Page 15 of The Fake Out

Emerson shifted on his bare feet and pressed his hands together in front of him. The pop of his knuckles as they cracked filled the silence around us.

“Emerson?”

Finally glancing my way, he sighed. “I’m the oldest of four. My mom’s time was stretched thin, and I didn’t need her to protect me. She had other people to worry about.”

His focus drifted over my shoulder, like he couldn’t look at me and say the next words.

“I was seventeen when I moved to triple-A. They treated me like a goofball kid, teased me endlessly. So I leaned into it. Made a point to make them laugh so that they didn’t hate me.”

My heart ached at the words and the hint of sadness in his usually jovial tone. “What?”

“Gianna.” He finally met my gaze, his normally bright green eyes tinged with brown looking almost muddied and hollow. “I was a kid, on a team full of men. I had no friends and barely any life skills. But I made sure they’d never have to go out of their way to do shit for me. The last thing I wanted was for them to resent me, so I stayed out of the way.”

Dammit. It killed me to see that pitying look in her eyes. Like she thought I was pathetic.

Shifting on my feet, I dropped my focus to the floor between us and cracked my knuckles again.

The truth was that, until I was twenty and Chris joined the team, I didn’t have a single friend. I was just the stupid kid who was fast as hell. I played shortstop at that point, and nothing got past me. I led triple-A in steals for three seasons. Even then, I ran a faster forty than most of the guys in the majors. None of that made me friends. At seventeen, I didn’t know shit about anything. I played with twenty-five years old who were jealous of my speed and spent their free time in bars I couldn’t get into. Who had girlfriends and one-night stands and affairs.

At that point, I’d only ever kissed two girls. I was immature and naïve and not suited for life with the big boys. I made bad jokes and tripped over my own feet when I wasn’t on the field.

Though being so out of my element at seventeen had made me who I was now at twenty-six. I’d never fit in, and now, I didn’t try to. But I clung to the solid friendships I’d made during my time with the Revs. The guys I played with, especially Chris, were more like family than teammates.

So regardless of how adorable Gi looked with paint on her fingers and shirt and the yellow streak on her cheek, I’d stay away. Even though my heart had skipped when she jumped to my defense, the last thing I wanted to do was piss her brother off. Even if parts of me, especially the parts below the waistband of my gym shorts, wanted to.

But with one last long look at the woman whose brown eyes were narrowed in confusion, I shrugged, playing off the depth of this conversation. “Anyway, I find you catch more flies with honey.”

“Bees,” she corrected.

“What?”

“It’s bees. You catch more bees with honey than you do with vinegar. My father’s been telling me that my entire life.”

I chuckled. My mom was the queen of getting the expression wrong. And I’d admit I did sometimes too, but this time, I was pretty sure it was Gi who was wrong. But the woman was known to be stubborn, and I didn’t want a fight. “Well, seeing as I’m allergic to the bees, I’ll leave those for you and Pop,” I joked. “I’m starving. Feeling a grilled cheese?”

She blinked at me in response.

When she didn’t answer the question, I cleared my throat and headed for the kitchen. “How about this? I’ll make a few, and if you feel up to one, you can have it.” Bending at the waist, I pulled out the flat pan. “And since I totally messed up your night, I’ll be quiet and let you get back to your masterpiece.”

She shot me a withering look, her lips pursed and her dark eyes hard. “No need for sarcasm.”

“Trust me, that wasn’t sarcasm. Your work is damn good, Gi,” I assured her, rummaging in the fridge for cheese. I dug out the cheddar, gouda, and pepper jack. The combination was perfect and gave the sandwich just a bit of a kick.

When I glanced back up, she was still standing in the center of the room, glaring at me.

Head tilted, I assessed her. “What?”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious.” She crossed her arms, and even in the damn oversized T-shirt, I could clearly see the outlines of her full breasts.

For a heartbeat, my eyes lingered on the lace I could just make out through the white fabric. But with a mental kick in the pants, I spun away and ran a hand down my face.

“I’m dead serious.” Instead of heating the pan, I went back to the fridge for a beer. Damn, did I need a drink. I pulled out two and held them both up. “Preference?”

She frowned at the Bud Light, then the Sam Adams lager. She grabbed the lager and went for the drawer where we kept the bottle opener. I couldn’t blame her for her choice. Bud Light kinda sucked. But it fit into my meal plans during the season a little more easily, so it worked out in the end. I cracked mine and took a pull.

“Are you the one who frames them?” she asked.

Though the question could have been viewed as cryptic, I didn’t have to ask her to elaborate. We had three of her oil paintings hanging around the apartment.

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