Page 47 of Playing for Keeps

We started talking about other things, like their neighbour’s fence again, the cat’s ongoing war with the postman, and how Dad’s book club inexplicably chose a thriller that none of them liked but all managed to read in two days.

At some point Dad wandered off to go and fetch a bottle of wine, leaving me alone with Mum. She leaned closer to the camera, conspiratorially. “He’s been reading Canadian novels,” she whispered. “He leaves them all over the house like breadcrumbs. He misses you, even though he won’t admit it.”

“I miss you too,” I said, my throat tightening.

“We know. It’s a good thing we can stay in touch like this. We like seeing your face, even if it’s only through a screen. You look… I don’t know. Alive.”

“I feel it,” I said. Dad appeared back on the screen, holding a bottle of red wine. “I’ll leave you to your dinner. Enjoy the pie!”

“One last thing, Em,” Dad said.

“Hmm?”

He cleared his throat. “Write the book you want. Not the one you think people will like.”

“I know.”

Mum blew me a kiss, then made Dad do the same. “And if this Max teaches you anything useful, pass it along. Your father is going through a phase.”

“It’s not a phase,” Dad protested. “It’s research.”

“Research,” Mum repeated, rolling her eyes. “Go on, darling. We love you.”

“I love you too,” I said. They waved, I waved, and the screen blinked back to my reflection. I closed the laptop and sat in the quiet for a minute. Then I picked up my notebook and wrote: Hat trick. Wooden puck. Masks. I smiled, because I realised I could make these images work in my book.

My editor Denise waved me into the café booth with that brisk efficiency of hers, already taking her laptop out of her bag. “You look less pale than the last time I saw you,” she said. “Toronto is treating you well, then?”

“Surprisingly well,” I said, as I pulled off my coat. “I’m still not used to how bright the sky is here, even when it’s freezing.”

“Good writing weather,” she said, before putting her glasses on. “Right. I’ve gone through the chapters you sent me.”

I held my breath as she tapped her screen.

“They’re solid, Emma. Sharp. The voice feels alive, but there’s a softness creeping in too. It works. And the hockey angle… is better than I thought it would be. You’ve managed to make the chaos readable. And relevant.”

“So you think it’s working? The balance?”

“Yes. Especially if you stick to what you told me you wanted: using the games’ speed, hits and pauses as a mirror for the characters. That part’s clever. Readers won’t even notice it at first, but they’ll feel it.”

I smiled, very relieved. “That’s exactly what I want. The rhythm. The unpredictability. And how you can’t win without trust.”

Denise sat back, studying me in that way she always did. “It’s all there. You only have to keep going. And, Emma, stop second-guessing yourself so much. You’ve got this.”

I ducked my head, embarrassed but comforted by the certainty in her voice. “Thank you.”

We drifted into talking about timelines and markets, about which arcs to tighten and which threads to let breathe. She made me promise to send her another set of chapters by the end of the month.

Then, through mugs clinking and chairs scraping, I leaned forward. “Denise… I think I know how I want it to end.”

She stopped typing, her gaze sharp and interested. “You do?”

I nodded, feeling a mix of nerves and certainty. “Yes, I think I do.”

Her smile widened, ready to push me for details.

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EMMA