Page 59 of Unmanageable

“The what?”

“It’s a proprietary technical adjustment,” Scottie says, her chin lifting as she reaches the safety of the bench matting. “Very advanced. I’ll send you the instructions later, Herb.”

Martha lets out a loud, musical laugh and claps her hands together. “Oh, I like her. Herb, why didn’t you hire an agent like this? All your guys looked like they belonged in a lineup at the precinct.”

“They were hockey players, Martha. They weren’t models,” Herb grumbles, but he’s already unzipping his hunting jacket, his eyes wandering out toward the ice.

You can take the man out of the game, but the second he smells the ice, he’s five years old again.

“Alright, clear out. Miller! Get over here. Let’s do some real work.”

Herb takes over the ice, but the mood has shifted. Martha sits on the bench next to Scottie, opening the plaid bag to reveal a massive thermos of hot cider and a tin of homemade cinnamon rolls that smell so good Miller almost misses his next three shots because he’s distracted by the scent.

I watch them from the crease.

Scottie and Martha are huddled together, talking animatedly, their heads close. Every now and then, Martha points at me, then at Scottie, and Scottie laughs—that real, deep laugh that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.

It’s a beautiful sight.

After the darkness of that motel room, seeing her sitting there in the cold rink, surrounded by light and noise and safety, feels like winning a game in triple overtime.

By the time Herb calls it a day, my legs are actually shaking from the repetition. I skate over to the bench, stripping my gloves and mask off, my hair plastered to my forehead.

“Here, drink this before you die,” Martha says, handing me a paper cup of steaming cider.

“Thanks, Martha. You’re a lifesaver.”

“You did well today, Cash,” she says, her eyes twinkling as she looks between me and Scottie. “Both of you. It’s nice to see a boy who knows how to look after his management.”

Scottie clears her throat, her cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. “We have a very professional relationship, Martha.”

“Uh-huh,” Martha says, winking at me. “That’s what Herb said when he was trying to get me to come to his games in Rochester. ‘You’re a professional acquaintance, Martha.’ Then he went and broke his nose just so I’d have to drive him to the hospital.”

We leave the rink an hour later, the sun fully up now, burning through the Philly fog. Herb and Martha wave us off from their old Buick, Herb giving me one final, stern nod that means don’t screw this up.

“So,” I say, turning the key. The engine gives its usual terrifying rumble, but today it sounds almost cheerful. “The Panther Drill?”

“It’s going to be a staple of your training program from now on, O’Connell,” she says, leaning her head back against the headrest. “I’m already writing the press release.”

I shift the van into gear and pull out onto the road.

I don’t know what’s coming next, but looking over at her—with her red hair messy and her clipboard forgotten on the floorboards—I think the panther might actually have a shot.

16

Scottie Reed

2:13 PM

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.