Page 32

Thirty

I did not make it out of the locker room unscathed. Lucca spotted my new Fran temporary tattoo—at least it’s supposed to be temporary—and told no less than four guys to check it out.

I barely made it out alive.

Between the locker room and a camera guy catching my kiss with Fran for my mother to see, I am a ball of nerves. And yet, I’m not nearly as nervous as Fran.

Apparently, she thought she might be the only woman at this team dinner. However, she still agreed to come with me. What a trooper.

She blows out a shaky breath, a sense of relief washing over her face as she peers about the room and sees a handful of women here.

Garrett and Devon are with their wives. Devon’s daughter is even here.

A few girlfriends sprinkle throughout the space as well, along with Coach’s wife and Will Baxter’s family.

She is not the only female in the room.

“How often do you guys do this?” Fran says, and I’m not immune to the fact that her arm brushes mine, that she might be stuck to me like glue.

I shrug and, like a gentleman, keep my arm pressed to hers. If that’s what she needs, that’s where I’ll stay. “Every couple of months. Sometimes more.”

“Did Simone come to these?”

I cough, but manage to say in a cool, calm voice, “She did.”

Fran hisses in her next breath. “So, will there be people here who dislike me? Like I’m replacing someone they called a friend.”

I huff out the smallest of laughs. “You know, Fran. I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” Simone didn’t love my team—and they didn’t love her back. “Zev wasn’t the only one to call her toxic.”

As if on cue, Lucca Cruz, standing clear across the banquet room of this restaurant, throws his hands into the air and bellows, “Franny!”

She swallows and sends Lucca a small wave. “So, no one?—”

“No one ever cared if Simone came, Fran. My team likes you. You’re in good company. Don’t stress.”

“I’m not stressing. I’m just a friend. No one needs to approve of me. So why would I be stressing? I’m just the girl who occasionally kisses a guy, so he won’t play like trash?—”

“Hey—”

Fran swallows. “Sorry. Um?—”

“How about to give him a little luck?”

Her shoulders fall, and she heaves out a breath. “Yep. That’s it. I knew that.”

Lucca strides over, a cocky smile on his face, one directed at Fran—one I’d like to slap off. But it was a good win for us today. I’m smiling too.

“Hey, Franny,” Lucca says. “You got a lucky kiss for me too?” He taps his clean-shaven cheek.

Fran’s brows lower in question, and a hum escapes her as if she may be considering it.

“Nope,” I say, reaching for her wrist and pulling her half a foot behind me. “She isn’t the team kissing booth, Cruz. She’s my guest, and you’ll behave.”

Lucca laughs, but he holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Got it. You aren’t sharing. That’s fine.” He peers past me, winks at Fran, and adjusts the collar of his Red Tails polo. “Good to see you, Franny.”

I shake my head and watch him walk away. He can torment someone else’s guest tonight, but not Fran. “He’s like a giant child,” I tell her.

“A child with smoking abs and a swoony accent. Where’s he from again?”

“Brazil,” I say, not loving the way she said smoking . “I think his accent is fake. He’s lived in the States most of his life.”

Fran snickers beside me. “Why would he fake his accent?”

“Who knows? Lucca’s crazy like that.” I don’t actually believe that—but it felt like the right thing to say at the moment.

“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’s a 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 in Two 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.”