Page 11

Ten

Zev’s car is too warm. It’s spring, for crying out loud—in Tesoro, in Reno. We don’t need the heat on. I reach for the temperature knob, but before I can turn the heat down a notch—or ten—Zev smacks my hand.

“I just got out of an ice bath,” he says.

I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Why are we going into the city—again?” We were here yesterday.

“I told you, I’m taking you out.”

“Where exactly? And why?” I had another lousy practice, and my knee won’t stop bouncing.

My game is off. I need to be on the field, not spending useless time in the city.

My teammates are giving me side eyes every time I turn around.

If I hear “lucky charm” muttered beneath another Red Tail’s breath, I’m going to pummel someone. Most likely Lucca.

Zev lets out a long, tired breath. “Let’s talk.”

“About?”

“You. The breakup. Your game. How you’re feeling.”

I snuff and grunt and sound like a regular fire-breathing dragon. “Did you dupe me into leaving practice and trading the comfort of my home for this drive so you could hound me about my ex? Because I’m fine.” My mother and sister are hounding me plenty. I don’t need Zev doing it too.

Zev does roll his eyes. “So dramatic. I didn’t dupe you.

And I’ll take you back after I’ve eaten, pansy .

But you need to talk to someone. You need something outside of the team, Cal.

Because whatever this thing with Simone is, it’s got you messed up.

It’s affecting more than just your personal life. ”

“There is no thing with Simone. She’s gone, and I’m good. Better, even.”

“There is a thing. That girl was toxic. And while she may be gone, it’s like her residual negative energy is sticking to you.”

I pull in a breath through my teeth and groan. There’s no need for this conversation. I’m not broken-hearted, I’m just… off . I’ll get my mojo back. If the guys would allow me to focus.

But before I can say anything more, the maps app on Zev’s phone starts spouting directions. I grind my teeth. I’m starving. I need to eat. I’ll ream my friend out after he’s fed me.

Zev pulls into a parking space, an old diner before us. We drove all the way to Reno for greasy café food? We don’t eat greasy café food.

“What is this?” I say, my nose wrinkling.

“Stacks.” He points to the worn wooden sign with the restaurant’s name.

“This doesn’t look Jacobson-approved.” Our coach is pretty hard-core on what we eat, especially while we’re in season. With good reason.

“I won’t tell if you don’t. ”

Okay—that’s not like Zev.

“What’s going on? Why did we drive to Reno for pancakes?” I stare at him. But Zev just smiles up at the old building, steam billowing from the stacks.

“I haven’t had a flapjack in six months, okay? It sounded good.”

I have zero plans to consume anything here, but Zev is opening his driver’s door and starting for the entrance before I have time to protest a second time.

I scramble out my door before Zev locks me in this heat-filled car. I wouldn’t put it past him tonight. He’s acting strange.

Almost tripping over my own feet—not a great sign for a professional athlete—I meet him at the front of the building before he can enter.

“What is up with you, man?” I ask.

But Zev only snickers. “Smell that?” he says, holding the handle of the door.

Is he talking about this hole-in-the-wall? Because I smell quick-burned energy and dehydration.

“Flapjacks.” His brows bounce once, and then he’s inside, sitting at a booth and opening a menu.

I grunt and slide on the bench opposite him.

I open one of the faded, laminated menus already on the table and scroll through my options. At least it’s clean.

We have a team nutritionist and chef who often feeds us after practice. Brian would not approve of anything on this menu.

Our waitress arrives, and my gaze travels from her black pants to a pink tee, then to a white-and-blue striped apron, where a nametag clipped to her chest reads FRAN .

Next to her name is a bright pink heart sticker.

A tremor rises in my gut as my gaze travels up to full, rosy-pink lips—ones I can easily conjure the feel of.

My heart thumps nervously in my chest as if I’ve been on the field already running a mile—or ten. I drop my eyes and glare at Zev, when?—

“Eep! It’s you,” Fran squeaks, her hand hovering in front of those lips.

I look back her way, offering a guilty, closed-lipped grin. Only I’m not the guilty one here. Zev is.

“Hi there,” Zev says. He holds out a hand. “I’m Zev, Cal’s teammate and friend. I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

Fran’s long, dark lashes blink in rapid succession. “Um. Right. Hi.” She reaches for Zev’s hand and shakes it. “I’m Fran. How did you…” Her head wobbles, and her eyes return to me. “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t.” I quickly shake my head. I don’t need Rosalie’s cuckoo friend thinking I sought her out. “This is just a happy coincidence.”

“Wow.” She exhales, and with the gust, she smacks her hand and pad of paper to her thighs. “That’s crazy.”

“So. Crazy,” I say, my eyes darting to Zev. I really dislike that word. The jury is still out on just how “crazy” Fran is.

She runs her fingers over her left ear as if to brush back her hair—but it’s a nervous gesture, with her hair already pulled back.

“Did you want something to eat?” Another restless head shake.

“I mean, of course you want something. That’s why you’re here.

Why else would you be here?” Her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip, and she stares at me and only me.

“What can I get you? You can have anything.”

If the word crazy wasn’t still lingering in my thoughts, I might be flattered—Zev is a good-looking guy, and she’s barely looked at the man.

“Anything at all,” she says with a smile, and with it, the word cuckoo feels like a fading memory. She’s distracting me with her awkwardness, with her smile—it’s a nice smile. And she’s funny—even when she doesn’t mean to be.

“Anything I want?” I say, and I’m pleased when a deep pink creeps into her cheeks.

A nervous titter spills from Fran’s lips. “Did I say that?” She presses her lips together. “How about water? I’ll grab water while you look at the menu. You guys drink water, right?”

