THREE LONG HOURS LATER, after staggering out of the church basement, Cal put his hands on her shoulders. “Will you tell me about it?”
She nodded. “We should eat first.”
They got Chinese takeout and went back to her apartment. Her stomach revolted at the thought of food, but she wanted to keep things as normal as possible for as long as she could.
She dragged a water chestnut around on her plate, smearing it through the dark soy sauce. Cal ate steadily, but he watched her. Waiting.
“Okay,” she said, pushing her plate away when she couldn’t stand it anymore. “You already know I was on the street when I was fifteen. I ran away. My parents had died a couple of years earlier, and I was angry. I resented Nathan because he wasn’t paying enough attention to me, and he became the symbol of all the grief and fear I was trying to bury.” She glanced at Cal, then away. “Which I figured out later. After a lot of therapy.”
She focused on picking up a grain of rice with her chopsticks. “What I didn’t realize was that Nate wasn’t coping, either. He was terrified. He was only twenty-four and all of a sudden he had a restaurant to run and three younger siblings to raise. He didn’t notice I was in trouble.”
Cal reached across the table and took the chopsticks, then clasped her hands in his. “It’s okay, Frankie. You can’t tell me anything that will make me think less of you.”
She inhaled a shaky breath and drew her hands away. He hadn’t heard her story yet.
“On the street, I was always hungry, always scared. There were days when I didn’t eat at all. After a couple of weeks, I wanted to call Nathan, but I was too stubborn.” She bent her head, remembering the way her brother had cried when she had finally contacted him. “One night, a kid living in the same abandoned building suggested we get some money from a convenience store. Stupidly, I thought that meant he had an ATM card, and I remember being angry that he hadn’t used it before this.
“He didn’t have a card. He had a gun. And the next thing I knew, I was in the middle of an armed robbery. The cops caught us, of course, and they sent us both to juvie.”
She jumped up and started pacing, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I sat in a locked room, by myself, for a couple of days. They charged me with armed robbery and told me they’d get me a public defender. Then Bascombe walked in. He told me his name was Dave, that he was a social worker and wanted to help me. I figured out later that he had probably arranged to keep me isolated. Made it easier to prey on me.
“Those two days…I was terrified. Frantic to get out.” She stared through the window, but instead of the brick of the building across the alley, she saw Bascombe’s face. Friendly. Sympathetic. “I wanted Nathan. Wanted my family back. I told Bascombe I’d do anything if I could call my brother. I knew Nathan would help me. Nathan would fix everything.
“Bascombe smiled.” A shudder ripped through her. “Then he tugged on my belly-button ring and said he knew what kind of girl wore those. Before I could react, he grabbed me and covered my mouth. He bent me over the desk chair and stuck his other hand down the back of my pants.” His hand had been rough. Hot and sweaty. His nails too long. For months afterward, she’d woken in the middle of the night, feeling the sting of his nails on her skin. She would stand in the shower until the water ran cold, washing herself. “When he…when he tried to put his fingers in my…in my…” She pressed her hands to her eyes.
“God, Frankie!”
Cal pushed away from the table and stood behind her. His hands hovered over her shoulders and she stiffened. Please don’t touch me. If you do, I’ll fall apart completely.
His hands dropped away.
“I started to kick. Squirm. When I bit him, he let me go, and I ran for the door.” She wrapped her arms around herself again, trying to stop the shaking. “I pounded on the door, and he grabbed my hands to stop me. He told me he was disappointed. I’d said I would do anything, and since I’d changed my mind, I needed to keep my mouth shut. If I told anyone, he’d kill my brothers.”
She stared out the window, pleased she’d managed to get through the story without breaking down completely. “That was the last time I heard of him until I saw an article in the paper that he’d been appointed head of DCFS.”
Cal turned her around. He gently wiped tears from her cheeks. “Honey, you know he can’t do anything to your brothers.”
“I know that now. I didn’t back then.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, that first time he came around?”
“You think I don’t know what you would have done? I didn’t want you to go to jail.”
“So you went to a reporter?”
“I went to Bascombe first. Told him to resign, or I’d go public.”
“That’s how he knew the article was about you.”
“Yes.”
“What you did was really brave, Frankie. God knows how many other kids he assaulted and raped. You put yourself on the line to stop him.” Cal folded her in his arms.
“I know. I have nothing to be afraid of, really. But every time I see him, I’m fifteen years old again and back in that room.” She clung to Cal, wishing she could stay there forever, absorbing his strength. But after a few minutes, she stepped away.
Cal’s mouth tightened. “The police better take care of this fast. Or I’m going to destroy that bastard.”
“No, Cal! You can’t go near him.”
“You think I can listen to you describe what he did to you and do nothing? Not a chance.”
“Let the police handle it. Promise me, Cal.”
His jaw worked, then he nodded. “Fine. I’ll take care of FreeZone, then. Since you seem to like that dump you’re in, I’ll buy it. I’ll have it renovated and brought up to code. Then you won’t have to wait on your landlord, or worry about the inspectors, either.”
