Page 61 of Unmanageable

Then, Cash reaches into the side door pocket and pulls out a thick, spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. It’s the one he uses to write down notes during video reviews, or scribbling down numbers when we’re tracking his save percentages.

He flips it open with one hand, resting it against the top of the steering wheel while keeping his eyes firmly on the road.

He writes something down in huge, sweeping, chaotic handwriting. He doesn’t look over at me; he just slides the notebook across the painted metal dashboard until it lands right in front of my coffee cup.

I look down, my eyebrows knitting together.

The silence of the road is nothing compared to the silence of a woman who rolled her socks instead of folding them.

I snort, a small puff of air escaping my nose before I can stop it. I grab the pen from the dash, flip the page, and write beneath:

Socks do not need to retain moisture and develop their own ecosystem, Finnian. Goalie gear is a bio hazard. Drive the van.

I rip the page out, fold it once, and slap it over the speedometer.

Cash looks down at the paper, his eyes tracking my words. His face remains expressionless, but I see the muscles in his jaw relax. He takes the pen back, flips to a fresh page in the notebook, and writes something else. He doesn’t even look down this time; he just scribbles by muscle memory and shoves the book toward me.

I am a wall on the ice, Scottie. A wall does not bend to the whims of the textile industry.

I grab the pen.

A wall who is currently going thirty-five miles an hour in a fifty-five zone because he’s too busy being a philosopher. Press the gas.

He reads it, looks at the speedometer, and stomps on the accelerator. The rear-mounted engine lets out a high-pitched, rhythmic rattle, the frame shaking as we jump up to sixty.

Cash gives me a thumbs-up without looking over—a quick, jerky movement of his hand that feels so ridiculously like a little boy showing off on a bicycle that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

This is what he does to me.

He takes the corporate armor I’ve spent years building and he just dissolves it with a pair of cheap plastic googly eyes or a stupid notebook lyric.

When I’m in Boston, I am the most cutthroat agent to exist.

When I’m with Cash, I’m just Scottie.

It’s terrifying how easily he pulls me back to that version of myself. The version that isn’t afraid of failing.

***

Three hours later, the afternoon heat has turned the interior of the van into a literal greenhouse. My throat is parched, and the espresso I had earlier has worn off, leaving a dull throb behind my left temple.

Cash shifts his weight in the driver’s seat, his gray hoodie suddenly looking way too hot for the climate. He reaches over and adjusts the dash vent, pointing it toward his face, but the vintage system just emits a pathetic, warm puff of air that smells faintly of old upholstery.

He lets out a long, dramatic groan—no sound, just a wide-mouthed, silent declaration of agony toward the roof of the van. He looks at me, points to his tongue, and drops his head back against the headrest like a man dying of thirst in the Sahara.

I reach down into my leather tote bag between my feet. I pull out my water bottle, unscrew the cap, and take a long sip, making sure my throat moves noticeably as I swallow.

Cash watches the water bottle like a hawk watching a field mouse. He looks back at the road, then back at the bottle. He grabs the notebook again.

Water is for the weak. A true athlete thrives on dehydration and bitter resentment.

I write back:

A true athlete is going to pull over at the next gas station because his agent needs a bag of pretzel M&Ms or she is going to throw his rolled-up laundry out the window.

He doesn’t even bother writing a reply. He hits the turn signal so hard I’m surprised the plastic lever doesn’t snap off, swinging the orange van into the right lane as the blue and yellow sign for a highway rest stop appears through the trees.

We both unbuckle at the exact same time. The clicks of the seatbelts are perfectly synchronized. We walk into the rest stop facility like two soldiers on a truce.