Page 107 of Lucky Shot

“I—oh—I . . .” I turn and meet her eyes. She’s middle-aged with a pair of green-framed glasses and house shoes on. Her eyes are kind and her expression sympathetic.

“I don’t know.” It takes me a second to process what she’s asking me.

“Hey.” She points a finger at me as her eyes narrow. “Aren’t you that big soccer—”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m mistaken for him all the time.”

She squints her eyes as she studies me and clearly debates whether to believe me or not. “I’m Frieda. I manage this complex.”

“Nice to meet you, Frieda. I’m . . . Max.” No idea where that came from, but I go with it.

“Nice to meet you, Max. I wasn’t aware that Whitney had a boyfriend.”

“She does. I am.” Am I? I laugh nervously, my body still riddled with the aftereffects of the adrenaline.

“Hmm.” She motions to the apartment even though her eyes continue to study and assess me. “The door’s broken.”

“It is. I broke it. I can pay for the repair. A new door. I just . . . I need to get to the hospital.”

“Yes. Fine. I’ll get my maintenance guy to board up the door until I can get it replaced.”

“Thank you. I . . .you have a key to do that?”

“I do. Yes.”

“Great.” I run a hand through my hair and stare at where the ambulance was. The last time I felt this helpless was . . . was when I was ten and staring at my dad in the hospital. The tubes and the sounds and . . . Christ.

“Is she going to be okay?” she asks gently, her hand patting my back.

I shrug and for the first time since the sirens faded, it hits me that I don’t know what is wrong with her. “Yes. I don’t know. She has to be.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. She was on the floor. Incoherent.” I hate that tears well in my fucking eyes. I don’t cry. I haven’t since boarding school, and yet here I am. “Septic? That’s what I thought they said.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.

“She’s going to need some things most likely,” Frieda says, putting a hand on my shoulder in comfort. “Why don’t you go collect some of them to take her while I call the maintenance guy?”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks. But what do I . . .” But by the time I turn to look at her she already has the phone to her ear.

I enter her flat, feeling out of place and like I’m invading her space that she clearly wanted to keep private. It’s small but tidy, sparse, but feels loved and lived in, if that makes sense.

It’s a typical flat. One that feels so minuscule compared to the vastness of my penthouse here in Miami and at my place back home. And yet somehow, it feels more homey than both of them combined.

In my house in England, my walls are lined, and shelves are decorated with designer paintings and art. There are a few framed photos of exotic trips and thrill-seeking missions I’ve been on—sky diving, heli-skiing, diving with sharks—and that’s about it. It’s all for show, now that I think about it.

Especially as I stand here in the middle of a flat that has so little in it but that feels like so much more. There’s a framed black-and-white photo of a woman holding a little girl in her arms. They are mirror images of each other. No doubt it’s Whitney and her mum. Then there’s a picture of a teenage Whitney in soccer gear being hoisted on her teammates’ shoulders as she holds a finger in the air to denote number one.

There is a small shelf of books next to the bed, some mismatched dishes in the rack by the sink, and a closet rack with the definite wardrobe of a soccer coach.

Little pieces of a woman I thought I had pegged but clearly don’t quite understand in the least.

“Stuff. She needs stuff,” I mutter into the silence as I see her handbag thrown haphazardly onto the couch—the only thing that seems out of place.

But I can’t bring myself to figure out what it is she needs, nor do I want to invade her privacy any more than I already have.

There’s a reason she didn’t want me to see where she lived. The last thing I want to do is go through her stuff at home and make her even more uneasy.

Anything she needs, I’ll buy it for her.