Scottie Reed
Me: Why is he like this?
Dean: Genetics. Maybe a head injury.
***
The silence in Cash’s room is so thick you could cut it with a skate.
It started over something so monumentally stupid that if my clients at the agency found out, they would collectively fire me and hire actual adults to run their multi-million-dollar careers.
We were packing up the van to head toward Washington, and Cash had insisted on rolling up his wet goalie under-layers instead of folding them.
“If you roll them, they retain the moisture in the fibers, Cash,” I had told him, my voice clipped. “They’re going to smell like a swamp by the time we hit Washington.”
“They’re high-performance synthetic polymer, Scottie,” he’d shot back, tossing a shirt into his duffel. “Rolling keeps the elasticity from breaking down. It’s science.”
“I have a degree from Boston University, Finnian. I think I understand basic material degradation.”
“And I have ten years in professional locker rooms, Sharky. I think I understand how to handle my own underwear.”
That was it.
I had given him the look—the one that usually makes third-line defensemen sign the first contract offer put in front of them—and he had matched it with his signature goalie glare, the one he uses to intimidate shooters during a high-stakes shootout.
We both snapped our mouths shut at exactly 1:14 PM, and not a single syllable has been exchanged since.
Now, it’s 2:30 PM.
I jam a pair of my boots into the side pocket of my suitcase, using a completely unnecessary amount of physical force.
I am a corporate executive. I negotiate broadcast rights. I stare down general managers who look like they eat raw steak for breakfast. Yet, the second I am enclosed in the small interior of the van with Finnian O’Connell, my mental age drops directly back to seven.
I feel like a little kid on a playground, holding my breath until my face turns blue just to prove a point.
It’s entirely immature, unprofessional, and I still refuse to be the first one to blink.
I look over at Cash. He’s standing by the motel dresser, his massive frame taking up most of the light from the window.
He knows I’m looking at him. I know he knows.
Instead of saying “Are you ready to go?” like a civilized human being, he catches my eye, holds my gaze with absolute, unblinking intensity, and drops his keys onto the top of his duffel bag with an exaggerated, heavy clink.
He raises an eyebrow. Your move, Sharky.
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly strain an optic nerve. I turn my back to him, grab the strap of my laptop bag, and hoist it over my shoulder with a sharp, aggressive jerk. I make sure the silver buckle hits the zipper of my suitcase with a loud, distinct crack.
I’m ready, you giant infant.
Cash lets out a heavy, silent sigh through his nose. He reaches down, grabs his duffel bag by the straps, and pauses.
He looks at my suitcase. Then he looks at me. He points a massive, calloused index finger at my suitcase, then points to his own shoulder, lifting his eyebrows in a mute question: Do you want me to carry that, or are you going to keep pretending you’re a bodybuilder?
I glare at his finger. I step in front of the suitcase, grab the telescoping handle myself, and give him a sharp, horizontal slice of my hand through the air. No. I extend my arm toward the door, throwing my chest out and giving him an imperious nod. March.
Cash smirks and walks out of the room, his sneakers thudding against the cheap outdoor carpeting of the walkway.
***
Cash handles the van with a level of theatrical flair that belongs on a Broadway stage.
When a semi-truck cuts us off near the exit, he doesn’t swear.
He doesn’t honk. Instead, he throws both his hands up off the steering wheel for a split second, palms open to the heavens, turning his head toward me with a wide-eyed, frantic expression that clearly says, Did you see this?
Are we seeing this together, or am I alone in this lawless wasteland?
I don’t look at him directly. I keep my chin propped in my hand, staring out the passenger window, but I allow myself to give a single, brief, formal nod of agreement. Yes. The truck driver was out of line. Our alliance remains intact against external threats.
He accepts the nod, grips the steering wheel again, and continues driving.
The silence continues through the state line. It survives the midday sun beating down on the flat, vertical front of the van, and it survives the local radio station playing three consecutive car commercial jingles.
My jaw is actually starting to ache from how tightly I’m keeping my teeth gritted, but every time I think about opening my mouth to say something—anything—to break the tension, a stubborn, childish voice in the back of my head screams: If you talk now, the wet laundry wins.
Then, Cash reaches into the side door pocket and pulls out a thick, spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. It’s the one he uses to write down notes during video reviews, or scribbling down numbers when we’re tracking his save percentages.
