Page 67 of Unmanageable

I tighten my jaw, looking down at the keyboard. I have no intention of telling him that my father walked out before I was old enough to form a memory, or that my mother only calls when she needs money or a reason to make me feel guilty.

“They’re busy,” I say shortly. “They let me do my thing. What about yours?”

“Oh, they’re the best,” Cash says, and I can hear the easy, genuine warmth in his voice. “Still live in the same house where I grew up. They watch every single game.”

He gives a small, fond huff, his thumbs continuing their slow pressure on my shoulders. “My mom still texts me after every single period. If I give up three goals, she tells me the lighting in the arena looked off or the ice looked sticky. Total unconditional mom bias.”

“That’s sweet, Finn,” I say with a small, genuine smile.

“Yeah. She’s great.” His hands slow down just a fraction. “My dad still rings me from the kitchen landline after a win just to tell me I looked big in the net.”

“Just after wins?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going, trying to ignore how good his hands feel.

“Lately, yeah,” Cash says. “He keeps it brief. Just tells me to stay square to the shooter, says he loves me, and hangs up. He’s a man of few words these days.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.

I know from his basic file that he comes from a quiet, stable home, but we’ve never traded childhood stories. I didn’t even know he had a sister until I saw a family photo on his bedside table a few weeks ago.

His hands slow down, moving in gentler, broader strokes across my upper back, the heat from his palms bleeding through the shirt.

Cash breaks the silence by stepping out from behind my chair. He walks back around to the front of the table, but he doesn’t sit down. Instead, he leans his hip against the edge of the wood, reaching out to loosely catch my wrist where it’s resting next to the laptop.

His thumb moves immediately, brushing right over the small dollar-sign tattoo near my pulse point.

He uses every single opportunity to touch that tattoo.

Because his nickname is Cash, everyone who sees it assumes it’s some twisted, submissive tribute to him. I constantly deny it, telling him and anyone else who asks that it was just a stupid, drunken mistake—not some deep, meaningful piece of art meant for him to analyze.

But deep down, no matter how many times I lie to myself, I know the truth.

Drunk Scottie probably did choose it because of him.

There is always this magnetic, unspoken thing pulling at the edges of us, no matter how hard I try to fight it, and he still gravitates toward my wrist every single time he gets close enough.

He traces the fresh ink in a slow, rhythmic circle. One. Two. Three.

The beat of my heart under his thumb is frantic, a wild thing caught in a cage, but his touch stays steady, anchoring me to the quiet room.

“You’re doing too much, Sharky,” he says, his thumb still moving against my pulse. “The schedules, the metrics, the everything… you’re running yourself into the ground.”

“It’s my job, Cash. I’m your agent.”

“You’re my friend first.” He lets go of my wrist, his hand sliding away as he steps back to give me space, the air where he was just touching me instantly feeling colder. “You don’t have to do all of it by yourself. I can help with some of this stuff.”

“You can’t even handle a hotel booking, O’Connell. I’m not letting you near my laptop.”

A small, true smile breaks through his serious expression, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Fine.”

He looks toward the open connecting door, then back at me. “Keep the computer. But tomorrow, I’m driving the van the whole way to Charlotte. No arguments.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, opening my laptop again just to have something to look at. “If you grind the gears in the Wendy’s drive-thru tomorrow morning, I’m taking the keys right back.”

“I’m an elite athlete, Scottie. My footwork is perfect.”

“Your driving is terrible, Cash. Go to sleep.”

He laughs, that low sound that always makes the room feel a little smaller, a little warmer. He walks over to the connecting door, stepping through into his own dark room and pulling the wood shut until it clicks securely into place.