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Page 11 of Summer Breakdown (Training Seasons #2)

“Oh, hey. Cute top,” Frankie says, and the young girl bends forwards to smile.

She’s so sweet with her little braids and her T-shirt with daisies all over it.

Kids are adorable. Frankie wants Ezra to hurry up and have some.

She doesn’t think he’ll have them himself, because she saw a few adoption leaflets at his place the other day and Cam can’t have them.

Either way, he could get on that. Mal clearly wants kids because she aww s every time she sees a child under twelve. The Titans could invest in a highchair.

Frankie takes a moment to try and figure out if she should bend down to wheelchair level, or if the girl wants to get out of the chair.

It would help if her mother would stop blatantly ignoring them both as she faces the other way.

Frankie hates parents. Well, she dislikes many parents.

(Even if this one has flowers on her dress.

Small, dainty ones. Frankie wonders if they’re supposed to be matching.)

Frankie only ever meets parents when they don’t want to do anything their children want to do.

It’s judgy, because she only sees them for an hour a week, and they probably need a break, but it hurts her heart when a child bounds over to their parent with a smile only to be told “in a minute” or “I’ll watch. ”

It’s probably from her own childhood. Her parents are fine.

They let her live with them until she turned thirty, they didn’t disown her when the doctor diagnosed her as bipolar (it was close ), and they kept their annoyance at her being a lesbian mainly at bay.

But when she was younger, she had to do what Ezra did.

Even if she wanted to spend time with them.

It worked out. She played rugby because she had no choice, but she got good at it.

Her mum thinks it turned her into a lesbian, and Frankie doesn’t have the brain power to explain to her why that’s not true, so she says yes, it’s all her mum’s fault.

“What are you wanting today, babe?” Frankie asks.

“Please may I have flowers on my forehead? Some white with yellow, and some yellow with white? Please.”

Frankie blinks. Are all small children this well-spoken? “Sure! Do you want them to filter out, or all over?”

“What does that mean?”

Frankie wonders if her mother can hear. Probably. Frankie understands the rugby club is really a place for parents to drop their kids and go, but today is not like that. This child must be somewhere between three and twelve years old. (Frankie’s not good with guessing ages.)

Frankie grabs the painting examples.

“Uhm, so like, there’s lots here and then none there,” she replies.

Can she touch her to show her where the face paint will go, or will the girl’s mother finally turn around, only to stab Frankie in the throat?

Frankie places her finger against her own forehead, then moves it up to her non-existent hairline.

She frowns, so Frankie’s not sure it was useful.

“Uhm,” the child speaks, and she sounds unsure enough that finally, her mother spins. Or her guardian, she guesses. She can’t assume.

Frankie looks up and almost dies. Straight-up thinks she might cease to exist.

Jasmine looks right at her. It’s not friendly.

It’s not flirty. It’s nothing like that night.

The look on her face is cold, and Frankie wishes she knew exactly what she was thinking, even if she can figure it out herself from the look on her face.

The hatred is evident in the crease of her brow, the weight of her bottom lip, the clench of her hands .

“Baby,” she says, bending down to talk to her child. Kehlani. Frankie knows that. So, it must be Marcel next to her. “It means you have more flowers here,” she says, pointing to Kehlani’s forehead, close to her brow. Then she moves her fingers up towards her hairline. “And less here.”

“Okay! Do you think that will look cute?”

“You always look cute.”

“ Mama .”

Jasmine smiles, and Frankie’s jaw drops open. “I think it will look cute.”

Kehlani smiles back, then looks back at Frankie. “Okay. Yes, please.”

Frankie can’t move. Jasmine turns away again to look at something with Marcel. Frankie’s hands shake. She’s spent the past week imagining what Jasmine is up to. How she could possibly get in the same space as her again. If she’s having a good time.

“Are you okay?” Kehlani asks, and Frankie looks back at her. She looks so concerned.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, babe, I’m good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, with a smile.

Frankie swallows. Of course she’d be polite and cute.

She’s Jasmine’s. The woman she’s thought about every second of the day since she was an idiot who ran out on her and then never followed up on it.

In Frankie’s limited defence, she also didn’t get out of bed for five days.

Mainly her mind, but she can’t deny part of it was Jasmine.

“I just need to run and wash my hands, okay?”

“Okay,” Kehlani replies. Frankie stands and turns to Jasmine. She’s looking right at her.

“I can get new paintbrushes too?”

Jasmine frowns, but Frankie doesn’t think she’s annoyed.

“If that’s okay.”