He flips it open with one hand, resting it against the top of the steering wheel while keeping his eyes firmly on the road.
He writes something down in huge, sweeping, chaotic handwriting. He doesn’t look over at me; he just slides the notebook across the painted metal dashboard until it lands right in front of my coffee cup.
I look down, my eyebrows knitting together.
The silence of the road is nothing compared to the silence of a woman who rolled her socks instead of folding them.
I snort, a small puff of air escaping my nose before I can stop it. I grab the pen from the dash, flip the page, and write beneath:
Socks do not need to retain moisture and develop their own ecosystem, Finnian. Goalie gear is a bio hazard. Drive the van.
I rip the page out, fold it once, and slap it over the speedometer.
Cash looks down at the paper, his eyes tracking my words.
His face remains expressionless, but I see the muscles in his jaw relax.
He takes the pen back, flips to a fresh page in the notebook, and writes something else.
He doesn’t even look down this time; he just scribbles by muscle memory and shoves the book toward me.
I am a wall on the ice, Scottie. A wall does not bend to the whims of the textile industry.
I grab the pen.
A wall who is currently going thirty-five miles an hour in a fifty-five zone because he’s too busy being a philosopher. Press the gas.
He reads it, looks at the speedometer, and stomps on the accelerator. The rear-mounted engine lets out a high-pitched, rhythmic rattle, the frame shaking as we jump up to sixty.
Cash gives me a thumbs-up without looking over—a quick, jerky movement of his hand that feels so ridiculously like a little boy showing off on a bicycle that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
This is what he does to me.
He takes the corporate armor I’ve spent years building and he just dissolves it with a pair of cheap plastic googly eyes or a stupid notebook lyric.
When I’m in Boston, I am the most cutthroat agent to exist.
When I’m with Cash, I’m just Scottie.
It’s terrifying how easily he pulls me back to that version of myself. The version that isn’t afraid of failing.
***
Three hours later, the afternoon heat has turned the interior of the van into a literal greenhouse. My throat is parched, and the espresso I had earlier has worn off, leaving a dull throb behind my left temple.
Cash shifts his weight in the driver’s seat, his gray hoodie suddenly looking way too hot for the climate. He reaches over and adjusts the dash vent, pointing it toward his face, but the vintage system just emits a pathetic, warm puff of air that smells faintly of old upholstery.
He lets out a long, dramatic groan—no sound, just a wide-mouthed, silent declaration of agony toward the roof of the van. He looks at me, points to his tongue, and drops his head back against the headrest like a man dying of thirst in the Sahara.
I reach down into my leather tote bag between my feet. I pull out my water bottle, unscrew the cap, and take a long sip, making sure my throat moves noticeably as I swallow.
Cash watches the water bottle like a hawk watching a field mouse. He looks back at the road, then back at the bottle. He grabs the notebook again.
Water is for the weak. A true athlete thrives on dehydration and bitter resentment.
I write back:
A true athlete is going to pull over at the next gas station because his agent needs a bag of pretzel M&Ms or she is going to throw his rolled-up laundry out the window.
He doesn’t even bother writing a reply. He hits the turn signal so hard I’m surprised the plastic lever doesn’t snap off, swinging the orange van into the right lane as the blue and yellow sign for a highway rest stop appears through the trees.
We both unbuckle at the exact same time. The clicks of the seatbelts are perfectly synchronized. We walk into the rest stop facility like two soldiers on a truce.
Cash is walking a step ahead of me, his long legs eating up the concrete walkway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. We head straight for the vending machines in the back corridor, past a family arguing over a map and an old man sleeping on a bench.
There it is.
The large glass front of the snack machine, glowing with the sterile, white light of a fluorescent bulb. In row E, position 4, sits the final, solitary bag of pretzel M&Ms.
The blue packaging is slightly crinkled, wedged between a sleeve of stale Oreos and a generic brand of potato chips.
I step forward, my fingers reaching into my pocket for my wallet. At the exact same instant, Cash’s massive, shadow-like frame moves into my peripheral vision. His arm shoots out, his large hand reaching toward the electronic keypad.
Our fingers collide. My hand lands flat against the back of his wrist, right over the dark fabric of his sleeve. His fingers are pinned against the plastic number buttons.