Chapter 27
twenty-seven
SOPHIE
The morning rush at Campus Grind hits me—heat from espresso steam mixing with chill from the constantly opening door, bitter coffee grounds and vanilla syrup creating that particular smell of desperation and hope that defines college mornings.
For the first time since I moved here, it feels like home.
And it’s got nothing to do with coffee and all to do with Mike.
The line snakes almost to the door, everyone clutching phones and looking ready to commit coffee-related crimes. I bounce on my toes, my own phone burning a hole in my pocket, but for once, I’m not checking on my mom’s vitals or Hazel’s schedule. Instead, I’m wondering if Mike’s awake yet. He had?—
“OK, what is happening with your face?” Maya’s voice slices through my thoughts.
My eyes narrow. “What about my face?”
“It’s doing this…” She waves her hand vaguely at me. “You’re all glowy and weird.”
Maya stares at me for so long that when the line moves forward, she doesn’t budge. I can feel her cataloging me like she’s triaging a particularly difficult patient, deciding whether anything can be saved. Then her mouth drops open in a dramatic gasp that turns several heads.
“Oh my God. You’re happy . Like, genuinely happy. Not drunk-happy or I-just-aced-an-exam happy. This is…” Her voice rises to a squeal. “This is sex happy!”
“Maya!” I hiss, grabbing her arm, even as the guy in front of us swivels around with obvious interest.
“Don’t ‘Maya’ me. You’re floating around all…” She gestures wildly. “Even your hair looks different. Bouncier. That’s definitely sex hair.”
“My hair is not?—”
“It’s totally sex hair.” She grips my shoulders, practically vibrating. “Did you finally stop overthinking and jump that beautiful hockey boy’s bones again?”
The interested guy gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I glare until he turns around, but my face keeps betraying me with this stupid smile I can’t control. I want to sink through the scuffed linoleum floor.
But also…
I want to tell her everything. Because for the first time in forever, I have something good to share. Something that isn’t about medication schedules or an eight-year-old’s activities or my crushing course load. It’s something that’s just mine.
“Fine,” I mutter, the word tasting strange and sweet. “Yes, Mike and I are together.”
Maya’s squeal could shatter windows. “I KNEW IT! When? How? Details! Is he as good as he looks? Because he looks like he’d be really?—”
“We’re next,” I interrupt desperately, pushing her toward the counter, where a bleary-eyed student is waiting to take our order.
But as we order—my usual diabetes-inducing coffee plus a black one for Dad—the smile creeps back, because Maya’s right. I am stupidly, ridiculously, terrifyingly happy.
“I need all the details,” Maya demands again as we wait, clearly not falling for my deception and avoidance routine. “When did this happen?”
“Saturday.” I lean against the pickup counter, the fake marble cool under my palms. “He spent the day with Hazel and me.”
“He went on a family outing? With the sister you guard like government secrets?” Maya’s jaw drops. “Who even are you?”
“I know.” The words come out wondering, like I’m still processing it myself. “He’s been so patient. Never pushing, always letting me set the pace…”
“Yes…”
“And Saturday night, after we dropped Hazel off…”
I trail off, lost in the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered my name like a prayer. And the repeat performances, every day since, and most days more than once.
“Sophie Pearson, you’re blushing!” Maya fans herself. “This is beautiful. You deserve to have all that stress fucked right out of you.”
“He brought me Pop-Tarts at 2:00 a.m. during clinical rotation study hell,” I admit. “Four boxes of Wild Berry.”
“Marry him.”
“He also makes the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted but swears his brewing method is revolutionary.”
“Never mind, run.”
“And when we’re in bed, he traces these patterns on my skin, like he’s writing secret messages?—”
“OK, marry him again.” Maya clutches her chest. “God, look at you. Glowing like a freshly fucked lighthouse. I’ve never seen you like this.”
She’s right. Being with Mike feels like standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, except instead of being paralyzed by the drop, I want to jump and fly with him.
“Two coffees for Sophie!” the barista calls. “On the house, because you’re getting laid!”
I grab both cups, face flaming. “You’re definitely getting murdered later, but you’re lucky I’m rushing now.”
Maya pulls me into an awkward coffee-juggling hug. “I’m so happy for you, Soph. You deserve all the Pop-Tarts and terrible coffee in the world.”
The walk to the athletic center gives me too much time to think. Crisp air nips at my cheeks, leaves crunching underfoot—everything sharper, brighter, like someone adjusted the contrast on the world. This bizarre lightness in my chest that I’m starting to recognize as contentment keeps expanding.
The past few days blur together in a haze of firsts—waking up tangled in Mike’s sheets, his terrible singing in the shower, the way he looks at me like I’m something precious. It has all been wonderful and easy and warm, even though we haven’t yet defined exactly what it is.
And the sex…
Maya wasn’t wrong about the glowing.
But it’s the quiet moments that keep ambushing me. His terrible jokes that make me laugh despite myself. How he actually listens when I ramble about nursing stuff, even the gross parts. The way he’s learned I need complete silence for exactly ten minutes after waking up before I can form words.