“Yeah. Of course, yeah.”

Frankie is back in front of Kehlani a minute later. She unpacks the new paintbrushes, and sprays antibacterial spray on the paint. Mali has some in her drawer because she loves a discontinued eyeshadow palette that is years old.

“Is yellow your favourite colour?” Frankie asks.

She looks back up at Jasmine, but Jasmine turns away.

She looks mostly the same, even in her linen dress.

Frankie can still see the outline of her body.

Her hair is up today, a straight, bouncy ponytail resting between her shoulder blades.

Frankie wants to run her finger along her neck.

She won’t because Jasmine might kill her, but God, does she want too.

How ridiculous, that now she can see her in the bright sunshine—the only thing that’s been on her mind since she saw her in the pub—and she’s not sure Jasmine would let her glance at her face.

“How did you know?” Kehlani asks, like she’s not in yellow shorts, a yellow top, and yellow sandals.

“Good guess,” Frankie says, sitting on her knees on the floor opposite her with the paints in her hand. “Okay, so we have these, or I could add some grey or black to some of these to try and get them darker, but I can’t paint, so it might go wrong.”

Kehlani giggles. “If you can’t paint, how come you’re painting faces?”

“Good question, babe! Mal was on this stall, but she got pulled into manning the register because no one was getting their face painted. Now, here I am.”

“Oh. If no one else is doing it, I don’t have to do it.”

“Would you like your face painted?” Frankie asks, and Kehlani looks a little nervous, her tiny brows furrowing like this is the most important decision in her life. Frankie hopes it has been. Kehlani looks up at Jasmine, who Frankie then obviously also must look at. Fuck, she’s stunning.

“It’s up to you, baby,” Jasmine says.

Call me baby.

Kehlani frowns in thought for a second, and Frankie smiles.

“Yes, I would like it painted. If that’s okay? ”

“Okay,” Frankie replies. “Then let’s paint your cute little face.” Kehlani laughs, and Frankie feels better for it.

“Is it okay to touch your face a bit, babe?” Frankie asks. She could do it without, but her hands might shake without the leverage, or with Jasmine’s presence.

“Yep. Thank you for asking me,” Kehlani replies, with a giggle. “ Babe. ”

Frankie smiles. “You’re welcome.”

She can feel Jasmine watching them as she paints the flowers on her daughter’s face, but Frankie wants it to look good, so she daren’t look away from the task at hand. It’s basically torture. Jasmine is torturing her.

“Okay, how’s this?” Frankie asks, holding a mirror up for her. Kehlani hums with glee, and Frankie sees Jasmine smile too. Not at her, but she’s smiling near her, so Frankie takes it as a win.

Frankie doesn’t even know her. She shouldn’t be this upset about a situation she put herself in.

But, as always, Frankie has overthought it.

Yes, it was unkind to run out on her. Yes, it was unkind to not follow up with a text.

Mali gave her Jasmine’s number. Yes, she regrets it, but isn’t that enough?

Must she imagine they actually went on a date?

Must she spend any good time she has picturing life with a woman she knew for less than six hours?

Can’t her mind give her a fucking day off?

“Marc, please. Oh, please, please,” Kehlani says, and Frankie has missed something. She blinks the future out of her eyes and looks to Jasmine, who is looking right at her. Concerned, perhaps. Maybe she’s fuming. Maybe she doesn’t care enough about Frankie to be bothered. “ Please match with me.”

Marcel groans the well-known noise of an older brother who is going to do whatever his sister asks for. “But Azan is here somewhere.”

“Is Azan your favourite player?” Frankie asks, as she stands, and Marcel looks at her. His eyes widen like he had no idea she was here at all. Frankie raises her eyebrows back at his expression.

“You’re Frankie Adebayo.”

She laughs. “I am.”

His eyes stay wide. “Ma, Frankie is the first ever Black female coach. Ever. In the history of English rugby. She started the Titans.”

“Is that right?” Jasmine asks with a smile, though she doesn’t look back at Frankie. “That’s cool.”

“So cool,” he replies, like Frankie can’t hear him. Teenagers who can’t hide their excitement are her favourite type. “And she used to be captain of the Weavers. She’s my favourite player.”

Jasmine raises one eyebrow, and it’s embarrassing how badly Frankie wants Jasmine to be impressed by her. “I thought I was your favourite player?”

Frankie’s eyebrows hit her non-existent hairline. She might pass out if Jasmine plays too.

Marcel laughs. “You only played on Sundays, and you refused to let me watch.”

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