Page 45 of Hometown Halftime

That’s not dinner.

KINSEY:

It was the closest thing within reach.

RILEY:

You need an actual meal.

Another silence. I picture her in bed, arms crossed, refusing to be taken care of even though she clearly needs it.

Then my phone lights up with an incoming call. She’s calling me. Shit.

I clear my throat and answer as calmly as I can. “Hey.”

Her voice comes through low, and tired. “Before you start lecturing me—Triscuits can be a meal.”

“No.” I chuckle. “They can’t.”

“They’re whole grain,” she argues.

“Sounds like the perfect snack, but that doesn’t make them dinner.”

A soft, irritated exhale comes through the line. “Riley, I’m fine.”

“You said that yesterday,” I remind her. “And then you nearly dropped to your knees in the middle of practice.”

A beat of silence. I’ve probably hit a nerve, but I don’t back down.

Finally, she mutters, “You don’t have to check in on me.”

“Can’t help it.”

There’s a rough exhale on the other end. I imagine her debating whether to hang up. Then she pivots—as Kinsey always does—into deflection.

“You’re pushy,” she says.

“And you’re stubborn.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who scolded me about my dinner choices.”

“I’ll stop when they improve.”

Another quiet second. Then she sighs, a tiny crack in her armor. “I don’t have groceries.”

“I can bring you food.”

“No,” she asserts. “Absolutely not. I can get stuff delivered. I’m not helpless.”

“I never said you were.”

“You implied it,” she counters.

She goes silent again, long enough that I almost think she actually did hang up this time.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope,” I keep my voice soft, “I’m not.”