“Water would be great,” Zev tells her.

“Water.” Fran nods with the only word that’s currently filling up her vocabulary. Still, her smile is bright, like walking outside on a spring day or stepping onto a field after months of absence. She is mumbling about water, but her face is alight with pure joy.

“See?” Zev says once she’s gone. “Two minutes with that girl, and you’re already loosening up.”

I press both my palms onto the cool tabletop. “How, by the grace of Pelé, did you know she’d be here?”

Zev grins, so utterly pleased with himself. “I went back and talked to her friend, the cute teacher who yelled at you.”

We had to wait on Zev for a couple of minutes, but I thought he was talking to the principal. I never imagined he hunted down Fran’s friend in that little school.

“Rosalie? She actually gave you information?”

“Is that her name?”

“Zev!”

“Yeah, man. She told me,” he says .

“I am certain she wanted me to stay far away from her friend. I understood the warning signs. Threats, even.”

“Well, I explained things?—”

“Explained what, exactly?” What in the world did he say to change her mind?

“Cal, we need you focused—but not so focused that you’re constantly overthinking,” he says, skipping right over my question.

“You mean overshooting ?” I made one goal in practice today and overshot the rest. I’m pretty sure the entire team, coaching staff, and trainers are wondering why I’m still around.

“I mean overthink ,” he says. “We need you present, but also out of this slump. Cal, you’re the best. But you’re going through something.

It happens to all of us. But this woman—” He peers to the side, where Fran fills up water glasses and checks on an older man at the counter.

“For whatever reason, she helps you loosen up. Like it or not, she may actually be your lucky charm.”

“She isn’t my?—”

“Two waters,” Fran says, all at once next to our table. She sets the filled glasses in front of us and pulls out her notebook. “Have you guys decided?” Her eyes play ping pong, bouncing from her tablet to me, the water glasses on our table to me, and then Zev to me.

I want to laugh. And I want to hold her eye contact and tell her it’s all going to be okay. And—dang it, with her quirks, I do feel more at ease.

“I’ll take an order of flapjacks and a side of bacon,” Zev says.

I huff at Zev’s order. Brian would choke if he heard that. We are in season , man. He’s going to be bloated and slow tomorrow. “Can I get an egg white omelet?”

“Just egg whites?” Fran says, a small crease between her eyes.

“With a little Swiss cheese, veggies, and turkey if you have it.”

Her head tilts, her eyes studying me as if I am a puzzle to be solved. “But just the egg whites. No yolk?”

“Just the whites.” Clearly this isn’t a common order at Stacks. “Can your chef take the yolks out for me?”

Fran glances at the older man through the cook’s window, then turns back to me. “Oh, I’m sure he is able to. I’m not sure he will.”

Zev reaches across the table and slaps my shoulder. “Live it up, Superman. You could use the protein.” Zev slips out of his seat. “I’m going to the bathroom.” And in two blinks, he’s gone. Leaving me alone with Fran—and the rest of the café.

“Superman?” she says.

I squirm a little in my seat. “Yeah. Most of the guys have nicknames on the team.”

“Why Superman?” she says, tapping her pen to her small notebook, looking more at ease.

“My name is Callum. Superman’s real name is Kal-El. I’m an attacking forward.” I shrug. It sounds so dumb as I try to explain it to her.

One side of her mouth quirks up in a grin. “That’s cute.”

Cute is not exactly the term I’d use. I squirm in my seat. “Listen, Fran, I wanted to apologize. I shouldn’t have kissed you the other night. It was forward and out of line and… just dumb.” And it was all Lucca’s fault, but I leave that out .

Her brows pull together and she smirks. “You did say you’re forward.”

“Yeah. Uh—different kind of forward. I just—” I run a hand through my hair, blowing out a tired breath.

“I never meant to be so invasive or assertive. It sounds stupid”—because it is stupid—“but I needed to be spontaneous and—” I cram my eyes closed because this might be the worst apology ever given.

“It wasn’t a bad kiss,” she says.

And her response makes me chuckle. “No, it’s not that the kiss was bad. It wasn’t. But?—”

“And you’re single,” she says, sliding onto Zev’s seat across from me. “You said you were single. So, it’s not like you turned me into the ‘other woman’, right?”

She isn’t making me feel any better. I stare at her from across the table. “No. I wouldn’t do something like that. You’d broken up with your boyfriend on stage and?—”

“Doug?” Her brows knit. “Doug wasn’t my boyfriend. That was our first date, and it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”

I sigh out a breathy laugh. “I think I need something outside my team,” I say, giving in to Zev’s theory. And Fran, who I find more funny than cuckoo, makes me laugh. She distracts me in this pleasant, unexpected way.

“Everyone needs something outside of work.” She tilts her head in thought. “I have Rosalie. And my remakes. And school—though I’m pretty sure that counts as work.”

I’m not sure what she’s talking about, and surprisingly, I’d like to ask a follow-up question. But just then, Zev exits the bathroom.

“Frances!” a man booms over the bustle of the half-filled diner. “Where is Frances?”

“Crap!” Fran’s face blooms bright red. “I have to go. I’ll be back with your food.”

“Frances, your order’s been up for two minutes!”

“I’m coming, Glendon!”

“Wait,” I say, peering past her to Zev, who is taking his sweet time getting back to us. “Fran, do you think we could be friends?” I shrug. I sound ridiculous. But I’m trying out spontaneity again. “Maybe hang out sometime?”

Her cherry-red cheeks blossom into a grin. “Yeah. I think we could.”