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Fifteen

“What was that?” I mutter to myself on our way back to the team room.

Lucca chuckles beside me. “If you don’t know, I’m guessing Franny can clue you in.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Lucca, come on. Not cool. You guys were egging her on. And right before a game. This game. What were you thinking?”

We need this win. Without it, we lose any shot at competing for the Next Gen Cup. And because of Lucca, chanting, and pressure, my head is off on the sidelines with soft lips and sweet fruity breath.

I won’t lie and tell you I didn’t enjoy that kiss. But my head. My head is with Fran and that extra-friendly goodbye. It’s not on the field or where it should be.

“Callum’s right. Stupid move, man,” Roman Graves grunts before storming past us.

“See?” I say, throwing out a hand toward Roman.

“Graves?” Lucca chortles. “You’re siding with the Graveyard? ”

He’s got a point. Roman’s a bit intense and a grouch—about everything. On the field, he puts people in the ground. It’s why we love him—but agreeing with him on anything other than intimidating the opposing team isn’t normal.

Lucca doesn’t wait for me to answer. Why would he? He’s got all the answers. “I was thinking what we’re all thinking,” he says. “That your lucky charm loosens up the tightly wound springs making up your insides. That in order for us to win this game, those springs need to unwind.”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “Do you have any idea where my head is right now?”

Lucca grins. “Oh, I could guess.”

“And you’re willing to risk this game on that ridiculous theory? A superstition. You didn’t think today might be a good day to play it safe?”

Lucca’s overconfidence makes me want to slug him. The way he believes himself a gift to the sport, as well as a gift to women everywhere. Even now, when we’re about to head out to the field, he doesn’t waver for a second. He doesn’t think about what he’s done.

“Playing it safe is the only risk I see.”

One hundred and five minutes later marks one of the best games of my entire career. And I’ve been playing this game my whole life.

I played on an academy that got me into the majors at eighteen. Four years ago, I stress-fractured my foot. That’s when I came to the minors. I’ve been with the Red Tails since they first got started three years ago.

Lucca slaps me on the back before jogging toward the player tunnel.

He jogs a few yards, then stops in front of Fran.

That’s when I start jogging. I don’t need him talking to her again.

We do not need a repeat of the pregame events.

But when I get there, he isn’t talking to Fran, he’s with the guy three seats away from Fran, signing his arm with a ballpoint pen.

“Callum Whitaker!” the man says. “Game-winning goal!” Then he holds his signed arm out toward me, the pen in his hand.

“Ah. Sure.” I step onto the cement stair next to Lucca and scrawl my name on the man’s arm. It’s half the size of Lucca’s and will wash off in one, at most two, washes. But it’s done.

“See you, Franny!” Lucca calls. “Nice job tonight. You made it happen.” He points two finger guns her way. Then Lucca slaps me on the back before hopping from the step and racing off into the tunnel.

I turn to Fran, who indeed has a date sitting next to her. He’s blond, bearded, and staring at me.

Fran presses her lips together as if she’s smoothing out her lip gloss. My eyes are on the girl, on those lips that I have once again kissed. I’m still not sure how that happened. Then a hand is thrust in my face.

“Paul Fender, with Silver State Rides. If you’re ever in need of a car?—”

“I’m set. Thanks,” I say. My jaw clenches, and sweat trickles down my back from running nine miles in the last two hours. “How did the cushion work out?”

“Good. It helped. Thanks again.” Fran rubs her lips together again —is she doing that on purpose? I think she’s nervous, and I’m not sure why. Possibly because she kissed me, and now she’s here with… him .

I glance at the man beside her for only a second.

And then, she’s talking once more. “Great game,” she says. “I’ve only ever watched Little League—this was a step up.”

My chest rumbles with silent laughter, but Paul squawks out a hoot. “That’s funny,” he tells her.

She glances at him, then back at me. “That goal at the end. That was amazing, Cal. You’re—” She shakes her head.

“Did Fran tell you how we met?” Paul asks, his mouth twitching in a grin as if it’s a funny story.

It wasn’t funny. At least, I didn’t think so.

“She did, actually. Were you hurt in the fall too?”

“Hurt? Not at all.” Paul glances at Fran. “I thought you were okay.”

“Oh.” She nods. “I am. Just a few scrapes.”

“And bruises,” I say, referring to her sore bottom. “But the pad helped?”

Her lips purse to the side as if she is reining back a grin. “It did.” She sets one hand on the top of the half wall between us. “I stood for a while too.”

“Is that why you stood?” Paul says with a snort of amusement. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Have you seen this? It’s pretty wild.” He holds his phone out to me, and with one click, there’s a video reel on some social media platform playing before my eyes.

I watch as Fran crouches in the road, gathering her things, and then wham !

Paul slams into her just before a truck screeches to a stop in the spot where Fran had just been.

The next ten seconds of the clip plays the video again, only slowed down.

I can make out Fran’s side and knee scraping along the concrete and then her bottom slamming into the hard ground.

Ouch. No wonder the girl is sore. Thankfully, Paul cushioned her head, preventing it from hitting the cement, or she might have ended up with a serious concussion.

“Wait, who posted that?” Fran says, leaning on the wall separating us to peek upside down at Paul’s phone.

Paul snickers. “No idea. But everyone is sending it to me.”

Her cheeks and neck flame pink with his casual words, and she folds her arms around her stomach. “That seems wrong, someone using my accident to get views.”

“Because it is wrong,” I say, pushing Paul’s phone back at him.

“It’s not wrong. They’re just trying to inspire people to do good. See what she’s written?”

He holds out the phone again, and I read aloud: “Paul Fender, hero of the week.”

“See? Inspiration.”

I’m finding I’m not a huge fan of Paul. In fact, I’m wondering if he saw that kiss before the game, and even more, hoping the answer is yes.

We gathered quite the crowd as we stood near the tunnel rather than going in for so long.

He could have been in it. But I’m not sure. I only know he wasn’t in his seat.

Protective instinct kicks in, driving my next actions. I press my hands into the top of the advertisement board and lean forward, just until my lips meet skin. I press a light kiss to Fran’s cheek before stepping back down to the grass.

“I’ll text you later,” I say.

Fran’s cheeks are flaming now. “Okay.”

I dart my gaze to Paul, the used car salesman, but he’s looking at Fran too.

“So, do you want to catch a movie next week?” he says .

My actions mean nothing to him; they don’t deter him in the least. I swallow. I’m considering hopping back up on that step, when an arm wraps around my neck.

“Nice game, Superman,” Zev says. My friend has impeccable timing. What might I have done?

I cough and peek one more glance at Fran, who is watching me back. I wave goodbye and let Zev lead me into the team tunnel.

“Are you seeing Franny tonight?”

“What?” I say as my brows cinch and a bead of sweat slips from my forehead to my chin. “No. Why would you say that? Why would I?”

“She’s cute,” Zev says.

“She’s also quirky and odd and?—”

“Nothing like Simone,” Zev adds. It’s a compliment. No doubt. One I can’t deny.

“Yes,” I say. “Nothing at all like Simone.”