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“Your ‘friend,’ huh?” Frankie arches an eyebrow and throws me a sidelong, disbelieving glance. “How did you two become ‘friends’?”
“Yoga has a way of bonding people.”
Frankie whips her head my way. “Did you say yoga?”
“Yep,” I tell her, still watching Ziggy, who passes the ball to her teammate, then turns and does some high knees. I weigh my words, trying to figure out how to avoid the truth without telling Frankie a lie, either. “We bumped into each other at your wedding and talked. Then we…connected over angry yoga.”
“‘Angry yoga,’” she repeats skeptically. “What even is that?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. For how much you love yoga and for how pissed you’ve been with me basically since I signed with you, I’d have bet you found it years ago.”
Frankie grips her cane, drumming her fingers on it. “I haven’t been pissed at you, Seb.” She peers back out at the field, her expression serious. “I’ve been disappointed.”
That word hits me hard. It would have felt less terrible if she’d slapped me.
I’ve been disappointed.
I’m so familiar with that phrase, all the ways I’ve “disappointed” people—my stepdad, my mother, my teachers and coaches—when I was angry, acting out, frustrated, desperate for some kind of release and relief from everything bottled up inside me. I got so tired of trying to be good, only to lose it, then disappoint people, I stopped trying at all. Then, when I figured out disappointing people—particularly my dad and stepdad—gave me power over them, there was no going back.
“Well,” I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “That’s even worse.”
Her mouth tips up at the corner. “I know. But it’s true. Sometimes, yes, I’m angry with you. But most of the time, I just feel really fucking sad that you have this incredible gift, a name and legacy you’re building and…this is what you do with it. Hurt yourself. Hurt other people. I want better for you.” She shrugs, adjusting her glasses so they’re tighter against her eyes. “Because I care about you.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “You do?”
“Yes, you ass.” She pokes my toe gently with her cane. “Eyes on the field. Your friend’s spotted you.”
My head snaps toward the field the second I process that, my heart tripping in my chest. Ziggy stands near the sidelines, hands on her hips, smiling at me.
The sun bursts through the clouds right then, spilling down on her, turning her hair to scarlet fire, casting a golden sheen across the top of her head, just like a halo.
I sigh heavily.
Her smile deepens, before her gaze finally darts to Frankie, who she waves to and blows a two-handed kiss, before turning and running back onto the field, where her teammates have circled up.
“So.” Frankie slants me another glance. “This…angry yoga. Talk to me about it.”
I clear my throat, tearing my gaze away from Ziggy. “It’s a practice that makes space for processing repressed and difficult emotions. I’m using it to handle my shit in a more constructive manner than mindless benders and reckless behavior. Ziggy…she’s got to let herself feel that shit in the first place, and it helps her do that. It’s good. For both of us.”
Frankie lifts her eyebrows. “Well. That sounds…healthy. And…platonic, I suppose.”
I rub my knuckles across my mouth, remembering our first angry yoga, what it felt like to hold Ziggy, someone I realized in that moment I cared about, without relying on flippant seduction to deflect or diffuse it. It didn’t feel like anything I’ve shared with someone before, friend or otherwise. It felt new and rare and…bewildering. But good. Very, very good.
And then I think about the past two angry yogas we’ve done, her colorful Swedish curse words, the way she challenged me to do more chaturangas than her when Yuval had their eyes shut and couldn’t give us shit for breaking the sequence of their yoga flow. How she made a goofy-ass face when Yuval gave us a hard-as-hell pose that made Ziggy’s back audibly crack.
I smile against my knuckles, my gaze fixed on her.
“Friends,” Frankie muses, watching Ziggy on the field, her fingers drumming on her cane.
Ziggy is my friend. In just a couple weeks’ time, we’ve experienced and shared more at an emotional level than I have with anyone, even Ren. She’s seen me looking like hell and feeling like hell. She’s helped me reach with both hands for a better future. We’ve grocery shopped, done yoga, shared hugs and meals and milkshakes. We’ve bickered and talked. Whether that’s a good friendship or that’s simply Ziggy’s goodness imbuing our friendship, I know it’s nothing I’ve ever known before. I know it’s good—no, the best—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
“Yeah,” I tell Frankie. “We’re friends.”
Frankie’s quiet for a moment, staring at me even as Ren settles into his seat on her other side and reaches past her, squeezing my shoulder in greeting. I nod his way but hold Frankie’s eyes in a silent stare off behind our glasses.
“For some asinine reason,” she mutters, “and against my better judgment, I actually think I believe you.”
I hold her eyes. “If you believe anything, believe this: I have nothing but her best interests at heart.”
