2. Graham
2
GRAHAM
Ten years ago
The music pulses around me, thick and heavy, a heartbeat all its own. My pulse matches the bass, each thump rattling the walls, sinking into my bones.
I roll my shoulders back, pressing my shoulder blades against the wall, tilting my head from one side to the other. A half-hearted attempt to shake the tension from my neck, to push the anxiety from my veins.
In theory, getting fucked up after game five sounds like a great idea. We just won regionals, after all. One step closer to the championship. But these assholes seem to forget we have conditioning drills at six a.m., and Coach couldn’t care less that we’re riding a win.
I can still hear his voice barking at us as we filed out of the locker room earlier tonight. “Winning doesn’t mean shit if you’re not ready for the next game. Get your heads outta your asses.”
My younger brother ambles toward me, arms wide, smile bright. He claps me on the shoulder, knocking his half-empty beer bottle against my full one.
“C’mon, bro. It’s a celebration. Loosen up a little, yeah?”
A celebration. I snort. “If by celebration, you mean a hundred random strangers drinking watered-down beer from a questionable keg and using it as an excuse to fuck around, then sure, Beau. It’s definitely a celebration.”
Beau’s head rears back, his grin slipping into a smirk. “A hundred? C’mon, bro. We both know you clocked the exact number of people who walked in tonight. You’ve had the perfect vantage point.”
He whistles, tipping his beer toward the front door before lifting his finger toward the ceiling. “But what you didn’t take into account is how many people are outside getting fucked up in our honor.”
I grit my teeth, my gaze flicking to the large windows overlooking the backyard. The guys strung up some patio lights last summer, but it’s too dark to make out anything other than a blur of movement.
Whatever. It’s not like I need to know how many people are here. It’s just one of those things I can’t help but notice.
Beau exhales sharply, his lip curling as he tips his beer back. “Thank fuck we don’t live here, though. I’d be pissed as hell if someone fucked around on our couch like that.”
It doesn’t take long to see exactly what he’s talking about. Our shortstop is sloppy drunk tonight with a girl in his lap. Roaming hands wander beneath clothes while hips grind together, lost in their own world on the worn leather couch, oblivious to everyone around them.
I take a slow sip of my beer, snorting softly. Some things you just have to tune out. At least it’s moderately better than the swill they’re serving out of the kegs in the kitchen. The team keeps a second fridge in the basement, stocked with the good stuff, and only a handful of us know the combination.
Beau grins. “Ah, good. So you’re going to celebrate after all.”
He scans the crowd, casually nodding at a few girls as they stroll past us, their interest obvious. One of them tucks her hair behind her ear, tossing a glance our way before whispering something to her friend. Beau tips his beer in their direction in silent acknowledgment.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Beau snorts, his gaze flicking back to the girls as they glance over their shoulders. “Wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun, you know.”
I sigh and resist the urge to rub my temples. “I know how to have fun. I just don’t think this”—I gesture vaguely at the crowded, beer-soaked room—“qualifies.”
Beau shifts his attention back to me. “C’mon, bro. It’s your senior year. I don’t care what you say, I know you’re going to miss this shit next year.”
He pauses just long enough that I steal a glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
“I’m gonna miss having you around, you know.”
Goddamn it. It’d be a lot easier to ignore him if he wasn’t so fucking earnest all the time. Beau’s never been afraid to talk about feelings, throwing them out into the world as casually as some people talk about the weather.
I shift my weight and glance at him. We’re the same height—or close enough that neither of us has ever bothered to argue about it. But where my hair is dark enough to be mistaken for black, his is more sun-streaked, dark blond with lighter strands from hours on the field. His build is a little broader, his presence a little louder. Always the easier one to talk to, the one people gravitate toward without thinking.
Still, something inside my chest twinges. It tightens, holding me immobile for a second, stealing my breath and pinching my spine straight. I roll my shoulders, stretching my neck from side to side the moment the feeling passes.
“It’s not like we’re never going to see each other again. We live together, remember?” I knock my shoulder into his, forcing a smirk. “I’ll still see you every day.”
His grin is slow to grow, his gaze flicking over my face like he’s trying to read something I’m not saying. “Yeah, I know. Still, consider it a graduation present and go have some fucking fun tonight, yeah? Go dance, do a keg stand, play beer pong, or fuck, take one of the many, many women batting their lashes at you up on their offer.”
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “You say that like it’s supposed to sound appealing.”
“Yeah, bro. It’s a gift you’re giving to yourself.” He claps me on the shoulder and shoves me forward a step. “Go make me proud.”