She grabbed him, horrified. “No! You’re not buying that building for me.”
“Why the hell not? I have more money than I need. Might as well use some of it to help you save FreeZone.”
He was trying to rescue her again, the way he had with the benefit. She got that, but she couldn’t accept it.
She laid her hands on his face. “That’s very generous, and I appreciate it. But I don’t want your money. I’m not going to be one more person who asks for stuff from you.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering. I want to help you, Frankie,” he said, holding her hands. “If you don’t want money, what do you want?”
She swallowed. She’d taken the hardest step—she’d bared her past to Cal. Now she had to go the rest of the way. It was time to stop being that tough girl who kept her real self hidden. Time to become the woman she was meant to be. “I want you, Cal. The man who saw Francesca instead of Frankie. The man I love.”
He paled. “Don’t say that, Frankie! You know I care about you, but that’s as far as it can go. The only thing I’m good at is football. I have to focus on that.”
“Is that all you can have in your life?” Did he have any idea what it had cost her to say she loved him? “No other football players have relationships?”
“Some do. But I can’t. Especially not now. If I don’t give everything to football, I won’t make the team. And I have to make the team. It’s all I have.”
“You could have so much more than that if you gave yourself a chance. I’ve never told anyone I loved them. Never felt it, either. I love you, Cal. Not your money or your influence or your fame. I love the guy who helps gangbangers he doesn’t even like. The man who saw me, even when I was hiding.
“You’re a lot more than just a football player, Cal. You’re not just that guy who kicks butt on Sunday afternoon.”
He stared at her and swallowed. The terror in his eyes made her throat burn. “That’s exactly who I am, Frank
ie. A jock. A guy who does one thing, but does it really well. That guy has training camp in two days, and I have to focus on that. I have to concentrate on making the team. Football is my life. You understand, don’t you?”
She closed her eyes, unable to bear the desperation in his eyes. “I used to think FreeZone was my life. Now I know better. You’d know better, too, if you really looked at yourself. If you gave us a chance.”
“I’ll give you anything you want, Frankie. Anything but that.” He swallowed.
“You’re walking away? I stripped myself bare for you, and that’s all you can say? That you can give me money, but nothing more?” Her knees trembling, she reached for the counter behind her.
“You’re asking for something I can’t give you, Frankie.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “The season will be over in January. Maybe we can hook up again then.”
“‘Hook up’?” She shook her head. “Francesca deserves more than hooking up with the man she loves.” Her heart breaking, she said, “I hope football can give you what you’re looking for.”
He turned and walked slowly toward the back door. He paused in the doorway, but didn’t look back. Finally, he left without saying goodbye.
When Frankie heard his car drive down the alley, she picked up her plate of Kung Pao chicken and scraped it into the garbage. Then she crumpled in on herself and let the tears fall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CAL STOOD ON THE PORCH outside Frankie’s kitchen, willing himself to go back in, gather her close. Tell her he wanted to stay.
He couldn’t do it. It killed him to walk away, but he didn’t have a choice. When he was with Frankie, he couldn’t think about anything else. Football was a million miles away.
It would take everything he had to make the team this year. He had to be focused on that. He couldn’t afford any distractions.
His hand tightened on the doorknob, then he unclenched his fingers, one by one. Let his hand drop. Walked away.
Each step felt as if he were walking in quicksand.
He finally reached the parking lot. Stared up at her window for a long time. One glimpse of her and he might have run to her. But she didn’t look out. Didn’t expect him to return.
He’d told her often enough that football was everything to him, so he shouldn’t be surprised that she believed him.
He threw the car into Reverse and backed into the alley. The brick walls closed in on him but he didn’t stop. When he reached the street, he drove blindly to Halsted, then headed toward Lake Shore Drive. There were whitecaps on the lake today, crashing onto the rocks. Breaking into tiny droplets that flew in every direction, then vanished.
He kept his gaze fixed on the traffic in front of him, but all he saw was Frankie, tears trickling down her face, telling him what Bascombe had done.
Cal had always prided himself on being a guy who manned up.
Not today. He’d hurt Frankie. Let her down. Walked out the door.
But she’d asked too much of him. He wasn’t a relationship guy. And she’d known that going in.
It wasn’t fair to change the rules this late in the game.
His tires squealed as he pulled into his parking garage, then swung into his space. He trotted to the elevator, eager to get home. To let his own familiar environment calm him. Assure him he’d done the right thing.
But the minute he walked in the door, Frankie was there. She’d left a note on the table in the foyer. “Thank you for the benefit. And what came after. It was a magical evening.”
He crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash, then dug it out and smoothed out the wrinkles. Stared at it for a long time before shoving it into a drawer.
His bed was still rumpled and smelled like Frankie. So did the towel she’d used after her shower. He tortured himself with her scent for a moment, then tossed the towel into the hamper.
In the kitchen, she’d added “thank you” to his note with the espresso instructions.
God, she was everywhere. He grabbed the phone and dialed his cleaning service. “This is Cal Stewart,” he said when a woman answered. “I need someone to clean my place tomorrow.”
