Page 19 of The Fake Out

“See?” Wren hollered as she clapped loudly. “Told ya. He’s got to be close to leading the league. That man has moves.”

“Ones you’ve seen?” Avery teased.

Of their own accord, my shoulders went rigid. I had no claim on Emerson, but as I studied the tall, thin brunette, my hackles rose. Her straight, bluntly cut black hair just brushed her shoulders. Her almost jet-black eyes popped because of her very naturally applied makeup. High cheekbones, small nose, and deep red lips. She was willowy in a way I’d never have any hope of attaining, even if I lost fifty pounds. If she was Emerson’s type, then I definitely wasn’t.

And I wanted to smash something.

She whacked a hand lightly against Avery’s arm. “I do not sleep with Daddy Wilson’s boys. Unlike you, I follow his rule.”

My shoulders dropped slightly at the relief I didn’t want to feel in that statement.

Avery groaned. “Stop calling my father Daddy Wilson.”

Wren’s red lips pulled up in a smirk, and she tapped one long red nail against them. “But I do love to watch his boys play.”

Tom Wilson had his own box at the stadium. From the looks of it, it was for Avery, who attended just about every home game. Since Pop had moved to Boston, she’d made sure to include him too.

He was currently sitting outside the box in the open-air seats with Wren’s parents. From the way he chatted with them, it was clear the three of them did this a lot. Pop was as laid-back and casual as a guy could get, while Wren’s parents looked like they were headed to an upscale restaurant after the game.

At the crack of a bat, I zeroed in on the field again. The ball soared high into the sky, straight over the wall at left field, and into the water beyond.

The crowd erupted, the whole stadium alive and roaring.

“Mason’s bat is on fire,” Wren cheered as Avery screamed.

I tracked Emerson as he rounded third and headed for home. After crossing the plate, he turned back, and when Mason’s foot touched the white pentagon, both guys jumped into the air, crashing chests and laughing. Music pounded through the stadium so loudly the seats vibrated. The guys knocked cleats again and broke into an obviously planned dance. They shuffled to one side, their arms moving and their shoulders bouncing in sync, all the way to the dugout as “Shut up and Dance” blared around them.

The crowd was on their feet, bopping right along with them as they hammed it up.

“They’re cute, aren’t they?” Wren asked, zeroing in on me in my periphery.

Brows pulled together, I turned, eyeing her first, then Avery. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“I love when they do ‘Moves Like Jagger,’ although this is a close second.” Avery giggled.

“They have perfected it this season,” Wren added.

With a nod, Avery shook her empty beer bottle. “Anyone want another?”

We both declined, and as she wandered off, I couldn’t help but turn back to the field.

I’d watched this game my entire life, but suddenly, it all felt different. And I had no idea why.

A handful of Revs players poured out of the dugout and attacked both men with back slaps and giant hugs. The crowd cheered, but for one second, Emerson turned and looked up at us. Almost as if he could see me from way down there. What a silly impossibility. I’d mentioned I was coming today, but I hadn’t told him where I was sitting. Still, it felt like he was looking at me, so I lifted a hand and gave him a tiny wave.

He lifted his chin in response and flashed a smile.

My stomach flipped. Holy shit. He was looking at me.

“Emerson has never bothered to look this way before, but I swear that’s the fifth time he’s done it today.” Wren’s dark eyes ran over me—from the hair I spent forty minutes curling down to the strappy wedges on my feet—before she focused on my face. I braced for a snide comment about why Emerson would be looking at me. “He told me about your paintings.”

My spine went straight. That was the last thing I expected her to say. “What?”

Nodding, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “We were at a bar a few weeks ago. I asked him about the image on his phone’s lock screen. It’s an oil painting of the stadium from the water?”

My heart clenched. I’d painted it for Chris last year, and I’d been shocked to find it framed on the wall of his apartment. The bigger shock, though, came yesterday, when I discovered that Emerson was the one who framed it.

“He has a photo of my painting on his phone?” Quickly, I scanned the field, but he was gone.

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