Page 103 of Unmanageable

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Cash

9:34 AM

Me: do married people just… know stuff?

Callie: Depends.

Me: like what women are thinking?

Callie: Absolutely not.

***

I keep my left hand relaxed on the wheel, my thumb tracing the edge of the leather cover, while my right hand rests flat against my thigh.

My knuckles are still a faint, yellowish-green color from the bar fight, but the swelling is gone and the skin is mostly healed. On the console between us sits a fresh postcard—a blindingly ugly photo of a desert rock formation that looks vaguely like a melted boot.

Scottie had claimed it at our last fuel stop, scribbling her secret note on the back with a fierce, quiet intensity while I filled the tank, before sliding it into the growing weight of the envelope.

Memphis is next, and I’m already tracking the horizon for a roadside gift shop to find something even uglier.

I glance sideways at the passenger seat.

Scottie is curled up with her knees pulled into the chest of another one of my sweatshirts that she’s stolen, her bare feet resting on the plastic edge of the glove box.

Her laptop is balanced precariously on her shins, and her red hair is tied back in a messy bun that looks like it was secured with a single paperclip and sheer willpower.

My chest tightens, a sudden, heavy ache pulsing right behind my ribs.

I want her again.

Every time she reaches over to change the radio station, my brain instantly loops back to the feeling of her bare skin under my palms and the sharp, clean sound of her calling my name.

“The rookie salary cap is going to adjust by four percent by the time the winter meetings hit,” she says, her eyes fixed on the spreadsheet glowing on her screen. “If we don’t get the clause for the performance bonuses locked into the second-year options, Reign is going to try to structure your contract around games played rather than save percentage. It’s a classic leverage trap.”

“Let them try,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I’m not signing a backup layout, Scottie. We both know that. Besides, are you really thinking about hockey contracts right now, Sharky? With me sitting right here?”

She rolls her eyes, but a telltale flush creeps up her neck. “One of us has to maintain an executive mindset. God knows you aren’t doing it.”

***

The prank war starts because I am a petty bastard who hates the classic rock radio station she chose, and because I need a distraction from how badly I want to pull the vintage van over and kiss her until we both forget our own names.

We stop at a gas station. While Scottie is inside using the restroom and buying her fifth bottle of water, I lean over the passenger seat.

I take her expensive pens and carefully unscrew the caps. I take a tiny piece of clear scotch tape from the dashboard tray, wrap it over the ballpoint tips, and screw the caps back on perfectly.

When she climbs back into the van, she doesn’t notice a thing.

She pulls out her legal pad, clicks the pen with her thumb, and tries to scratch a note about the goalie coach we’re meeting in Memphis.

Nothing happens.

She scribbles harder, digging the metal tip into the yellow paper until it tears. She mutters something under her breath, caps it, and pulls out the second pen. Same result.

By the third pen, she stops, her eyes narrowing as she looks at the tip, her thumb catching the edge of the clear tape.