Page 109 of The Fake Out

Wiping at my eyes, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Beckett slammed his hand on the desk and stood. “I told you,” he snapped over his shoulder. “First of all, I was right about Damiano’s sister and this one.” With a finger jabbed at me, he turned back to Miller. “And second, I told you they would all freak out about his contract.”

Cortney sighed. “Okay. It pains me to say it, but you were right.”

“As always.” Beckett smirked. “For the record,” he said, raising his voice, “we’re all glad you love Emerson. But Man Bun and I have been working all season to free up the money to give our third baseman the contract he deserves.”

Cortney stepped past Hannah and the guys and towered over me. With a pat to my shoulder, he said, “Your agent will have it next week at the latest.”

I froze. “Really?”

He nodded. He might have been our general manager, and what I was doing was probably anything but professional, but I couldn’t help myself. I jumped up and squeezed him tight. He staggered back and banged into the desk, but kept us upright.

“And look, I created another happy ending.” Beckett dropped into his chair with a smirk.

Cortney extricated himself and gently pushed me away. “Don’t even start.”

I ignored their bickering. I was too busy floating on cloud nine. Never in my life had I been so happy. Now that I had both my girl and my team, life was perfect.

The entire street was front stoops and wide sidewalks. A long line of stone steps and wrought-iron railings. Brick buildings and trees.

A dog barked at the far end, and Beckett Langfield bellowed, “Deogi, get back here!”

“Bossman,” came a little voice, “he’s just chasing Junior because she stole the trash lid again.”

A smile pulled at my lips. I loved my street. The guys on the team thought it was nuts of me to buy a house two doors down from the momcom. But no one could ever claim my street was boring.

The crisp fall air blew, rattling the trees, and a few leaves drifted down onto the stones.

I trotted past the line of pumpkins along the stoop and opened the door on the left.

We’d only moved into the brownstone a week ago, but it was already feeling like home.

The first week of August, my agent called me about the deal the Revs had sent over. I had been blown away by the number of zeros on the five-year contract. But it opened the door for me to purchase Gi’s dream house.

Not that she needed my money. In the three months since her show, she’d been offered a contract with the Revs to design their new city jerseys, and she’d sold two more paintings. And although she could have afforded to take care of herself, I loved spoiling her.

Since it was just the two of us for the foreseeable future, we didn’t need all four floors of a traditional brownstone, but we’d found one that had been split into two homes. So we had enough space with the three-bedroom brownstone to give her an art studio and still have a guest room for my mom.

I climbed the steps to the second floor and pushed the door open.

Some kind of angry girl music was blasting. Something about ruling the world.

Gianna was standing at the stove, stirring what smelled like stir-fry.

The white cabinets and subway tile brightened up the dark wide-board floors and moldings.

I stood in the doorway, watching her silently for a minute, enjoying the way she rocked her hips to the beat. The loud crackling pop from the fireplace made her jump, and that, in turn, made me chuckle.

Alerted to my presence, she turned and gifted me with the welcome home smile I loved.

“You got home fast.”

The flight had only landed thirty minutes ago, but I hadn’t stopped at Lang Field today. If I had, Kyle would have totally tried to drag me out to a bar for a celebration drink.

The entire team was stoked that we’d officially come home the east conference champs and were heading to the national league championship for the first time in almost twenty years.

Game one was tomorrow at home, and I had big plans.

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