He listened impatiently, then interrupted. “I know I’m not scheduled. I don’t care what it costs. I need my place cleaned. Tomorrow. Unless you can make it today.”
He heard pages turning, then the receptionist put a hand over the mouthpiece. Finally she came back on the line.
“It will be double the regular cost, Mr. Stewart.”
“Great. I’ll leave a check. Thank you.”
He threw himself on the couch, the only place in the apartment where he couldn’t feel Frankie’s presence. He had to figure out a way to get through the rest of the day. To distract himself until he could go back to rehab tomorrow. Training camp the next day.
Well done, son. His father’s voice in his head was satisfied. Happy. You did the smart thing. Football is what’s important. Nothing else.
Cal picked up a red-and-yellow vase and flung it at the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces that glittered like diamonds in the sun.
He still felt like crap.
Something crinkled in his back pocket, and he pulled out a piece of paper torn from a notebook. Sean’s email address and Facebook name. Below them, Sean had scrawled, “Good luck at training camp.”
FRANKIE DIDN’T REMEMBER the text message from Martha until the next morning, but managed to get her on the phone before she left for school.
“Hey, Martha, I got your text. What’s up?”
“Frankie.” The teen’s voice was low, as if she was trying not to be overheard. “There was an article in the paper yesterday. About the head of DCFS.”
Frankie’s stomach began to churn. Please, God. No. “I saw it,” she said carefully.
She heard Martha breathing, and waited. Finally, the girl whispered, “Was that woman you, Frankie? I thought maybe it was, because you understood about the teen center.”
Oh, Martha. Frankie’s eyes welled up. “Yes, sweetie, it was.”
The girl began to sob. “I need you, Frankie.”
“I’ll be right there.”
THE SECOND DAY of training camp was hellishly hot. Cal needed some water, but that would have to wait. One more play before they took a break.
He lined up, watched the play develop and charged toward the receiver he was covering.
Three guys got there at the same time and collided, and he ended up on the bottom of the pile. Someone pushed on his knee as they stood, and he almost screamed.
No one had twisted it or kicked it. It had just been two hundred and fifty pounds of linebacker pressing down, sending agony through Cal’s whole body.
The guys on top of him rolled to their feet one by one. When it was his turn, he managed to stand by himself. Only desperation and his will kept him from limping as he walked off the field.
He stood in the shade and grabbed his water bottle, waiting for the pain to recede to the usual dull ache. As he waited, sweat pouring down his back, the coach barked for the rookies to get back on the field.
Some of them were damned good, including Tommy Grover. Cal tossed the empty bottle into a recycling bin, shifted the weight off his knee and reached for another drink. With help and a little time, Tommy would be great.
He flexed his knee and winced. Son-of-a-bitch knee. He flexed it again, barely managing to conceal his grimace.
They’d done sprints to open the camp yesterday. He’d been slower than normal, but he didn’t think the coaches had noticed. They were paying more attention to the rookies and the guys they’d signed in the off-season.
It wouldn’t take many more plays like the last one, though, before everyone would know he’d lost his edge. Experience might outplay
young and motivated for a while, but eventually, the coaches would catch on.
Maybe after a few more days of practice, the damn joint would loosen up.
Son-of-a-bitch knee.
He’d managed to pass his physical that morning, but the doctor had hesitated at the end. “You sure you want to do this, Stewart?”
“Why wouldn’t I? My knee’s great.” He’d done some high steps, some side-to-sides. “Never better.”
The doctor had shaken his head. “You guys are all the same.” He’d signed the form, and Cal had hurried out the door.
He’d reached for his cell phone, almost pressed Frankie’s speed dial. But he caught himself in time and shoved the phone into his pocket.
He wanted to tell her about the exam. Camp. The guys. He wanted to confess his fears to her, for God’s sake. He wanted her to look him in the eye and tell him he could do anything he wanted to do. That he’d make the right decision. That he was smart enough to figure this out.
But he’d lost his right to call her when he’d walked out on her.
Didn’t stop him from wishing it was different. That he was different.
Now, in the afternoon heat, his position coach appeared next to him. “How’s it hanging, Stewart?”
“Good, Coach.” He swigged some more water and tossed the bottle. “Frigging hot out here.”
Kelleher nodded, watching the guys on the field. “We’ll run ’em awhile longer. See what they’re made of.” He glanced at Cal. “What do you think of Grover?”
“I’m impressed. Give him a couple years of seasoning and he’ll be a keeper.”
Kelleher grunted. “Thinking he’s got the makings of a starter.”
Grover played his position. “Might. Might not.”
Kelleher slapped him on the back. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
Cal watched him walk away. Son of a bitch.
EVERYTHING HAD MOVED FAST. Two days after the article was published, the day after Martha told her how she’d gotten pregnant, Frankie stood with her offstage, waiting for their turn at the press conference. “You don’t have to do this, Martha.” She put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “It was incredibly brave of you to go to the police. You don’t have to be publicly involved.”
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