“Callum,” a feminine voice behind me says.
I turn to see Ebony Jacobson, Coach’s wife. “Oh. Hi,” I grin—it may be a little forced with Fran right next to me. I’m not prepared to explain her to others. The guys know who she is… but everyone else. What do I say? Still, I’ve always liked Coach’s wife. I won’t blow her off. She’sa sports journalist for the Lake Tesoro Times. She always has a positive spin for the Red Tails, even on the days we struggle. And not all that long ago, I had several months of struggling. Knowing I could read one article that wouldn’t bash my performance helped me sleep at night.
“Nice game,” she says, brushing back a strand of her long dark hair, then pushing up the edge of her red-rimmed glasses.
“Thanks. I’m finally getting out of my slump.” Ebony knows soccer. She knows I’ve been out of it. No need to pretend I haven’t.
“I knew you would.” She grins, her eyes softening with the encouragement. “And this is?” Her gaze travels from my face to Fran’s.
Right. I’m being rude. I clear my throat. “This is my friend. Fran Fairchild. She’s from Reno.”
Ebony smiles a friendly smile and holds a hand out toward Fran. “Welcome,” she says.
“Thank you.” Fran greets my coach’s wife, her eyes glued to the woman.
“It’s nice to see someone new at these dinners.” Ebony Jacobson leans in toward Fran. “Women are few and far between here.”
“I bet. Thanks for having me.”
“Callum’s guests are always welcome,” Ebony says. “We’ll have to chat later. I’d love to hear all about you.”
Why do women need to talk? There isn’t a reason for them to be all chummy—is there? I mean, I appreciate Ebony Jacobson’s polite welcome to Fran… but chatting? That feels unnecessary.
Fran glances from me to Ebony. “Can I say—I mean—” She shakes her head. “You look just like Sandra Bullock inTwo Weeks Notice. Doesn’t she?” Fran looks to me for confirmation, but I’ve never seen that movie.
“Really? You think?” Ebony runs a hand down the length of her hair and smothers a laugh. “That film is from way back. I’m probably a good twenty years older than her when she made that movie?—”
“Doubtful. Sandra was thirty-seven when she starred in that film.”
“Thirty-seven? You’re sweet.” A funny laugh titters from Ebony’s lips. “It was lovely to meet you, Fran.”
“You as well,” Fran says.
Ebony leans in close, giving me a half hug and speaking in my ear so that only I hear her. “Oh, and Alice, Will Baxter’s wife, asked me to thank you for the tulips.”
I gulp, my eyes bouncing from their lazy daze on the floor to Ebony’s face.
“The man is a billionaire, Cal. They have cameras all over their property.” She pulls back, grinning at me like I’m her kid who’s just gotten caught. Then, taking two steps back, she pats Fran on the shoulder. “Hang on to this one,” she says. Ebony’s brows bounce once. “I like her.”
She walks away while I’m stumbling over my breath and words. “Friends,” I manage to get out with Ebony still in earshot. “Just friends.”
Thirty-One
The seat warmersin Callum’s car are roasting my behind, but ever since my accident, I like a toasty bum. I had fun tonight—as soon as I got over my nerves. Ebony was nice. Alice was nice. The guys were so welcoming.
“They were all so…nice,” I say—and it might be the third time I’ve said as much.
“You don’t say?” A laugh rumbles in Callum’s chest as he takes the exit for the highway back to Reno.
“I’ve never met an entire soccer team before, okay? They were?—”
“Nice,” he says with a muffled laugh. “I bet they were. They are a superstitious bunch of loons. They are all sure you’ve changed my game.”
“But you’re not?” I ask, looking at him. I’m not offended. I just want to know. I’m going to his games, we’re spending time together—all for a purpose. Superstitious or not, it was his idea.
Callum glances at me, and I truly attempt to not behypnotized by those blue eyes. Rosalie scolds me in my head when I fail. “I just know that since I met you?—”
“You mean since youGrease 2kissed me outside the karaoke bar?—”
