Page 74 of Unmanageable

I’ve taken a long, hot shower, washed the travel-day stress out of my hair, and changed into my favorite lounge set. I’m lying on the king-sized hotel bed, my hair damp against a plush white towel, flipping through a local design magazine and feeling finally, blissfully, disconnected from the office.

A sharp, rhythmic knock echoes against the wood of the door.

I freeze. I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. 8:36 PM.

I get off the bed, my bare feet sinking into the thick carpet, and walk over to the door. I look through the little peephole.

Cash is standing in the hallway. He’s changed out of his track pants into a clean black t-shirt and dark jeans. He’s holding a paper bag from the bakery down the street in one hand and has his phone in the other.

I unlatch the chain and swing the door open six inches, leaning my shoulder against the dark wood of the frame.

“It’s late, O’Connell. The Shark is off the clock.”

Cash doesn’t look at my clothes or my wet hair; his eyes just fix on my face, that familiar, bright grin breaking through his exhaustion, the gold flecks in his eyes catching the warm light of the hallway lamp. He holds up the paper bag, shaking it slightly until the scent of cinnamon and powdered sugar reaches my nose.

“The river is restless, Scottie,” he says. “And the moon told me you need a donut. Change your shoes. We’re going to go find some stupid trouble in the city.”

I look at the bag, then at his crooked smile, and the corporate armor doesn’t stand a chance.

“Give me two minutes.”

20

Finn O’Connell

“I hope you’re happy,” I say, staring down at the gray pavement with a profound, soul-crushing despair that no man should have to experience.

At my feet, lying face down on the concrete like a fallen soldier, is a double scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream. The waffle cone is shattered into three distinct pieces.

“It’s ruined. This is truly, without a doubt, the single worst day of my life. First Yuri tries to turn my five-hole into a state park, and now the universe steals my dairy. I have nothing left.”

From somewhere over my right shoulder, there’s a sharp, familiar snorting sound.

“Don’t do it, Scottie. Do not find humor in my destruction. A lesser man would cry. A lesser man would call his mother.”

“Cash, it’s just an ice cream cone,” she says.

I cut my eyes sideways.

She’s standing there with her hands jammed into the pockets of her leather jacket, watching the melting puddle of green with a smirk that is entirely too smug for someone who didn’t just lose their only source of evening joy.

Her green eyes are practically watering with amusement.

“It wasn’t just an ice cream cone,” I tell her, gesturing vaguely at the mess. “It was a reward structure. It was an emotional bridge between the trauma of the practice and the future of my hockey career. And now? It’s a sticky patch on the sidewalk.”

“You tripped over your own shoelaces because you were trying to look at a motorcycle across the street, you giant infant.”

“The motorcycle was cool. It was a vintage Triumph. The point is, my agent should be consoling me. Clause 4.7 of the representation agreement states that the agent must provide emotional support in the event of a catastrophic dessert failure.”

“There is no Clause 4.7. What is it with you and these fake clauses?” she says, but she’s already turning on her heel, her boots clicking against the pavement as she marches back toward the doorway of the parlor we just left.

She doesn’t look back, but I can see the slight hitch in her shoulders that tells me she’s losing the battle to keep a straight face.

“Stay there, O’Connell. Try not to collide with any architecture while I’m gone.”

Two minutes later, the glass door clicks open again and she steps out into the crisp Charlotte air. She holds the new cone out toward my chest like she’s offering a peace treaty.

“Here,” she says. “Do not drop it. If this one touches the asphalt, I’m getting on the next flight back to Boston and leaving you here to be a river by yourself.”