Page 69 of Fair Catch
He rammed the chair into my heels, laughing when I yelped before I took over pushing him again.
“What about you? How’s the season going?” I asked him.
Gavin sighed, pointing at a painting in the next gallery. I rolled him over to it, acutely aware of Riley as we passed her, of how I caught the scent of her hair as she glanced at me over one shoulder.
“I don’t know, man. It’s… tough. I mean, just when I think I’ve got the hang of it, there’s a new challenge. And some of these teams we’re playing? These guys aren’t just good. They’re fucking good.” He gave me a look to communicate the difference, and then he shook his head, frowning. “It sounds insane when I say it out loud, but most of them have been in a chair all their lives, you know? They’re more polished than I am. Not that I wish for anything different, it’s just…”
“It’s a strange situation to be in.”
He nodded. “Yeah. And I’m thankful I have this at all, but sometimes…” He swallowed, both of us pretending to read the plaque beside the painting we viewed now. “Sometimes, I’m just sad. And I miss football. And I don’t want to look at everything I have to be thankful for. I want to think about everything I’ve lost.”
My throat tightened so fiercely I couldn’t suck down another breath, not even when Gavin turned to look up at me and slugged me in the arm.
“Hey, don’t do that,” he said, and he didn’t even have to specify what that was. “It’s in the past. I’m allowed to be sad sometimes without it meaning I have any ill will toward you.”
I nodded, but couldn’t erase the frown bending my brows, or the guilt permeating my chest.
“She’s such a geek at these places,” Gavin said, the strange outburst stirring me from my thoughts. I followed his gaze to where Riley stood admiring a small, dark painting.
One arm folded across the middle of her rib cage while the elbow of the opposite balanced in the crook, her fingertips softly hovering over her parted lips. Her eyes were wide and glossed, crawling slowly over the canvas like she couldn’t possibly see all the artist had to offer even if she stared forever.
To me, she was the art more than the portrait that held her attention.
“Oh, shit,” Gavin breathed, elbowing me in the thigh. He nodded toward a blonde girl that had just walked into the gallery we were in. “That’s her. That’s the girl from my Psych class.”
The way he swallowed after that statement made me arch a brow. Before I could question his obvious nerves, he murmured that he’d be back, and he rolled straight toward her.
I tucked my hands in my pockets, smiling as I watched the girl flush a little when he approached her. He said something that made her laugh, and then she tucked her hair behind one ear, answering whatever question he’d asked.
Riley was still standing in front of the dark little painting.
Clearing my throat, I ambled over to her, keeping my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t reach out for her by force of habit.
“Artist in His Studio,” I read from the plaque beside the painting.
Riley jumped a bit, like she’d been lost in her own world and just realized she was in a museum full of people again. She flushed, peeking up at me before she pointed at the corner of the painting, careful not to get too close.
“See how he chose to focus on the easel here, on the cracks in the floorboard of the studio and the lighting, rather than on the artist himself?”
I let my eyes wander the length of the painting as she spoke, nodding. “I do.”
“It’s such a small painting, likely one that hundreds, or even thousands, of people walk by without looking twice at every single day,” she said, her voice soft and laced with awe. She shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “But it’s brilliant. The drama, the lighting, the way he captured something seemingly unremarkable in a delicate, interesting way. It’s Rembrandt’s message that art isn’t just technical, but… intellectual. It’s more than just paint on a canvas. It’s a dream, a vision, a moment brought to life.”
I smiled, but I was no longer looking at the painting. I was looking at Riley looking at the painting, at how her eyes glossed over yet again, brimming with unshed tears.
“It makes you sad,” I said.
“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head. But then, she rolled her lips together and nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. I… There’s no reason for it to have conjured this feeling in me, but when I look at it, I… I think about football.”
I almost laughed, except that the way she wore heartbreak like a mask in that moment kept me from it. “How so?”
