22. Gianna

The elevator ride up was almost too quick. These high-rises in Boston all had elevators that moved at warp speed so that twenty floors went in a blink. I'd been tortured for details all through breakfast with my friends, and although I'd given them a few, I'd kept them vague. Neither of them believed I could do one night. And I spent most of the meal claiming I wasn't attached to the guy. Lying through my teeth was exhausting.

Right now, the only thing I wanted to do was crawl back into bed, but I'd promised Pop that I'd pick him up and take him to Chris's game.

"Pop." I smiled at my dad, who answered the door wearing jeans and a pin-striped jersey with the number 35 on the back. Ever since his heart attack, the relief I felt just seeing him was intense.

"Heard last night went great. Proud of you, girlie." He smiled at me. "I saw a ton of pictures."

Pictures? I hadn't sent him a single one. Hell, I'd barely taken any. And I couldn't see Chris doing it.

"Avery sent me a few, and Emerson sent about fifty."

Fifty? I forced myself to not react, but holy hell. I knew he'd taken several, but I assumed he was just sending them to his mom.

"You're the spitting image of your mother." My dad patted my shoulder. "But yeah, Emerson's been the one keeping me in the loop for years. When Chris has a good game or when he snaps a good one of him and some fans. Even photos of the places they travel." Pop shrugged. "He says his mom insists on not missing out, so he figures I shouldn't have to either. Nice kid."

I swallowed, because he was definitely nice, but I wouldn't call him a kid. He was all man. That single thought pulled me back into memories of the way his hands had run over me. How he'd used his tongue to make me see stars.

Heat crept into my cheeks, and I shifted, taking in Dad's apartment and avoiding his gaze.

"Why's the cat got your tongue today?" My father cocked his head to the side, the move causing the light to play off the grays that were getting more and more prevalent in his normally dark hair.

"I'm fine." I frowned.

His responding smirk was full of mirth. "There's my little ray of storm clouds."

On instinct, I lifted a hand, ready to whack his arm the way I had for years, but I froze and clutched it to my chest instead. At this point, I was certain that the memory of finding him passed out of the floor wouldn't ever leave me completely.

He sighed. "Gianna, I am getting stronger every day. I won't break. I'm even in my own apartment now."

A small one-bedroom that allowed him the option of making meals or eating in a group dining room.

"And in another month or two, I'll be able to leave the rehab facility completely and be back on my own."

"I know. And it's good." But it wouldn't erase the way it had felt to be so close to losing him.

Chris had been asking about apartments in Avery's building. He was hoping he and Avery could get one of the bigger apartments and Pop could take over Avery's one-bedroom. I wasn't sure whether Dad knew my brother was planning for them to be neighbors, but I didn't blame my brother for wanting him close by. Especially since money wasn't an issue. Chris had more than enough to put Pop up anywhere, and he was too stubborn and overprotective to take no for an answer. If I were in his shoes, I'd do the same.

"Are we standing here all day or moving?" He herded me out into the hall and to the elevator.

His movements were so much more fluid than they'd been even a few weeks ago. What would have taken us an hour a month ago—because he'd need breaks—was now an easy walk.

It took us almost no time to get over to the stadium, and with my dad's handicap parking pass, we were settled in the box with plenty of time to spare before the game was scheduled to start.

"Hey, Pop!" Avery chirped from across the open space. "Ready to kick some Trident butt?"

Beside her, Wren shook her head. "Ass, Avery. We kick ass."

Avery huffed at her best friend. "It feels weird to say that to a parent."

Wren snickered, bringing her glass of wine to her lips, but Avery stood up and all but skipped toward us. She gave Pop a quick hug.

"How are my great grandkids doing?"

Avery's entire face brightened at Pop's mention of Puff's soon-to-be babies. "We're seeing real movement, so the eggs will be hatching soon. Have you watched the feed?"

Avery had set up a live stream so Pop could keep tabs on the hatchlings.

"I check it all the time. I can't wait to see the little guys."

Puffette, Puff's mate—my brother's name choices; clearly, his creative talent was limited—had laid three eggs.

"I'm crossing my fingers for tonight, otherwise, it will probably happen while Chris is gone."

