Page 78 of The Fake Out

And Emerson was more than worth it.

“I’m not sure I get it.” Mila frowned over her shoulder as we lined up to go through security.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel the need to justify what I was doing, so I answered her with a simple shrug.

We were barely through the metal detectors when someone called my name from several feet away.

I turned in that direction and was met by a tiny woman headed our way.

Her long black hair was twisted into a braid that hung over her thin shoulder. Her collared shirtdress was all black, with a small white Revs logo over her right breast that matched the white Nikes on her feet. The woman barely came up to my shoulder, but she carried herself with confidence, shoulders back and head high, as she made her way to me. A ray of light caught on the silver and diamond watch on her wrist as she held up her hand. Between that, the diamond around her neck, the studs in her ears, and the massive rock on her finger, she was a walking jewelry store.

“Zara Price.” Beneath her dark Bulla sunglasses, her lips lifted into a smile that showed off straight white teeth that glowed as brightly as all her diamonds.

“Gianna. And this is my friend Mila.” I nodded at my bestie.

Zara released my hand and then shook Mila’s. “Nice to meet you both.”

The Prices had gotten a box suite at the field and had invited Emerson’s family, as well as Mila and me, to sit with them.

“Emerson mentioned you were heading in through this gate, so I figured it would be easier to grab you here. The layout of this bloody ballpark is ridiculously convoluted,” she said in a light British accent.

Zara wasn’t kidding. She led us through a maze of escalators and corridors that I never could have navigated on my own before we finally got to suite 311.

A man in all black stood on either side of the door. Entrance into boxes was monitored, sure, but I’d never seen this level of security at a baseball game.

“Don’t mind the suits. They’re here with our friends.” She pushed the door open and lifted her glasses to the top of her head. “Do you know the Matthewses or the Demodas?”

I didn’t, but I quickly met the wives of the Metros player and coach. Two more tiny women. One was dressed in cutoffs and a Metros tank top and the other in a green Metros fitted T-shirt dress. All three women fit the stereotypical look of a professional athlete’s wife. Tiny, pretty, and confident. And aggressive in their support of their husband’s team.

I glanced down at my own clothes. I’d gone for jeans and a blue T-shirt—without a Revs logo—clearly nowhere near as supportive as the other women. I had wanted to wear the dress I’d made, but I couldn’t. There was little chance I’d see any of the guys on the team, but if I did, they’d ask why I was wearing Emerson’s number. There was also the issue of me spending the day with Emerson’s family. I wasn’t sure exactly what he’d told them, and I had zero interest in fielding questions regarding our situationship.

Zara had barely dropped into the chair before she popped up, phone in hand. “Mama Knight is here. I’ll grab them too. Be right back.”

The woman was probably so thin because she never stopped moving.

“Either of you want a drink?” the blond Zara had introduced as Beth asked.

“I’d love a water for now,” I said.

Taran, the dark-haired woman with a southern accent, hopped up and grabbed one for each of us from a refrigerator in the kitchen area of the suite.

“So,” Taran said, her drawl faint, “what do you all do?” Her eyes were bright and full of curiosity as she settled on her stool again.

“I’m an art teacher.” Mila picked nervously at the water bottle, probably as intimidated by these two well-dressed, confident women as I was.

“Really?” Taran perked up, sitting high on her stool. “Have you heard of School First?”

Mila nodded. “Oh, I adore the organization.”

The woman’s smile split her face. “I work for them.”

Right in front of me, Mila’s nerves melted away, and the two dove into a conversation about getting more art programs into schools. As I listened silently, the Boston Revs’ blue jerseys appeared in my periphery, so I stepped away from the table so I could get a good look at the field.

Emerson and Eddie Martinez lined up and took off, doing sprints along the grass. Eddie was the only guy on the team who had any chance of competing with Emerson for speed. But even he couldn’t beat the third baseman. Emerson very dramatically glanced at his watch when Martinez stopped next to him. The shortstop flicked Emerson’s hat off, and they both laughed.

I wouldn’t get to see Emerson today. He knew I was here, and his family would head down to see him after the game, but I couldn’t go down. Chris and Pop knew I was in New York, but I let them believe I was here to visit Mila and to hunt for apartments only. I had no reasonable excuse to be at today’s game. Though this wasn’t the first Metros game I attended in my life, it was the first I’d come to totally voluntarily. And yeah, they’d ask far too many questions if they knew I was here.

“Gianna Damiano.”

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