Frankie snorts. “Not for much longer. I’m going to list it next week, unless . . .”
“Unless?”
“Unless you guys want it?” she asks, looking back and forth between them, her eyes soft and warm.
“Us?” Bianca says, swallowing back the denial that she and Xavier won’t be buying anything together.
“I’m buying out the douchebag and I just need to cover his half of the mortgage. I’d love it if something good came from this entire mess.”
“Frankie, I can’t . . .”
“Bianca, you can. You’ve always loved this house. I half think I bought it because you were in New York at the time and it reminded me of you. Shane always hated it, thought it was too small.”
“It’s too much money.”
Even with the money her parents gave her, there’s no way she could afford a house in this neighborhood, let alone one as nice as Frankie’s.
“Look at it as an early wedding present and every present for the rest of our lives. You know how terrible I am at gifts. This way you’re really doingmethe favor.”
“I . . .”
“Think about all the colors you’ll be able to paint the walls, and the Spanish tile you’ll be able to put up for a kitchen backsplash and . . .”
“I . . . We . . . we’ll think about it.”
The drive to Dodger Stadium is a short one and made even easier when you can follow the team’s head of analytics into the reserved parking lot and in through the personnel entrance.
She’s sat up in this suite before, back when Frankie first got her promotion. It’s all the same as she remembers, painted Dodger blue, the walls lined with chafing dishes filled with complimentary food, and tables piled with bottles of anything and everything to drink.
“That fucking dick.”
“What?”
“Avery. I’m going to murder him.”
“Your catcher?”
“He’s going off game plan.”
“What?”
“We send a report down from analytics before every series and he’s supposed to be following it and he’snot.”
The Dodgers get out of the inning, the opposing batter swinging and missing on a pitch that darts down and away from him. The teams clear the field and the home team is headed up to bat, Avery leading off.
“Whatever he’s doing, it seems to be working,” Bianca says as she looks up at the scoreboard, where the Mets haven’t been able to push across even one run in three innings. And while the Dodgers haven’t either, they’ve threatened every time at bat.
“It’ll worknow, but give these guys another time through the lineup and Herrera’ll be toast and we’ll have to use guys in the bullpen we didn’t want to use today.”
Bianca shrugs. “I don’t know what any of that means, but it sounds bad.”
“It is bad and he’s gonna hear about it after the game.”
“I thought Charlie Avery was like . . . really good?”
Her question is punctuated by the announcer calling out to the crowd, “Now batting, number eight, Charlie Avery!” The fans lose their minds for the team’s best player.
Frankie huffs out a frustrated breath. “He is or at least hewas. Too fucking good for his own good. Thinks he knows better than everyone else.”