My dad shot me a quick look and frowned but schooled his features quickly and turned back to Avery.

Chris was stressed about it, although he was trying to keep that from Avery. He'd been planning to propose and wanted to do it when Puff's pufflings hatched. It was nuts to me that he was counting on a bird, and it was so unlike him to create a plan where he had no control over the timing. But he was almost as obsessed with his bird as he was with his soon-to-be fiancée.

"Dad's outside if you want to go bake in the sun with him," Wren called.

"Where's your mother?" Pop asked.

"She flew out to see Lottie," Wren said, referring to her sister. "My niece has a dance competition, so she's helping with the baby."

"Aw, grandkids." My dad smiled. "I can't wait to have more of those."

"Hopefully you mean the feathered ones," I muttered.

As much as my brother was all about making Avery his wife, I wasn't sure he was ready for kids. And my father understood already that I wasn't anywhere close to that point. I'd wasted the first four years after high school being afraid to do what I truly wanted, so even though I was thirty, I wanted more me time before kids. Maybe that was selfish, but wasn't it better than having kids I didn't feel ready for?

"I'll take feathered, scaled, furred, or haired. I'm not picky. More love is never bad." Patting me roughly on the shoulder, Pop moved down the stairs toward the glass door that led to the open-air seats.

"So, is the rumor true?" Wren rubbed her hands together and waggled a brow.

My spine snapped straight at the insinuation. Rumors about Emerson and me couldn't already be flying, could they? I darted a glance at Avery as my heart beat unevenly in my chest.

She shrugged at Wren. "I told you they looked super cute and coupley at the zoo."

Oh shit. Did we? My stomach flipped at the idea. Though I supposed we were pretending to be. But was it all really pretend? I swallowed as visions of last night flooded my mind. There was nothing about the connection Emerson and I had that wasn't real. From the way he kissed me to the look in his eye from across the room. I didn't want it to be over. But I had no idea what to do about that. The only thing I knew was that I didn't want rumors.

"Looking coupley doesn't mean anything," I hurried out.

"Maybe, but it's hard to fake the kind of vibes he was giving off."

Emerson was giving off vibes? At the zoo? How had I missed that? Sure, we'd had that kiss. But Emerson had assured me that he'd explained to Chris that it was for show.

"I don't know." Wren lifted her wineglass again. "I feel like everyone associated with a player must love Puff, so I'd hate if that wasn't the case."

"What?" My stomach sank. I didn't gush over the darn bird, but that didn't mean I didn't like him. I broke out in a cold sweat. Did people really think I didn't love my brother's bird? If that were the case, then why hadn't Chris called me out on it? He'd never been known for his subtlety. "I love Puff."

Both women cocked their heads and eyed me with matching looks of confusion.

Avery cleared her throat. "Yeah…we know you do."

So what was the issue? Surely, they couldn't think Emerson didn't love him.

"Em's obsession almost rivals my dad's."

Avery nodded slowly. "Yeah. Everyone on the team loves Puff. Even Tristian, who's a total jackass, can't help but have a soft spot for him."

"Right." I nodded. Tristian…Tristian. It took me a minute to place him. He was the left fielder and a prick. Thought he was better than everyone else.

"So it's annoying that Rory doesn't seem to like him."

"Rory?" I scanned my brain, searching for a memory of a person named Rory on the roster.

Wren flicked a hand. "The chick Mason's dating."

"We think." Avery dropped her voice low and took a step closer, like someone might overhear, even though we were the only people in the room. "She's a trainer for the team, and after last year, I have a very good understanding of Langfield Corp's rules." She smirked. "Although I can get away with dating one of Dad's players, a trainer dating a player is a big no-no. But we've seen them interacting a few times now, and it seems like a thing…"

"Oh." They weren't talking about Emerson and me at all. Relief washed over me, but I did my best to keep a straight face. Even so, my cheeks heated. Because, of course, they weren't discussing us. No one could know anything. It happened once, and now it was over.

My chest panged at that thought. Shit. My stupid self needed to get on board with that idea.

