Chapter 21 #2
“It is.” I focus on my hands, on the chipped clear polish that I keep meaning to redo. “And when something like this happens, and I realize I haven’t gotten better at all. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it. And all I want to do is call Mom right now and work through every possible scenario.”
Mike’s hand finds mine on the bench between us. His fingers are warm, calloused in places that speak of hockey sticks and weight rooms and a life lived in motion. He doesn’t interlock our fingers, just covers my hand with his, and somehow that makes it even more intimate.
“When I got injured,” he says, his voice taking on a different quality—deeper, more raw—“I drove my physiotherapist absolutely insane.”
“Really?” I turn my hand palm-up without thinking about it, and his thumb traces a light pattern on my wrist that makes concentrating difficult.
He nods, his eyes focused on some middle distance.
“I became this complete control-freak. Wanted her to map out every possible timeline, every potential outcome. I had spreadsheets, Sophie. Actual spreadsheets with color-coded recovery scenarios.” His laugh is self-deprecating. “I was ridiculous and terrified.”
“Terrified of what?” I ask softly.
“That everything I’d worked for was gone. That I was going to be just another cautionary tale—you know, ‘promising player whose career ended before it began.’” He looks down at our joined hands. “I couldn’t handle the uncertainty, so I tried to plan for every possible future.”
“What happened?”
“She told me something that pissed me off at the time.” His thumb keeps moving on my wrist, and I wonder if he realizes he’s doing it.
“She said planning for every possible problem is like packing for a trip to everywhere at once. You end up with a suitcase so heavy you can’t even carry it out the door. ”
The analogy hits home with unexpected force. That’s exactly how I feel—weighted down by preparations for disasters that exist only in my imagination.
“She said it’s better to deal with things as they come,” Mike continues.
“Because you can’t actually predict how you’ll handle something until you’re in it.
The treatments might improve. Your support system might surprise you.
You might be stronger than you think.” He finally meets my eyes.
“Planning for the worst-case scenario just steals energy from dealing with right now.”
“That’s… annoyingly wise.”
“I know, right? I hated her for about a week.” His smile fades into something more serious. “But she was right. Took me months to even start believing it, another six to actually try living it. Still working on it, honestly, but it’s been a game-changer for me.”
I consider this, rolling the concept around in my mind. “So you’re saying I should just… stop worrying?”
“No, that’s impossible.” His hand squeezes mine gently. “I’m saying try to redirect some of that worry energy into things that actually help in the present.”
“I’m not catastrophizing,” I protest weakly. “I’m… preparing.”
“For things that might never happen.”
“They might, though.”
“They might,” he agrees. “Or your mom might be one of the people who stays stable for decades. Or new treatments might come out next year.”
The breeze picks up, sending a shower of leaves around us like nature’s confetti. One lands in Mike’s dark hair, and I have the absurd urge to reach up and brush it away. Instead, I focus on the steady pressure of his hand on mine, the way his presence makes the chaos in my head quiet down.
“Thanks,” I say finally. “For listening. And for not making me feel like I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re not being ridiculous. You’re being human.” He pauses, seems to wrestle with something, then adds, “Want to hang tomorrow?”
The invitation hangs between us, charged with possibility, and I sigh. “Tempting as competitive anxiety spiraling sounds, I can’t. I’m on Hazel duty.”
“Hazel duty?”
I carefully extract my hand from his, instantly missing the warmth. “My parents are going to New York for the day. Mom has an appointment with her specialist, and then Dad’s taking her to this restaurant he’s been researching for weeks.”
“That’s good, right? Them doing normal couple things?”
“It’s amazing. It’s the first time they’ve done anything like that since the diagnosis.” I pick up a broken maple seed, spinning it between my fingers. “I mean, they go to Applebee’s sometimes, but this is… different. Dad bought a new tie. Mom’s been debating outfits all week.”
Mike smiles at that. “And you get quality time with your sister.”
“Exactly. Honestly, I’m excited about it.
I’m basically just her chauffeur these days.
Tomorrow we can actually hang out, just the two of us.
” I drop the seed and watch it flutter to the ground.
“Except ‘hanging out’ with Hazel means I’ll be chasing her around for six hours while she literally bounces off walls. ”
Something shifts in Mike’s expression—a flash of uncertainty followed by determination. “I could come with you.”
I turn to stare at him, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”
“With you and Hazel,” he clarifies, and there’s definitely nervousness threading through his voice. “I could help. You know, divide and conquer.”
“You… want to spend your Saturday with an eight-year-old?”
“Sure. Why not?” He shrugs, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders, a way his fingers drum against his thigh. “It’ll be another new thing to try.”
I study his face, searching for signs of insincerity or ulterior motives. But his expression is open, maybe even a little vulnerable, and I realize he’s actually serious about this.
“You do realize she’s going to ask you approximately nine million questions, right?
And make you play whatever game she invents on the spot?
” I smirk. “Last week, she decided we were secret agents searching for buried treasure, but the treasure was just her Halloween candy she’d hidden and forgotten about. ”
“Sounds entertaining.”
“She’ll probably try to braid your hair.”
“It’s getting long enough,” he says, running a hand through hair that has definitely grown past regulation hockey length. “Though I draw the line at glitter.”
“Oh, there will definitely be glitter.” I snort, as something real and full loosens in my chest. The idea of Mike spending a day with Hazel is both terrifying and oddly appealing. “That would actually be really nice, Mike. If you’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I’d like to come. As friends, obviously,” he adds quickly, and something in his expression shutters. “I know that’s what we agreed on. I’m totally fine with that. Friends helping friends with hyperactive children. Very normal. Very platonic.”
The word “platonic” hovers in the air between us, obviously false, a designer knockoff everyone can spot. I wonder if he can hear my pulse accelerating, if he notices the way my breathing has gone shallow for an entirely different reason than panic.
His smile returns, but there’s heat in his eyes now that makes my skin feel too tight. “Text me the details? Time, place, glitter warnings?”
“OK, I’m late for practice.” He stands up, then pauses, looking down at me with concern. “Are you OK now? Good to get back on your own?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Significantly less likely to hyperventilate, which will spare me any embarrassing collapses.
“That’s what I like to hear.” He shoulders his bag, takes a step away, then turns back. “Hey Sophie? For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be an incredible nurse. The fact that you care this much about your mom is exactly what’s going to make you great at taking care of other people.”
Before I can respond, he’s striding toward the arena.
I watch him go, this complicated athlete who quotes his physiotherapist and volunteers to babysit and makes my worst moments feel manageable.
The guy who sees my messy, complicated life and steps toward it instead of away.
The guy who doesn’t try to fix me or my anxiety, but just stands beside me while I figure it out myself.
Maybe Ally’s right.
Maybe what I need isn’t someone to help carry the baggage or make it heavier. Maybe I need someone who makes me want to put some of it down and soar a little higher. And, for the first time in weeks, the worry in my chest has competition.
It’s small and fragile and probably stupid, but it feels suspiciously like hope.