Chapter 22
twenty-two
MIKE
The morning air has teeth—that sharp November cold that makes your lungs ache if you breathe too deep. So I’ve got my hands buried in my pockets as I walk down the driveway, my hockey coach’s driveway, to the red front door, my hockey coach’s front door.
The suburban normalcy of his house hits me, but I’m more distracted by the fact that, somewhere behind that red door, is Sophie. She told me to pick her up from her parents’ house rather than her apartment, because, and I quote, “getting Hazel ready is a ten-step process that takes hours…”
Easy enough for me, anyway.
The hardest thing I had to do was gather the supplies in the backseat of my car, which took an hour to gather this morning. Not because I’m trying to impress her (I totally am), but because she needs someone to take care of her for once, even if she’d rather chew glass than admit it.
The front door swings open before my knuckles meet wood.
“You’re Mike, right?” A blonde whirlwind bounces on her toes, grin stretching wide. “Sophie told me not to say anything about how you look or?—”
“Hazel!” Sophie materializes behind her sister, cheeks flushing pink. “That’s not… I didn’t say it like that!”
“Yes you did.” Small hands plant on smaller hips. “You said it exactly like that, and when I asked why you or I would care how he looks, you made the face.”
My chest tightens with something dangerously close to hope. “What face would that be, Hazel?”
Hazel transforms her features into an exaggerated dreamy expression—eyes soft, lips curved in a besotted smile. “This one she gets when she likes a?—”
“I do not make that face,” Sophie protests, but her smile undermines any attempt at indignation.
“You’re literally making it right now,” I point out, cataloging the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she’s embarrassed.
Sophie’s eyes narrow, but warmth dances in them.
She’s wearing jeans that have seen better days and a Pine Barren Hockey hoodie that swallows her frame.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that shows the delicate curve of her neck.
She looks exhausted and in desperate need of twelve hours of sleep.
She looks beautiful.
“Come in.” She steps aside, ushering me in. “Hazel can’t find her shoes, which is basically our morning tradition at this point.”
“I need the sparkly ones with the unicorns!” Hazel’s already halfway up the stairs. “They have magic!”
“Check under your bed!” Sophie calls after her, then turns to me with an apologetic shrug. “This could take a while, so make yourself comfortable.”
She disappears upstairs, chasing after Hazel’s chaos and leaving me alone in Coach’s living room. Photos cover every available wall space, and I gravitate toward them, searching for clues about the daughter of the man who controls my hockey future.
The evolution of the Pearson family plays out in careful chronology.
There’s Coach, younger and less weathered by seasons of breaking down game tape.
Mrs. Pearson radiates energy in every shot—marathon medals around her neck, dirt on her hands from gardening, always in motion even when sitting still.
And Sophie.
I step closer to what must be her high school graduation.
She’s beaming at the camera with uncomplicated joy, mortarboard slightly crooked, sandwiched between her parents.
No tension pulling at her shoulders. No careful catalog of everyone else’s needs running behind her eyes. Just pure, unguarded happiness.
Another photo snags my attention—Sophie at what looks like a college party, arm slung around a blonde girl, both caught mid-laugh at something off-camera.
This was before, I realize. Before her mom’s diagnosis rewired her entire nervous system to run on high-alert, before she appointed herself guardian of everyone.
“Found them!” Hazel’s triumph echoes from upstairs. “They were in the bathroom sink!”
“Why were your shoes in the—actually, never mind.” Sophie’s sigh is audible even from down here. “Just put them on.”
I move to more recent photos, and the difference in Sophie hits with brutal clarity.
She still smiles, sure, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.
Her hands are always occupied—steadying her mom’s elbow, holding Hazel’s hand.
Even in candid shots, she seems vigilant for danger or work that needs doing.
Do her parents notice how she’s made herself responsible for holding their world together?
“Sorry about that.” Sophie appears at the bottom of the stairs, interrupting my thoughts before I can answer the question, Hazel bouncing beside her in unicorn-adorned glory. “She’s ready now, thank God, so I just need to pack snacks and then we can?—”
“Actually, I brought everything we need, unless Hazel has strong negative feelings about PB&J?” I gesture toward the door, watching her closely. “And I also mapped out an easy trail with a picnic spot that allegedly has very friendly squirrels.”