He sounds ridiculous, but I’m feeling indulgent tonight. And he’s not wrong. I graduate soon, and once I cross that stage, you couldn’t pay me to come back to the baseball house.
I weave through the hallway toward the living room, already planning my exit strategy. I’ll hold up a wall for ten minutes—long enough for Beau to get distracted—then I’ll slip out early.
The music is louder here, bass vibrating through the floorboards, the air thick with the scent of cheap beer, sweat, and something vaguely citrusy from a spilled drink. A small crowd moves in time with the music, some bodies pressed close, others swaying with that loose, careless energy that comes with a few drinks. Someone’s laughing, high and breathless, over by the couch. A couple stumbles past me toward the kitchen, fingers tangled together, oblivious to anyone else in the room.
I shift my weight, pressing my shoulder into the nearest doorway, already counting down the minutes until I can leave. My body is wrecked from the game. Six and a half innings, arm tight from pitching into the seventh, adrenaline carrying me through before Coach pulled me to preserve my arm.
Now, all I want is an ice pack and my laptop.
And maybe eight hours of sleep, though I doubt I’ll get that, either.
I find a corner cloaked in shadows and lean my shoulder against the wall, content to watch instead of participate. The music thrums through the floor, a steady vibration beneath my feet, but I barely notice it.
The crowd shifts, parting just enough?—
And then I see her.
The air leaves my lungs, like the time I took a fastball to the ribs on a dirty pitch. Sharp. Sudden. Stealing the breath right out of me.
She moves like she belongs here, like the night bends around her. Long, sun-kissed hair flashes like spun gold beneath the strobe lights and the disco ball someone rigged to the chandelier. Every slow tilt of her head, every sway of her hips, catches the light like she’s carved straight out of myth—a Greek goddess, radiant and untouchable.
Then she tilts her head back and smiles.
And I can’t stop myself from searching the space around her, expecting to see someone beside her, waiting for a reason for that amusement to curl up the side of her mouth. To find the source of whatever thought just lit her up from the inside.
But there’s no one.
And somehow, that makes it both better and worse.
Because now I want to know what put that expression on her face, what thought just slipped through her mind that made her smile like that.
Something about it gets under my skin, sharp and insistent. I don’t just want to look at her—I want to understand her.
One song bleeds into another, and by the fifth, I’m transfixed.
I don’t even pretend to play it off anymore—my gaze keeps catching on her, tracking every flicker of movement through the throng of bodies. My muscles ache from the tension lining my body, and for the first time tonight, it has nothing to do with baseball.
I watch as she gathers her hair in one hand, twisting it around her fingers and lifting it off the back of her neck. The movement is absentminded, effortless. Like she’s been dancing for so long, she’s not even aware of the way she’s caught the attention of half the damn room.
Then she weaves through the crowd, slipping between bodies with the kind of ease that makes it seem like the music is pulling her forward. She doesn’t stop until she’s two feet away from me, just outside the crush of dancers, the strobe light flashing behind her every few seconds—too bright, too inconsistent.
It makes it impossible to see her face clearly, and that annoys the shit out of me.
She tilts her head, amusement curling at the corner of her mouth. “Please tell me you know where the drinks are. My sister went in search of some almost an hour ago and hasn’t come back yet.”
I tip my beer toward her, offering it without much thought. “You can have mine.”
She grins, and the overhead lights flicker across her face, catching on the quick flash of her teeth. It snags my attention, distracting me more than it should.
Her gaze flicks to the bottle, then back to me, amusement curling at the edges of her mouth. “No offense, but I don’t take opened drinks from strange men at parties.” She pauses just long enough to make it deliberate. “Even the hot ones.”
My fingers tighten around the bottle. I clear my throat, heat creeping up my neck before I can stop it.
Which only makes it worse. And then it pisses me off.
“Good,” I say, but it comes out rougher than I mean it to.
She laughs, and before she can get another hit in, I turn, muttering, “I’ll show you where the good drinks are.”
I take two steps toward the kitchen when I feel it—her fingers wrapping around my wrist.
The contact startles me. I glance over my shoulder just as she rises onto her toes, close enough that I catch the faint scent of something sweet clinging to her skin.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she shouts over the music.
My brows pull together. My pulse ticks up for reasons entirely unrelated to baseball.
“In the crowd,” she says, nodding to the people everywhere.
I didn’t realize I stopped counting how many people walked in the front door. I nod, turn forward again, and don’t think about the fact that she’s still holding on.
People clap me on the back as I move through the house, murmuring congratulations, asking about the game, about the next round. I dip my chin in acknowledgment but don’t slow my pace.
She stays close, fingers still wrapped around my wrist, until we reach the basement door.
