He smiles down at me, slowing our dance until we’re still but for the wind that swirls around us, whipping our hair and clothes.
Ren dips his head and kisses me. A soft, searing sweep of his lips. Gentle and cherishing.
“I love you, Frankie.” Those wintry eyes search mine as he holds me close. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And I know maybe that’s not how you feel, and that’s okay. But I needed you to know. This. You and Me…” He sweeps back the hair tangling across my face. “It means everything to me.”
I nod, trying to swallow the lump of emotion in my throat. But all I can manage, as I cling to this man is the faintest, tear-choked, “Me, too.”
Three subsequent games. One more at home, two in Denver. Zero wins. Lots of great sex. Lots of cuddles and talks, sneaking into hotel rooms, and lounging on the couch. But the team’s mood is somber, and mine’s not much better.
There’s a tickle in my throat, an ache settled in my joints. My body’s warm and slow. I’m either preparing for the flare of the year or I’m coming down with something. Which, I’ll be damned if I tell Ren about.
Sitting on the deck, Ren rubs his forehead as he reads the sports page on his phone. His brow is knitted, his jaw tight. And for some reason I feel responsible.
“What if I jinxed you?”
Ren glances up from his phone. “What?”
“Since we started sleeping together, you’ve lost three in a row.”
Ren chuckles to himself and takes a sip of coffee. But when he sees my face, he sets down his cup with a clunk and leans in. “You’re serious? Practical, rational Frankie, is blaming her sex life for a team that’s just not having its best playoffs.”
I shrug and bite into my bagel. “I don’t know. I mean you guys suck. Bad.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
Setting my hand on his massive thigh, I squeeze affectionately and glance out to the sand where Pazza bolts toward the water, barking at the waves.
“Not you, specifically, Zenzero,” I say quietly, pulling out a tissue and blowing my nose. Ren and Rob are basically the only thing holding the team together. Maddox is still out sick—not that he was playing spectacularly—but he also took down a few other key players, too, with whatever contagion gave him a lung infection.
Ren glances over at me, rests a hand to my forehead, then cheek. “You started sniffling in your sleep last night. You haven’t stopped this morning.”
“I’m fine.” I brush his hand away lightly and sip my coffee. “Seasonal allergies.”
He makes a noncommittal noise. Turning slightly to face me, Ren sets one leg on his knee and rests an arm along the back of my chair. His hand slides around my neck and massages.
I hiss at the pain-pleasure of his touch. I ache everywhere, and while I don’t have a fever, I’m thinking it’s only a matter of time. Not that Ren knows that. Because if he did, he’d tuck me in and insist on staying home and taking care of me. That’s not happening, not when tomorrow’s game five of the series, and if he doesn’t show to practice today or the game tomorrow night, Coach will disown him, and they’ll definitely lose.
When Ren slides his thumb up my neck toward the tender base of my skull, I almost cry uncle and confess how shitty I feel, but for once, my mother’s number lighting up my phone to FaceTime is a welcome interruption.
“Gotta take this,” I mutter, leaning out of his grip.
Ren makes no move to leave.
I lift my phone and raise my eyebrows. “You mind?”
He smiles, settling back into his chair with his coffee. “Not at all. Please take it. I’d like to meet her.”
Sputtering, I nearly drop my phone. “I. What? Ren—”
“You’re going to miss her call, snickerdoodle.”
I roll my eyes and swipe to answer her. “Hi, Ma.” Ren’s mouth quirks. I smack his chest. “My New York comes out when I talk to her. Don’t you dare make fun of me.”
“Love bug, I would never.”
I practically growl at him.
“Frankie?” my mom yells. She’s staring down her nose through her glasses, walking through the kitchen.
“Ma. Sit down. You make me nauseous moving around like that.”
“Nice to talk to you, too,” she says. “Glad you’re alive. It’s been a while.”
Ren lifts an eyebrow in censure. I stick my tongue out at him.
“Don’t stick your tongue out at me, young lady—”
“Ma, it wasn’t for you. It was for him.”
“Oooh,” she croons. “A man? Finally. I told Gabby I thought you were going for that friend of yours with all the fancy piercings, but she told me you don’t bark up that tree.”
“Gabby would be correct. Besides, Lorena’s way out of my league.” Sighing, I swivel the phone so the camera faces Ren. “Ma, this is Ren Bergman. Ren, this is my mom, Maria Zeferino.”
He waves hi and her jaw drops. “Jesus,” my mom whispers.
Ren glances nervously from me back to her.
I lean toward him and grin. “Where do you think I got my love of gingers, Zenzero?”
Ren turns a brilliant red. Clearing his throat, he smiles at her. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Zeferino. Frankie’s said wonderful things about you.”
Like hell I have. I dig my heel into his bare foot, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Ma cocks an eyebrow. “Nice to meet you, Ren. But I doubt that highly. I drive her crazy. It’s why she moved a country away from me.”
I roll my eyes, bringing the phone back to facing only me. “I moved cross-country for a kickass job and mellow weather.”
She waves her hand. “How’s your health?”
“It’s fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You exercising? Taking your meds? Getting your bloodwork and X-rays—”
“Ma. I said it’s fine.”
She squints at me. “You look thin. And your nose is red. Are you sick?”
Ren makes a disapproving noise. “See?” he whispers. “I told you.”
I glare at him. “And I told you,” I hiss back, “that I don’t need another fussy mother. So, back off, Ren.”
He sits straight, eyes narrowed. On an abrupt stand, he sweeps up his coffee and goes inside. Guilt settles in my stomach. I shouldn’t have snapped at him, but damn, is it aggravating to be talked to so paternalistically. I’m a grown woman. It’s my body to manage.
Or mismanage.
And tough shit. I warned him this would be an issue, that it was a sensitive and unwavering boundary for me.
As I hear him through the open screen door, banging around in the kitchen and muttering to himself, my stomach tightens in unease, weight presses on my chest that no deep breathing resolves. I’m definitely getting sick. Just with what, I’m not sure.
Tell him. Trust him.
I can’t. Because I can’t trust him to be objective. He’ll toss aside his responsibilities and then down that terrible resentment road we’ll go. I’ll drag him, he’ll go along happily…until he’s miserable, and I’m left with someone who has to choose between me and a fulfilling life. I won’t. Fucking. Do it.