Had I really just said that? Sure, I’d always thought Frankie was distant—colder, more aloof than Griff or Sullie. The only words she ever had for me were biting and critical.
But I wasn’t the type to make others feel bad about themselves. I was the good-time guy, the one who cracked jokes and brought the smiles. Sydney would say I avoided conflict, just like she did, a byproduct of our parents' divorce and the wreckage it left in its wake.
Frankie walked past me, flipping on another light, this one blinding me with its intensity, like a laser aimed right at my skull. A groan slipped out before I could stop it as I shielded my eyes with one hand. “A little warning next time, would ya?”
She didn’t answer, just kept moving, her focus on shrugging off her light jacket. The white Under Armor shirt she wore underneath clung in ways I hadn’t let myself think about before. Yeah, that concussion definitely messed with my brain.
Then came the silence. Neither of us knew what to say or how to act. The team was gone for the next two weeks, and I wondered if she felt as aimless as I did.
“So…” She flipped her braid over one shoulder, a nervous habit I’d picked up on. “I’m just gonna call your sister and have her come get you.”
Before I could even respond, she was already grabbing her phone and stepping into what I assumed was the kitchen.
With her gone, I let my eyes adjust to the light. Nope. Headache still there. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision, and made my way toward a weathered old fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been used—or cleaned—in a hundred years. Pictures cluttered the mantel, each in bright, mismatched frames. Two middle-aged people. A little girl. The house, when it had been better kept, ivy trimmed back from the walls and pops of white and yellow in the flowers.
Across from the fireplace sat a faded floral couch with embroidered pillows. Lace doilies spread out under antique lamps atop dark wood tables that had seen better days. No television. Just a half-done puzzle on the coffee table and a Sudoku book peeking out of a broken drawer.
“Is she ninety years old?” I shook my head, immediately regretting the action.
“Thirty,” she said from the doorway. “But by all means, snoop around my house.”
I cringed, wanting to take back the words I’d said only to myself. What was it about her that made me always feel the need to defend myself? “It seriously looks ancient in here.”
She crossed her arms, phone dangling from one hand. “Let me guess… you live in some fancy Alameda place with appliances that talk to you and a rooftop pool?”
Okay, she knew I was rich. Most people didn’t look at that with such disdain. What she didn’t know was that my trust fund was just guilt money from an absent father. I shrugged. “Maybe.”
Looking down at her phone, she said, “Sydney didn’t answer.”
“Okay. You can just give me a ride home, then. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
She seemed to shrink into herself. “That’s not going to work.”
“Then, I’ll just call an Uber.”
Her eyes lingered on me for a beat too long for my comfort before she sighed. “Not in your condition. You can barely stand.” She gestured to where I was swaying on my feet, trying to keep the room upright. “I promised Griff I’d make sure you were okay, and that includes not letting you leave with a stranger when I can’t be sure you wouldn’t pass out.” She pointed toward the old lady couch. “Sit.”
I did as I was told, like a good boy. “I can roll over too, but only if you scratch my belly.”
Her glare cut through my soft laughter, and she pointed one finger at me. “You’re going to stay here, stay off that knee, and listen to me.”
“Because you’re my coach?”
“Because I’m your coach.”
“And you’re in charge.”
“Damn right.”
I grinned. “And you secretly love yelling at me because that’s your love language.”
“And I—” She stopped. “Why are men?” With a huff, she left the room again.
I found her in the ridiculous kitchen that came straight out of the seventies. She leaned in the corner where the countertops met and chugged a glass of water. I watched as her throat contracted, a dribble of water arching down her strong chin and making its way along her skin before disappearing under her shirt.
Fucking concussion. I cleared my throat. “You didn’t finish your question.”
“What question?” She set the glass down hard.