I open it, letting her step in first, then follow, closing it behind us. The chaos of the party dulls instantly, the pounding music reduced to a distant hum beneath above our heads. My shoulders drop, and I exhale quietly.
“So, you’re a baseball player, then?” Her voice lilts at the end, curiosity threading through her tone.
I glance at her as I step past. “Yeah.”
I discard my beer bottle on the counter of the small half-kitchen. And then I enter the combination on the lock, flick it open, and pull the fridge door wide. Cold air spills out, raising the hair on my arms. I take a step back as she moves forward?—
And we bump into each other. My hand curls around her shoulder, steadying her before I even think about it. She laughs, light and airy, like a bubble popping against my skin, and I let go just as fast.
“Wow, okay, so this is really just a beer fridge, huh?” she muses, leaning in and plucking a bottle from the top shelf. She waggles it in front of me. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to have one of these?”
“I’m sure.” I close the fridge, grab the magnetic bottle opener off the side, and hand it to her.
“So,” she says, popping the cap off with an easy flick of her wrist. “Why do I get the feeling you’re kind of a big deal? Do you live in this house . . .” She trails off, eyebrows lifting as her gaze drifts over my face.
“Graham.”
Something shifts in her expression, like she’s tucking my name away, committing it to memory.
“Graham,” she muses, her lips tilting up as her gaze glides downward, like she’s cataloging details.
Then she holds out her hand.
“I’m Francesca.”
The sound of the basement door slamming open jars me, the pulsing music spilling down the stairs like a discordant waterfall. My head jerks toward the noise, my hand slipping from hers. Francesca’s.
“Frankie!”
The shrill voice cuts through the din, footsteps pounding down the stairs with sharp, unapologetic urgency.
The woman appears before I’ve even registered her fully, but the resemblance is instant—undeniable.
Same height. Same delicate bone structure, the kind that breaks hearts with one look. Same honey-gold hair.
But that’s where the similarities end.
Where Francesca feels untamed—light catching in her hair, amusement curling at her lips, a sense that she belongs here simply because she decided to—this woman is the opposite.
She strolls into the room like it’s beneath her, nose high, eyes narrowed as she scans the space. Her gaze flicks over the worn couch, the half-empty bottles littering the coffee table, the scuffed-up floorboards like she’s mentally cataloging every offense.
She stops just short of us, arms crossing over her chest, lips pressing into a thin line.
“I’ve been looking for you.” She exhales, planting a hand on her hip, chin lifting just enough to be condescending. “Time to go. I gave you your hour, and now it’s done.”
Francesca shifts her weight, her smile gone. “ I’m fine , Florence.” She slides her gaze to mine, teeth raking across her bottom lip before she tips her chin toward the other woman. “My sister.”
I nod. “I figured.”
She exhales softly, like she’s about to say something else, but Florence doesn’t give her the chance.
Florence’s eyes flash. “Well, you’re about to be not fine when your fiancé finds out you’ve been cozying up to a baseball player in the basement.”
The words aren’t a threat, exactly. More like a warning. But I can’t even wade through that tone, my brain snagging on one specific word.
Fiancé.
She’s engaged?
My gaze drops to her hand before I can stop myself, searching for a ring. Her fingers are bare. No telltale glint of gold or diamonds. Nothing that screams I’m taken .
“What did you do, Florence?” It’s barely a whisper, an accusation laced with something I can’t quite name.
Florence holds Francesca’s stare, both eyebrows lifting deliberately. “Saving you from bad decisions.”
A beat of silence stretches between them.
Francesca’s shoulders pull back, her jaw tightening, but she doesn’t snap at her sister. Doesn’t argue. Instead, she tilts her head just slightly, gaze steady, like this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation.
Before either can break it, a phone rings, sharp and intrusive, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Francesca exhales, flashing me an apologetic smile as she reaches out, her fingers curling lightly around my forearm. My skin burns beneath her touch, and before I can stop myself, I flip my hand over, sliding my fingers along her pulse once more.
“It was nice to meet you, Graham.”
I incline my head toward her. “Francesca.” Her name feels heavier than it should on my tongue—a shape I want to get used to, a sound I want to hear again.
She tilts her head to the side, her hair sliding off her shoulder, the corners of her mouth curving down. “Good luck in your next game.”
I don’t blink. Don’t move. “Until we meet again.”
She lingers for half a second before Florence snaps her name. She sighs and lets go.
I watch her leave, feet rooted to the basement floor as she disappears up the stairs. The door closes behind her, muffling the party noise once more.
I exhale and glance down.
My hand opens, and in the center of my palm, her orange hair tie rests against my skin.
“Fuck,” I whisper.