Ugh. Why wasn't I built for one-night stands? People did them all the time. Stupid me getting attached.

They were both staring at me.

"Who…" Avery glanced from me to the field and back. "Who did you think we were talking about?"

Wren's eyes widened just slightly, and she lifted her wineglass, though not before I saw one side of her mouth lift in a smirk. Last time I was here, she was talking about Emerson looking at us. My heart pounded again.

"I-I don't know. I'm not really into the Revs gossip," I stammered.

"That might change real quick," Wren sang, her eyes dancing.

"Don't be so sure." Avery waved her off. "She's going back to New York next month, right?"

Nodding, probably too aggressively, I agreed. "I actually just got a text from a guy about possibly subleasing his place starting August first."

The price was high, but I might be able to swing it. Especially if I got rid of my car. And I'd be in the city, so I wouldn't need it.

"That's awesome." Avery beamed.

Wren's eyes narrowed. "So nothing about Boston makes you want to stay?"

I shifted on my feet. Who knew why Wren seemed to see through me, but her questions were cutting a bit too close.

"My job is in New York." I shrugged. Although working mostly remotely didn't seem to be a problem. Plus, I hated my job. But my résumé still had no hits on it. So I didn't have a lot of hope of getting out of that hell.

I pointed lamely outside, looking for an excuse to get out of the conversation. "I'm just gonna check on Pop."

The second I was through the glass door, the June humidity hit me. Being on the water often helped keep the temperature mild, but today's game was at one, and already, the air was thick and the sun was beating down.

Slipping my sunglasses on, I wandered over to Pop and said hello to Mr. Jacobs before moving to the far side of the area and leaning on the half wall between our box and the one next to it. As much as I wasn't a baseball fan, I had to admit that the field was gorgeous. The dark green grass, classically raked sand, and bright white lines stood out, creating the perfect stage in front of Boston Harbor. The view from this stadium was unlike any other in the league. Not that I was surprised. The Langfields always insisted on the best.

Nearby, a throat cleared, causing me to straighten.

"Gianna."

At the sound of my name, I spun, then looked up—way up—to the team's general manager, Cortney Miller. He was supposedly a nice guy, but he was also the one who had yet to extend Emerson's contract, so I couldn't help but wonder if he might be a dumbass.

Before I could get annoyed, he twisted, and a tiny bundle donning a pink pin-striped number 8 Boston Revs jersey appeared.

With a hand to my mouth, I cooed. "Willow." There was no stopping the response. I'd heard she was adorable, but that was an understatement. She might have been the cutest baby I'd ever seen. Chubby cheeks, tiny bow lips, big blue eyes, and a full head of red hair. "It's wild that she already has all that hair."

Cortney smiled. "She's been full of that fiery ginger, just like her mother since the day she was born."

"She's precious," I assured him, taking a small step closer. I'd heard he was weird about letting people touch her, so I didn't ask.

"Thanks." He gave me a nod, causing his man bun to wobble a bit. "My fiancée," he said, locking me in a stern blue-eyed glare, "is patiently waiting for you to show up at our brownstone. She swears it's gonna happen." His lips pulled up slightly at the corner. "I try not to doubt her, because she is normally right, but she desperately wants you to design her logo, and all I want is to make sure she's happy."

All thought left me at his comments. She'd told me to just show up, and he was really encouraging it? "Um…" I glanced around, hoping we'd be interrupted and I could avoid continuing this conversation, but my dad was still chatting away, and the girls were still inside. "Okay."

"So tell me what I need to do to ensure you'll design her logo," Cortney said, his tone far too desperate for something so simple.

I opened my mouth and then closed it again. "I mean…I was going to call her. I'm not opposed to doing it," I assured him. "But it's been, like, eighteen hours."

Did she expect me to call last night or first thing this morning? Because I was under the impression that it was a more like a sometime in the next week or so thing.

He blew out a hard breath. "Okay. So she's right, and you'll design it for her? Because unknowns stress me out. I just want to control the stuff that makes my family happy."

My heart melted a little at that. Not only did I understand his stress, but it was endearing as hell. The love he had for Dylan was clear in that one statement.

