Page 37 of Unmanageable

“Well, if you visit any Canadian coaches,” Dean says, breaking the mood with a grin as he reaches over and blatantly steals a piece of bacon from Scottie’s plate, “make sure you bring back some of that maple syrup candy. The good stuff. Not the tourist trap crap.”

“Touch my food again, Dean, and I’ll sue you for emotional distress,” Scottie warns, though she doesn’t actually move to stop him.

The conversation drifts back into safer, lighter territory—complaining about the upcoming preseason schedule, arguing about who had the worst dance moves last night, and Cal and Ivy’s flight to their honeymoon in Greece later this afternoon.

It’s the kind of chatter that keeps us grounded, a reminder that underneath the contracts and the pressure, we’re just a group of people trying to keep our lives on track.

By one o’clock, the brunch is wrapping up. The players are starting to stand, stretching their massive frames and exchanging hugs with Cal and Ivy as people begin to head toward the parking lot to catch their flights and start their drives home.

I stay back for a second, helping Callahan load a few remaining bags into the back of his car while Ivy and Scottie say their goodbyes by the club entrance.

“This is it, then,” Cal says, slamming the trunk shut and turning to face me. “Next time I see you, you’ll be smelling like two months of highway diners.”

“It’s a classic aesthetic, Callie,” I grin, pulling him into a tight hug, slapping his back hard. “Take care of her, man. Don’t do anything stupid in Greece.”

“Never,” Cal says, pulling back with a wide smile. “See you in September, Cash. Don’t make me come up there and bail you out of anything.”

I walk back toward the entrance just as their car pulls away, leaving Scottie standing on the gravel driveway alone. She’s checking her watch, her hair catching the breeze.

“You ready, Sharky?” I ask, stopping a few feet away.

She turns her head to look at me, her eyes unreadable behind the dark sunglasses. “Don’t be late tomorrow. I’m not waiting for a goalie who can’t keep time.”

“I won’t,” I say, a slow, confident smile spreading across my face as I watch her turn and walk toward her car. “I’ll be exactly where I need to be.”

10

Scottie Elise Reed

5:12 AM

Cash: if we were stranded on an island—

Me: I’d swim home.

***

We all ended up crashing at Nico’s house after the brunch because apparently a group of fully grown adults still believed in sleepovers.

Everyone else had been up for ages.

Cash, however, had decided to spend the morning in the shower while I stood outside waiting.

“You’re late,” I say, snapping my wrist up to check my watch with a level of theatrical precision that is, frankly, my brand.

“By four minutes, Scottie. Take a breath,” Cash says, strolling out of the entrance.

He’s carrying two massive duffel bags like they’re filled with nothing more than dreams and air, his stride loose and effortless. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt that’s definitely seen better days and a pair of dark sunglasses that make him look like a high-end trouble-maker who’s never once been told “no.”

“Four minutes is the difference between making a flight and watching it take off from the terminal bar,” I snap, though I’m mostly just trying to keep my eyes from lingering on the way the sun hits the corded muscles of his forearms.

“Good thing we’re driving then.”

Jenna saunters over, her third mimosa of the morning—or maybe just the same one she’s been nursing since 7:00 AM—sloshing in her hand. She looks at me, then at Cash, and her smile turns positively predatory.

“Bye, Scottie,” she chirps, throwing her arms around me in a crushing embrace. “Try not to break him too early. And for the love of God, remember what I said. Use the gear shifter. It’s got great leverage.”

“Jenna!” My face heats up, and I can hear the suppressed laugh vibrating in Cash’s chest behind me.