Sophie freezes. “You brought food?”
“And bug spray. And enough water to hydrate a small army.” I keep my tone light, but I’m watching the way her fingers slowly uncurl from the bag strap. “Even threw in a first-aid kit because nothing says ‘responsible adult’ like being prepared for scraped knees.”
“Mike, you planned our whole day?” The words come out breathy, almost vulnerable.
Something in her tone makes me second-guess. Have I overstepped? Taken away her control when she needs it most? “We can do something else if?—”
“No.” The word escapes her lungs in a rush. “No, that sounds... that sounds perfect.”
Her shoulders rise a full inch, like I’ve just physically lifted a weight off her, and suddenly she’s smiling. Not the careful, measured smile from recent photos but something closer to that graduation girl. It’s unguarded and real, and the impact of it lands somewhere beneath my ribs.
“Come onnnn!” Hazel rockets past us toward the door, sneakers flashing with each step. “Are we gonna see bears? I want to see bears!”
“No bears,” I assure her, still watching Sophie. “But I think there might be a salamander or two if we’re lucky.”
“SALAMANDERS!” She’s out the door before either of us can respond. “YESSSSSSSS!”
Sophie shakes her head, but the smile stays. “You sure you know what you’re getting into? She’s basically a tornado in unicorn shoes.”
“Sophie.” I wait until those gray eyes meet mine, until I can see the war playing out behind them—the part that needs to control everything battling the part that’s just bone-deep tired—and then I give her the best reassuring smile I can muster. “I’ve got this. OK?”
The moment stretches between us, taut as a breakaway with an empty net. I watch her weigh the risk of letting go, and see the exact second she chooses trust over control. Something loosens in my chest when she nods, because I know that is a huge concession from her.
“OK,” she says finally, and the word sounds like a prayer. “OK.”
We head outside where Hazel’s already attempting to climb into my car. As I help her into the backseat and watch Sophie settle into the passenger side—hands empty, nothing to manage or fix or worry about—I make a silent promise to myself.
Today, she doesn’t have to be the responsible one. Today, someone else can handle the details while she just exists. Just breathes. Even if that someone is technically just her friend. Even if she never sees me as more than the guy who helped that one time.
At least I can give her this.
The fall sun catches on wet leaves, turning the trail into a glittering obstacle course of potential ankle-twisters. I test each step, feeling for that telltale roll that would send me back to physical therapy and snooker my hockey dreams once and for all.
But… nothing.
Just solid ground and the satisfying crunch of November beneath my feet. We’re barely twenty minutes in, but Hazel has already transformed into some kind of feral naturalist, disappearing and reappearing with breathless announcements about the local flora.
“That’s a white oak!” She points at a tree that looks exactly like every other tree to me. “And over there is a paper birch. You can write on the bark!”
I catch Sophie’s eye. “Is she always this encyclopedic about nature, or did she study specifically to impress me?”
Sophie’s laugh comes easier than I’ve heard it before. The constant tension that lives in her shoulders—that invisible weight I’ve watched her carry since we met—has loosened. For once, her phone stays buried in her pocket instead of clutched white-knuckled in her palm.
“She’s obsessed with trees lately,” Sophie says. “Last month it was rocks. Whatever captures her attention, she memorizes everything about it.”
“Smart kid.”
“Too smart. Sometimes I swear she’s secretly forty-five years old.”
Hazel rockets back to us. “Mike! Did you know that tree bark is like fingerprints? Every tree species has different bark patterns!”
“I did not know that.” I lean down to her level. “That’s pretty useful information if the trees ever commit a crime.”
She tilts her head, processing this, then nods solemnly. “Yes. That makes sense, actually.”
The kid shoots off again, and Sophie watches her go with that particular brand of exhausted affection. “Where does she get that energy?” Sophie asks.
“Same place all kids do,” I say. “They siphon it directly from adult exhaustion and red candy.”
Sophie’s snort sends unexpected warmth spreading through my chest. “Why hiking? Of all the ‘new things’ you could have picked for today?”
I navigate around a moss-covered boulder. “My dad used to drag me and Andy out on teacher workdays when we were kids,” I say. “Mom was always at the hospital, so it was Dad’s solution to everything—pile us in the car, find a trail, walk until someone complained loud enough to turn around.”
“That sounds nice.”