"I promise I'll call her this week." Probably Wednesday. But maybe I'd squeeze her in before to keep him from freaking out too badly.

"Thank you." He hit me with a genuinely grateful smile. Between that and the way he cared for his family, I was having a really hard time still thinking of him as the idiot who hadn't bothered to lock Emerson in yet.

The door opened behind him, and a handsome dark-haired man sporting the Revs 00 appeared. Ah. Beckett Langfield. I'd never met him—he hadn't been at the zoo event because he had a family thing—but I'd seen plenty of photos of the billionaire. His family was Boston royalty.

He homed in on me, his eyes narrowing. "Gianna Damiano?" His voice lifted at the end like he was happy to see me, though I didn't have a clue why, and his serious expression contradicted the idea.

"Beckett." Cortney growled.

"I know. I know." He waved Cortney off and held a hand out to me over the half wall. "I haven't gotten to meet you yet, but I've heard good things."

For some people, a charming man's attention would be flattering, but for me, alarm bells went off. "Why?" I demanded, keeping my hands at my sides.

Cortney tipped his head back and laughed.

That reaction only made me even more suspicious. Teeth gritted, I looked from one man to the other, scrutinizing them for their motivation. Why the fuck were these men talking about me at all? "What do you want?"

Cortney rocked back, looking at Beckett. "I like her. Dylan was right. Reminds me of Delia."

Beckett huffed. "Dippy Doo is rarely wrong."

"Did it hurt to say that?" Cortney asked.

Beckett glared. "No. I love your fiancée." He shook his head and turned back to me. "Your brother has spoken highly of you."

"Bossman." Cortney's voice was a growly warning. "Dylan first."

I crossed my arms, my guard rising further. These two had some agenda, and I didn't like it.

"What do you want?" I asked again.

Beckett crossed his arms, mimicking my posture, and narrowed his eyes right back at me. "We need a designer to create a new city jersey, and your name has been tossed around."

I sucked in a breath. A project for the Revs? That would be huge. I knew nothing about jersey design, but ideas were already swirling in my mind. Play into the city, the team, and make it interesting. It wasn't that I couldn't do it. And if I did that and the logo for Little Fingers, I might get more side jobs. My contract with Doucette didn't allow me to set up a website for myself or promote that I took on side jobs. They didn't make them forbidden; I just couldn't advertise myself. But if I could pick up a few more commissions, then maybe leaving Doucette wasn't a crazy idea.

"I'd love to hear more about it," I agreed.

"But…" Beckett cleared his throat.

Cortney puffed up, towering over him and looking like the only reason he wasn't pummeling the Revs' owner was because his arms were currently occupied by his sweet infant daughter.

"We aren't looking to release until next season. Langfield Corp needs a Little Fingers logo first. And apparently Dippy Doo won't work with anyone but you."

My breath caught at that tidbit of information. She only wanted me? I couldn't fathom how she even knew about me.

"So after you design for Little Fingers and Langfield Corp"—he smiled, clearly proud of himself—"the Revs want to chat. We want to be first in line." Then he turned to Cortney. "See how well I did that?"

Cortney sighed. "Yeah, Beckett, you're amazing." The sarcasm was so thick I didn't get how Beckett missed it.

"I am." His green eyes flicked to Willow. "Now let me hold her." He held his arms out.

"No." Cortney stepped back and brought his daughter closer to his chest.

Beckett slumped, his shoulders sinking. "But I need practice."

"Not on my child." Cortney turned back to me. "We'll see you soon?"

The question was laced with the need for assurance, so I nodded.

Seemingly content with that response, the two walked back into their box, bickering with each other the whole way.

"What was that about?" Pop asked.

"A logo for a daycare," I said, leaving it at that. I didn't want to get his hopes up. If I told him they mentioned the city jersey idea, he'd go nuts. He'd be so proud, and he'd tell everyone. The problem with that was that I didn't have the job yet. Worse? I wasn't sure I really had the capabilities. It was definitely outside my wheelhouse.

And people might have a lot to say about me doing it. My mind heard screams of nepotism because Chris was my brother. Or lack of experience or talent. Or just lack of the right look to be part of professional sports. Because I wasn't athletic and definitely didn't look like I was.

