonable part of my brain announces, like a referee calling a penalty. Have a few drinks, share some laughs, then get the hell out intact.
But the unreasonable part of my brain—the part that got me into this mess—is already calculating whether it would be possible to get Sophie off her “just friends” insistence, and how to manage the apocalyptic consequences that would come from doing so.
But before the two warring sides can declare a winner, Sophie glances up.
Her whole face transforms with a brilliant smile, and we perform an elaborate pantomime—her gesturing at the drinks already on the table, me nodding and pointing, both of us probably looking ridiculous to anyone watching.
I weave through the crowd, trying not to look like I’m rushing to get to her even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to move faster.
“Sorry if I’m late,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her.
“I was fashionably early.” She pushes a pint glass to me. “Gave me time to secure the good table and practice my shocked face for when you bomb on stage.”
“You’re fashionable no matter what you do.”
The words tumble out before I can catch them, too honest for the casual tone we’re attempting.
Color blooms across her cheeks—this perfect pink that makes me want to write terrible poetry about things I have no business thinking about.
She opens her mouth, closes it, then covers by lifting her vodka soda.
I grab my beer like a lifeline and take a long pull, and only then do I realize what she’s done. “Wait,” I say. “How did you know my favorite?”
“You ordered three of them at karaoke.” She shrugs, but there’s something pleased in her expression.
“Should I be flattered or concerned about your observation skills?” I laugh, putting the glass down.
“Definitely concerned. I have spreadsheets.” She delivers it deadpan, and for a second I almost believe her. “And you have your own tab now.”
I lean back, studying her with a smirk. “Oh yeah? And what does the data say about me?”
“Off the charts. I had to create new metrics.” She shrugs. “Although I look forward to adding whatever literary masterpiece you have tonight to the mix…”
“I’ve got something special lined up.” I pat my jacket pocket where my phone holds my frantic scribbles. “And by ‘special’ I mean ‘probably violates laws…’”
Her posture changes, leaning forward slightly. “You actually wrote something original?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.” I aim for casual and miss by miles. “I thought if you were coming to watch, I couldn’t just recycle some other asshole’s poem…”
“You wrote something,” she repeats, and there’s something soft in her voice that makes my chest tight. “I’m impressed.”
“Save the praise until after you hear it. I’m counting on at least twenty people going before me so I can perfect my escape route. Maybe pull a fire alarm.”
“Afraid of a little public speaking?”
“Terrified. Last time I had to present in front of people—” I pause, debating whether I should be telling her this story or not. But she’s looking at me with those eyes, waiting, and I’m apparently powerless. “Fourth grade. Book report on Where the Red Fern Grows .”
“Oh no.” She’s already grinning. “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”
“I get to the front of the class, twenty-seven fourth-graders staring at me. Mrs. Henderson in her reading glasses looking expectant. I open my mouth to start and—” I pause for maximum impact. “—the only sound that comes out is the world’s most nervous fart.”
Sophie chokes on her drink. Actually chokes, coughing and grabbing a napkin while her shoulders shake. “No!”
“Scout’s honor.” I hold up three fingers. “The entire class just... frozen. Me standing there clutching my index cards about tragic hunting dogs.”
“Stop,” she gasps between breaths. “Please tell me that’s the end.”
“Oh, Pearson. Sweet, naive Pearson.” I shake my head sadly. “Mrs. Henderson waited about three seconds, wrinkled her nose, and handed me a bathroom pass. Didn’t even try to pretend it didn’t happen. Just pointed at the door with this look of profound disappointment.”
She’s bent double now, one hand pressed to her stomach. A couple at the next table glances over, probably wondering if she’s having a medical emergency. And I desperately, desperately , want the laughter to continue, because it’s just about the most magical thing I’ve ever seen.
“From then on, I was Mike Fartman. It stuck until middle school when I grew six inches and made JV hockey.”
“Fartman,” she repeats, wiping tears from her eyes. “That’s almost clever for a nine-year-old.”
“Tommy Fitzgerald peaked with that one.” I grin. “Anyway, that’s why I have a strict no-public-speaking policy in most cases, but I made an exception for you.”
“Well, Fartman,” she says, voice still shaky with residual giggles, “I have good news and bad news about tonight’s lineup.”
My stomach drops. “Bad news first. Always.”
“You’re going first.”
“Funny.” I take another drink. “Your comedy career starts never.”
“I’m serious.” She pulls out her phone, shows me a photo of the sign-up sheet. There it is, right at the top in purple ink: Mike Altman .
The beer turns to cement in my throat. “Sophie, no.”
“Mike, yes.” Her innocent expression doesn’t fool me for a second. “I may have arrived extra early specifically to ensure premium placement.”
“Premium placement is last!” I protest. “After everyone’s too drunk to form memories… or coherent sentences!”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Buried in Mrs. Henderson’s classroom with my dignity.” I run a hand through my hair. “This is sabotage.”
“This is friendship.” She raises her glass in mock solemnity. “I’m helping you grow as a person.”
“You’re helping me have a cardiac event.”
“Drama queen.” But her eyes soften slightly. “Hey. You’ll be fine. And if you’re not, I promise to start a standing ovation.”
Before I can respond, a woman with purple-streaked hair and enough facial piercings to build a small robot approaches the corner platform. The entire bar seems to pivot toward her as she taps the microphone, sending a shriek of feedback through the speakers that makes everyone wince.
“Welcome to Open Mic Night!” Her voice booms with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely believes poetry can save the world. “Let’s give our readers the respect and attention they deserve. Our first brave soul tonight is… Mike Altman? Mike, you here?”
Every head in the bar swivels, scanning the crowd. Some faces show recognition—hockey fans or students who probably can’t reconcile the defenseman with poetry night. Others look curious, already composing their mental reviews. Sophie, helpful as ever, points directly at me.
“Traitor,” I mutter, draining my beer in one desperate gulp. “If I die up there, I’m haunting you first.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” She lifts her glass in a mock toast, eyes dancing. “Break a leg, Fartman.”
Purple Hair beckons from the platform, holding the microphone like she’s offering me a live grenade. The crowd parts as I stand, and I catch fragments of conversation that do nothing for my confidence: “—plays hockey, I think—” and “—this should be interesting—” and “—is he having a stroke?”
The walk to the platform feels endless, and then I’m on stage with mic in hand.
Under the lights, the crowd blurs into a mass of expectant faces.
All except Sophie, who remains crystalline in my peripheral vision, leaning forward, chin on her hand, watching with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“So.” My voice cracks immediately. “I’m Mike, and I’m here because I thought trying new things would be good for personal growth. Turns out I was wrong.”
A few chuckles ripple through the crowd.
“I play hockey,” I continue, finding my rhythm. “Which means I’m used to people yelling at me. But usually I’m wearing pads and they’re behind glass.”
More laughs, louder now, and Sophie’s smile widens.
“I wrote something.” I make a show of pulling my phone out. “But then someone told me poetry night isn’t the place for haikus about cafeteria food, so...”
“Read the haiku!” Some drunk hero shouts from the back.
I look at Sophie, who nods with exaggerated seriousness.
“Alright.” I pretend to read from my screen. “Cafeteria fish / Mystery meat swimming in / Regret and beige sauce.”
The bar erupts—half groaning at the terrible poetry, half laughing at its accuracy, in roughly even proportions. Even the overly serious turtleneck brigade cracks a few smiles.
“But seriously,” I say once the noise dies down from the gag. “I did try to write something real. It’s about—” I swallow, throat suddenly dry. “It’s about what happens when you realize the plan you’ve been following might be someone else’s map.”