Page 20 of The Fake Out

“He said something about how the water spoke to him.”

I swallowed back the emotion welling up inside me at that thoughtful statement. I remembered feeling that way when I saw one of my mother’s paintings. Wildflowers. Nothing crazy. Still, something in the way they blew so freely in the breeze called to me. The canvas was still with my dad, hanging above his bed. But the feeling of being captivated by the emotion of the painting was something that had stayed with me.

My mother had always said the mark of a true artist was creating strong feelings in the people viewing the work. Good or bad, it didn’t matter. It was the ability to evoke the emotion that was so special. I had come home from second grade crying that someone had called my painting from art gross and told me they never hated something more. But my mother insisted we have a celebration for me that night because my work had spoken so deeply to someone.

“Avery told us you were a graphic designer. I didn’t realize you painted too.”

I was jarred back to the moment by the question. “It’s just a hobby.” Shrugging, I nervously twirled my hair. Wren worked with well-known art and artists. The Boston Auction House sold paintings worth thousands, even millions. I painted for the enjoyment, not to make money.

With a slow nod, she snagged her purse from beneath her seat. Then she pulled out a white card and held it out to me.

I cocked my head, confused, but took it from her anyway. Her name was embossed in gold in the center of the thick cardstock. Beneath it, her title, assistant acquisitions manager, was printed. I looked back up and scrutinized her, unsure of what to make of it.

“I help a lot of people sell their hobbies. If you ever find yourself interested in the idea, call me.”

A tiny part of my heart soared. How cool would it be to say I’d sold a painting? Especially through the Boston Auction House.

When I quit styling and went back to school, my dream had been to work in graphic design so I could pay the bills and still have time to work with oils and canvas. Maybe start selling them at fairs or to small shops. One professor had encouraged me to do something with my art. But at the time, my boyfriend, Ron, had sneered and scoffed at the idea that I’d ever expect to make money off my silly paintings. I’d given Jake a painting of the New York skyline for Christmas, and he’d kept it in the back of the closet. And then, somewhere along the way, I’d decided that my hobby wasn’t something more than a method I used to relax myself. The thought of trying to sell my work and discover no one was interested? Or having Chris and Pop be the only ones to bid on it? It terrified me. Any time I thought about it, I was filled with an intense feeling of dread.

I cleared my throat, slowly shaking my head. “I don’t think so.”

With a hand on my forearm, she gave me a warm smile. “Keep the card. You might change your mind.”

I slipped it into my pocket, but I very much doubted I would.

After Mason’s home run during the fourth inning put us in the lead, we stayed that way. And although it was a win, we lost Mason in the middle of the game, which put a damper on all our moods. He made an amazing flying catch that saved the lead, but he fell on the way down and knocked himself out. So after the game, we all headed down the tunnel, trying not to stress about our teammate who was at the hospital being checked out.

That was what I should have been focused on. Mason and his injury. Instead, all I could think about was long hair, brown eyes, and gorgeous curves. Because all game long, I was looking up to the box where I knew Gi would be.

Pop and Avery had come to most home games this year. I knew where they sat, and there was no doubt in my mind that Gi would be with them. I hadn’t meant to focus on her, but time after time, my attention shifted up to the box.

As if controlled by an invisible force, I couldn’t stop myself. She felt it too. I wasn’t dumb. At this point in my life, I knew when a woman was attracted to me. I heard the quick intakes of breath, saw the way her focus dropped to my mouth before she caught herself. I’d even seen her pulse pound against the smooth skin of her neck.

Restraining myself around her was torture. One I had little experience with. Being young and single, I rarely had to avoid attraction. If it was there, then I acted on it. This situation was causing my hyper-focus, which normally only existed on the field, to kick in. I wanted to think about anything—anyone—else. But my thoughts constantly drifted to the swell of her hips. The fullness of her thighs. The soft mounds of her breasts. Her plush pink lips. Even the way the skin pulled across her cheekbones.

God, I was becoming obsessed.

But a fling with Gianna would muck everything up. From the dawn of baseball, drama fucked with a team dynamic more than any other issue. I’d seen it over the years, teammates fighting over a chick. Guys vying for a position. Or the same salary. I’d gone out of my way to avoid falling into those kinds of traps and instead focused on being grateful just to be on the team and be part of the group.

But as I stood in front of my locker, cracking my knuckles, I was thinking about the best ways to make my best friend’s sister smile. About the way her teeth would press lightly into her bottom lip as she shifted closer to me.

Shit. I dropped my head back. I needed to stop.

A hand landed on my shoulder, startling me.

Twisting, I huffed a breath.

“Looks like you might get lucky and get a room to yourself for the entire five-day trip,” Bosco joked.

Mason and I were typically roommates on the road, but Bosco was probably the guy’s best friend. And in his normal way of deflecting his concern, Bosco joked around.

“Don’t be a dick, Streaks.” Eddie Martinez, our shortstop, shook his head. “A reporter might hear you and print God knows what about you being an insensitive prick.”

“He’s just making margaritas out of the lemons that life is tossing our way,” I said, smiling at the guys.

“Lemonade,” Bosco corrected, dropping his head and giving it a shake.

I shrugged. “I didn’t think you drank that shit, but sure, if that’s what you want.”

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