Page 79 of Unmanageable
Later, he skates over to the bench, his jersey steaming in the chill of the building. He yanks his mask off and sets it on the glass, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his blocker.
“Tell me the data looks beautiful,” he pants, leaning his forearms on the dasher.
“The data says you’re less of a river and more of a pain in my ass,” I say, turning the screen so he can see the lateral speed metrics. “You’re hitting your targets. The front office is going to stop breathing down my neck about your medical clearance.”
He looks at the screen, then his eyes flick up to mine. “You worried about the front office, or were you actually worried about me?”
“I am legally obligated to worry about your contract.”
“Right. The contract.” He reaches out, his wet leather glove tapping the edge of my tablet. “You’re a robot, Scottie-girl.”
“A robot who keeps you employed. Go get changed. We have four hours of highway before Atlanta, and I want to hit that diner down the road before we leave.”
He gives me a lazy, lopsided salute with his stick and glides back toward the gate.
***
The diner is twenty minutes away, tucked between a tractor supply store and an empty gravel lot.
We sit in the back corner away from the jukebox. Cash has his massive legs crowded under the small laminate table, his knees practically knocking into mine every time he moves.
“You grew up around here?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “Sal said your dad played here.”
“Yeah,” Cash says, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug. “He did. Before he started working the yards. He used to take me to the early public skate sessions before the rink officially opened. He’d buy me a chocolate milk from the vending machine if I didn’t cry when I hit the ice.”
“Sounds like a good dad.”
“He is.” Cash looks out the window at the gravel lot. It’s the same expression he had when Brenda asked about him. “He just… he doesn’t really leave the house much these days. My mom keeps things running.”
There’s a beat, a sudden shift in his posture that feels entirely too guarded. It feels like there’s a whole sentence hanging in the air that he’s actively choosing not to say.
“Everything okay with him?” I ask, keeping my eyes on my coffee mug so it doesn’t feel like an interrogation.
Cash looks back at me and lets out a quick chuckle, shaking his head as he picks up his fork. “Yeah, of course. He’s just getting older, you know? Refuses to admit he can’t clear the gutters by himself anymore. Standard stubborn old-man stuff.”
He doesn’t give me room to push. Before I can even think about how to phrase a follow-up, he points his fork at me.
“What about your crew? You never really talk about your parents. Are they from Boston?”
The question catches me off guard, hitting the wall I’ve spent years building.
“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t really have a relationship with my parents. It’s just me.”
Cash pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth.
He studies my face for a second, his eyes softening as he registers the sharp, defensive edge in my voice.
He nods slowly, letting the topic go as easily as he’d dropped his own.
***
10:27 PM
Jenna: Be honest. Is he growing on you?
Me: Like mold.
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