“She was at the funeral.”

I frown more. My dad’s funeral. One of the most vivid memories I have, but also one of the biggest blurs. I can barely remember a quarter of the family I met that day.

“She was only seven at the time,” my mom adds.

Seven?

Mental math…that’d make Frog nineteen now. I assume she’s been in Queens with the rest of the family.

“Okay…?” Where is this going, Mom? She’s slowly leading me somewhere, and I have a feeling she knows I won’t like the destination.

“She’s Uncle Prin’s daughter.”

Uncle Prin.

Our dads were brothers. “She’s Uncle Prin’s daughter?” I repeat.

“Yes. After the divorce, she moved to Buffalo to live with her mom.”

Her parents divorced? The way my mom says it, it sounds like I should know this already. Like it’s ancient history.

My mind whirls. Before I was even born, my dad moved away from New York for his job. I lived my life in Philly because that’s where my dad wanted me to grow up. He talked about his brother Prin sometimes, but I didn’t see them much, and I always thought that’s what my dad wanted.

My mom continues on, “Frog was having a rough time in Buffalo. Getting into all kinds of trouble, so I invited her to Queens to stay with some family here. But…this place isn’t good for her, Nine. She needs a fresh start. Structure. I think you can give her that.”

Me?

I close my eyes. “Mom.”

“Just listen,” she pleads like she knows what I’m going to say. “Uncle Prin will send her down with money for rent and food just to get started before she can get on her own feet. All she needs is a job and family.”

I’m family.

But I don’t even know her.

“She’s nineteen?”

“Eighteen.”

Effing hell.

“I don’t have work for her,” I say the truth. “My gym is fully staffed.”

“What about security?”

“Security?” I say in shock. “Mom. What skills does Frog have to work in security?” I realize I’m judging harshly. I really don’t know anything about my cousin. Quickly, I ask, “Is she a Muay Thai fighter like you?”

“Well…no,” she says. “But I can train her for a month before sending her down. Maybe she can be a backup bodyguard.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We don’t have backup bodyguards, Mom.”

“There has to be a position she can fill,” my mom says, almost breathless. Desperation is clear in her voice. “She’s family, Nine.”

I don’t understand why this matters so much.

I’m quiet.

She fills the silence with a short sigh. “I haven’t asked you for anything over the years. Have I?”

“No.”

My heart clenches. I wish you did. Maybe then it would have felt like she cared.

She’s asking now, Nine. I hear my dad’s voice in my head.

Shit.

I stare out at the city lights. “This isn’t an April Fools’ joke?”

“No,” she almost laughs. “It’s definitely not a joke.”

Okay.

I take a breath. “Temp bodyguards mostly just stand around and control crowds. There’s some desk work involved sometimes. Going through mail.” I can practically feel my mom’s excitement on the other end. “It might work. But it’ll be a probationary thing. And I’ll probably need you to train her for a month before she gets out here. Teach her some basic defense moves. Thank you for offering that.” Because there’s absolutely no way Frog will pass Michael Moretti’s temp training.

I’m going to have to get Oscar Oliveira to train my cousin for the temp job instead.

A job she’s not qualified for.

“Thank you, Nine,” my mom breathes.

I just nod, but she can’t see. My throat swells. I don’t know what I’m jumping into. I don’t even ask what “trouble” Frog got into in New York.

All I know is that I’m doing this.

There’s no turning back now.

Welcome to Philly, Frog.

After I hang up, I walk back to the fire, back to them, and I say, “You won’t believe this.”

26

SULLIVAN MEADOWS

NOW

“You won silver in the 200m free yesterday. Losing to your teammate Frankie Hansen. How are you feeling after those results?” the news reporter asks politely.

Normally, I’d refuse the interview but the higher-ups on the U.S. Olympic Committee practically begged me to at least give GBA News five solid minutes. GBA promised not to drudge up my personal life and keep the topics strictly about swimming.

So far so good.

I’m outside in a pop-up studio, located on a hotel rooftop in L.A. The sky is clear. Sun is beaming, but nothing is hotter and brighter than the interview lights bearing down on me and the reporter. Sweat has built up under my pits, and I try not to shift in the uncomfortable seat, which resembles a director’s chair.

On a small table between our chairs, a few magazines are stacked up. The top one is a popular sports magazine. My face on the cover. Both fingers to my lips as I stare up at the scoreboard during Team Trials. The headline: Meadows Advances to the Olympics. People always refer to that look as my iconic concentration face, but I usually can’t even fucking remember doing it until it’s in print or online somewhere.

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