I’ve spent years building walls, convincing myself I didn’t have time for relationships, that depending on someone meant setting myself up for abandonment. But Mike didn’t storm my defenses. He just… kept showing up with his crooked smile until I couldn’t imagine my days without him.
The athletic center feels different today. This is Mike’s world too, I realize. Another piece of him I’m learning. So, as I walk the halls on the way to Dad’s office, I take in the team photos, spotting Mike a few times and smiling. And when I reach my dad’s door, I knock lightly before entering.
He looks up from his computer, surprise flickering across his features. “Sophie? Everything OK? Did I forget something with Hazel?”
“Everyone’s fine, Dad.” I hold up the extra coffee like a peace offering. “Just thought you might need caffeine.”
His expression shifts to something I can’t quite read. “You brought me coffee? Just because?”
“Revolutionary concept, I know.” I settle into the visitor’s chair. “Figured we could talk. Like, a conversation that doesn’t involve coordinating schedules.”
He stares at me for a beat too long. “That’s… that would be nice.”
The silence stretches, both of us apparently having forgotten how normal people interact. When was the last time we talked about something that wasn’t logistics or crisis management? When was the last time we talked at all since our Cold War kicked off?
He clears his throat. “How are classes?”
“Good. Exhausting, but good.” I sip my coffee. “How’s the team?”
And suddenly we’re just a dad and daughter again. His whole face transforms as he launches into game analysis, eyes bright with the passion that made him a great coach. I usually tune out hockey talk, but today I lean forward, genuinely interested.
“And Mike,” he says, pulling up video on his computer. “He’s got instincts you can’t teach. Watch this play from practice yesterday.”
Something flutters in my chest as I watch Mike on screen. He moves differently on ice—all controlled power and laser focus, reading plays before they develop—and this is another version of him, one I’m still learning.
“The injury could’ve ended him,” Dad continues. “Most guys never fully come back mentally. But Mike used it to grow. That’s rare. That’s someone special.”
Someone special.
Suddenly, those words terrify me a little—how special he’s become, how quickly. Because what the hell happens when special becomes essential? When I can’t imagine mornings without his terrible coffee or nights without his warmth next to me?
“He’s been good for morale too. Knows when to push and back off. He knows that real leadership is about understanding people.”
There’s weight to his words, layers underneath hockey analysis. My dad coached the boy who destroyed me in high school. He knows why athletes became landmines in my life, why I spent years crossing streets to avoid team jackets.
He opens his desk drawer and pulls out folded newsprint—our hometown paper’s Saturday crossword, delivered here even though we’re states away. The familiar smell of newspaper ink hits me, and suddenly I’m twelve again, before everything got complicated.
“Old habits,” he murmurs, spreading it between us.
My throat tightens, that peculiar ache when tears threaten. Saturday mornings before hockey consumed everything, before Mom got sick, before I learned to be afraid of depending on anyone. Just us and shared puzzles and comfortable silence. The ritual we lost somewhere between diagnosis and now.
“Seven across is ‘eternal,’” I say, voice rough. “It intersects with twelve down.”
We fall into ancient rhythm—him tapping his pencil against his teeth (still the same brand, Dixon Ticonderoga #2), me chewing my bottom lip. For twenty minutes, we’re not exhausted caregivers juggling impossible schedules. We’re just us, connected by newsprint and terrible puns.
“I’ve missed this,” he says as we fill the last square.
“Me too.”
He sets down his pencil, turning to face me fully. “Sophie, about you and Mike.”
My spine stiffens. “Dad?—”
He smiles. “I ran into him at the campus store yesterday. Buying Pop-Tarts.”
Oh God, not this conversation. “Maybe he just likes Pop-Tarts?”
“I enforce strict nutrition standards during season.”
“So?” I say, hopeful he might have failed to connect the dots.
“No player of mine risks my wrath for junk food unless…” he trails off.
“Unless they’re idiots?”
“Unless they’re in love.”
Love.
The word hangs between us, too big for this cramped office full of game tape and old trophies. My pulse stumbles, then races. Love. Not like, not infatuation, not just really great sex. Love. The thing I’ve spent three years avoiding because love means needing someone and needing someone means?—
“Dad, we just started?—”
“He checks his phone constantly during practice, which I should bench him for, but…” His hand covers mine on the desk, calloused and familiar. “I also see how happy you are, and I’m glad. You’ve been carrying the world for so long, sweetheart. It’s good to see you living your own life.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”
“That boy is one of the good ones. And you haven’t smiled like this in years.”
I round the desk and wrap him in a hug, breathing in Old Spice and coffee and safety. And, for just a moment, I’m eight years old again, safe in my dad’s arms before I learned that love meant vulnerability and pain.
But maybe Mike’s been teaching me something different.
That some people stay.
That some risks are worth taking.
That happiness doesn’t have to be temporary.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”
“Always, Fee. You deserve to be happy.”