Page 84 of The Fake Out

My heart clenched, but I locked an easy expression in place. “We’ll be going in two different directions in a few months.”

“Anything on a contract for next season?” he asked.

I shook my head, the ease slipping.

“Estúpidos dirigiendo el equipo,” my aunt muttered.

That was the issue, though. Every person I’d told had sworn that Beckett Langfield and Cortney Miller were idiots if they didn’t bring me back. But from my experience, that couldn’t be true. In the time I’d been with the Revs, the pair had never even come close to making a poor decision. If they didn’t bring me back, it was because I wasn’t bringing what they were looking for to the table. Not only did they recognize skill and potential in players, but Miller was very focused on team dynamic. He knew his shit, and that’s what cut even more harshly. I’d worked my ass off to be the teammate who could always be counted on, yet I was pretty certain either they didn’t see it or I’d been focusing on the wrong priorities.

The basement door opened, and Mama appeared, still dragging Gianna by the arm.

“And this is my favorite space. See this?” She pointed to the brick fireplace. “It works, and not on that dumb switch that people have now. My house smells like a wood fire all winter.”

I bit back a laugh. I wasn’t sure if that was something to brag about.

But Gianna’s smile was genuine, not amused. “I’m obsessed with working fireplaces. I’ve always wanted one.”

Every time she mentioned a detail like that, my brain adjusted the picture of her future I’d created. Automatically, a fire crackled in the fireplace of her dream house in my mind.

“Oh, whoa.” Gianna’s face went slack with shock as she stepped up to the painting on the wall in the corner.

“Oh, yes. That is such a lovely picture of Lang Field. It was a gift from Emerson.” My mother folded her hands at her waist and beamed.

With my heart in my throat, I watched Gianna, unsure of how she would take this. I’d gifted several of her paintings and drawings over the last couple of years, but I’d never told her I was doing it.

Gianna ran a finger along the frame, and my body tightened in anticipation. “Emerson gave it to you?”

“Mmm. Maybe a year ago?” My mom shrugged, oblivious to the significance. “He’s always obsessed with the most random things. Somewhere along the way, he decided this artist—I don’t know how to pronounce the name—Gano?” My mother frowned. “Anyway, he became fixated on this artist’s work. I can’t blame him, I suppose. The emotion in the painting is impressive.”

“The dynamic she created in the way she depicted the stadium,” I said, my voice hoarse. “How she portrays the loneliness of the person on the way, the person who’s looking in on the crowd. The way the loneliness is expressed in water. The ‘not quite in’ vibe.” I took a breath. “I feel that.”

“I just think it’s pretty.” Yevette shrugged, head tilted and eyes squinted like she was trying to see the deeper meaning but having no luck.

With an audible swallow, Gi dropped her hand from the frame.

She turned toward me, her eyes brimming with awe and acceptance and a sense of being seen. With amazement and surprise, maybe because her painting was prominently displayed in the home of someone she’d never met until today. Disbelief that my family could love the piece without knowing she’d created it. Gratitude for the moment she clearly hadn’t expected.

The relief that washed through me made me wobble. This moment was what I needed. A sign that she was open to the idea of sharing her work with the world. She just needed a push.

I closed the distance between us and brought my lips to her ear. “So fucking talented.”

Blinking hard, she tucked her face into my shoulder. Still flying high after her reaction, I wrapped her up and held her close. It felt so good, like this was where she belonged.

“Now that that’s done, we all pitch in to get ready for Bels’s party,” my mother announced, just as Andre returned.

“I have to help?” Isabella whined, her shoulders slumping dramatically.

“Of course you have to help. You’re the reason we’re doing this. You insisted everyone celebrate you.” Andre threw out the words almost too fast to catch.

She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I swear to God,” he said, “if you don’t help, I’m posting that video I took the other day and tagging you.”

“Uh, I look gross. You can’t do that.”

“Then help.”

“I hate you.” With that, she stomped away.

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