Page 149 of Unmanageable

Scottie is already laughing. Ivy has hidden her smile behind her drink. Dean has pinched the bridge of his nose like he’s anticipating collateral damage.

After a long beat, Noah closes the notebook with an audible snap.

“…I’m beginning to understand that factual accuracy isn’t especially valued in this social circle.”

“Growth,” Jenna announces proudly, raising her glass toward him. “He’s adapting.”

“No,” Noah replies. “I’m documenting.”

“See?” Nico says, pointing at him. “He’s one of us now.”

Noah sighs with the weary resignation of a man realizing he’d somehow been adopted by absolute lunatics. “I continue to view that as an alarming development.”

The air turns cold as the stars begin to punch through the velvet sky, but the fire pit is roaring, fueled by Callahan’s quiet efficiency.

Jenna is currently narrating her own emotional arc like she’s the star of a documentary no one actually asked for.

“And here we see the publicist in her natural habitat,” she intones, swirling her drink. “Free from the shackles of her ex-husband’s ego. Observe the glitter. It is her armor. It is her truth.”

She says it casually, but the word ex-husband hangs in the air for a fraction of a second too long.

I catch the look Scottie and Ivy exchange—quick, sharp, and loaded with the kind of sisterhood secrets that could probably topple a small government.

Jenna doesn’t seem to notice; she’s too busy trying to show Brick how to take a ‘candid’ photo of her against the sunset. None of the guys notice either, or if they do, they’re smart enough to stay silent.

Then, the alcohol takes a sharp turn toward the chaotic.

“Skinny dipping,” Scottie says.

“Absolutely not,” Dean says. “The temperature of the water is currently hovering at ‘Instant Cardiac Arrest.’ Also, the liability of a group of professional athletes drowning in the nude is—”

“Oh, shut up, big guy,” Jenna squeals, already undoing her shoes and tossing them onto the grass. “I need a spiritual cleansing. I need to wash away the scent of the league’s PR department.”

Ten minutes later, I’m standing on the dock in nothing but my dignity—which is already compromised because I’m shivering so hard my teeth are playing a percussion solo.

Scottie looks at me like she knows exactly what she’s doing to my brain. She’s standing on the very edge, her silhouette sharp against the moonlit lake, looking like a literal siren before she dives in with a grace that makes my heart stop.

I follow her.

The cold shocks a sound out of me that I will deny under oath—a high-pitched yelp that definitely sounded like a trapped walrus.

“You okay, Finn?” Scottie shouts, surfacing and shaking her hair back.

“I am… experiencing… a very cold death!”

We swim in chaotic loops, the rest of the group a blur of splashes and shouting in the dark. Brick and Nico attempt a synchronized cannonball that results in a sound like a car crash and a lot of uncoordinated flailing.

Eventually, the cold wins.

We scramble back to the cabin, dripping and gasping, wrapped in oversized towels. The fire is still going, but the lure of the bedroom—and the localized tropical climate of our space heater—is stronger.

The door to our room clicks shut, and the noise of the house disappears, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic sound of our breathing.

Scottie is shivering, her skin pale and glowing in the moonlight filtering through the pines. She drops her towel, standing there in the middle of the room, completely unashamed, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burns hotter than the fire pit.

“You’re still staring, O’Connell,” she whispers, stepping into my space.

“I told you. I’m a goalie. I track the target.”