"Look at my girl, getting attention everywhere she goes," Pop boasted proudly to Mr. Jacobs.

That was exactly why I didn't want to say too much.

Dad's eyes were still alight, like he was ready to launch into a game of twenty questions about the logo, but I was saved from having to answer a single one when Avery came squealing out the door.

"Oh man, Chris is so mad," she said, grinning at her phone. "Hannah is making him do a team dance!" She bounced on her toes. "He hates Hannah, but I love her. She's so fun."

"What are they doing?" Pop asked.

"Is it about Dumpty? Because he's listed as possible," Mr. Jacobs said.

"Mason's playing. I'd bet my car on it," Wren stated, smirking.

"Your expensive shoes aren't conducive to walking, child of mine, so I'd be careful about reckless bets," her father warned.

Our conversation was cut short when the opening bars of "Centerfield" blasted, and Emerson and three mascots trotted out onto the field, clapping their hands over their heads.

Warmth spread through me at the sight of him, and the sensation only deepened at the happiness in his expression.

I knew the song. Who didn't, really? But after what Emerson had told me about his high school experience, it took on a whole new meaning. Begging the coach, dreaming of playing center field—it all pulled at me.

Below us, the Revs mascots danced around. One trotted around on its fake horse. Another beat on its drum, and the third was doing the Floss. One by one, they tried to drag Emerson into their antics, but instead, he swung an invisible bat and tilted his head back like he was watching his ball fly through the air. Then he took off, running the bases.

Dressed for the game in his pin-striped jersey with a big number 21 on his back, he worked the crowd as he rounded home plate, getting them up on their feet, clapping and dancing with him. Fans loved him. It was crazy to think that he didn't see it. He literally had the attention of the entire stadium, me included. Although he had mine a lot lately.

As that thought crossed my mind, he turned and looked up my way. I swore that as his smile grew, my heart skipped.

Last night had been intense. And the way he'd held me through the night made it hard not to think that he might have also been thinking that once wasn't enough. So what if I asked for more? A slightly longer-term fling? Could I?

"Put me in coach!" Wren called when a glaring Coach Wilson came up on the Jumbotron, standing next to Price and Martinez.

Emerson ran back to the dugout just as the chorus started, clasping his hands in front of him and begging Coach Wilson—who looked anything but amused by the situation—to let him play center field.

Coach Wilson waved the catcher and shortstop onto the field, and both Price and Martinez trotted over to a row of bins near the stands, Sharpies in their hands. There, they got busy signing balls and T-shirts, then they handed them off so the mascots could fire them into the stands.

Emerson was still dancing on the other side of the field, wholeheartedly fulfilling his role and engaging as many people as he could. He worked his way back along the first base line, and then home plate, putting him right back in front of Coach Wilson as the chorus hit. Dropping to his knees, he launched back into pleading to play center field. The whole thing made me laugh.

Instead of giving in, Coach waved two more players onto the field. Kyle Bosco and Jasper Quinn stepped up and headed over to sign the shit the mascots were shooting up into the stand.

"Is Chris doing this?" I asked. I couldn't imagine him goofing off like the rest of the guys.

Avery shrugged while she clapped and bounced to the beat. "I think he has to. It's team building."

Just about every person in attendance was dancing now. Emerson had that effect on people. Even I was smiling and clapping.

The coach waved a few more players onto the field until only the pitcher and center fielder were missing from the roster.

Chris was pitching today. But until Emerson danced down the steps and clasped my brother's wrist, I doubted he'd join this game. Chris waved to fans half-heartly, clapped, and, fighting a glare, strode over and got to work signing balls, all while keeping his head down.

Just before the last chorus began, Emerson centered himself in front of the dugout, and as the words "Centerfield" echoed around the ballpark, the entire starting lineup pointed to the dugout, and Mason Dumpty ran up the steps.

The fans had been enjoying the song, but the noise level was insane when the center fielder who had been listed as IL came trotting up the steps. Everyone was on their feet. They hadn't seen him in a week, and by their reaction, it was clear Boston loved the guy.

He ran straight to Emerson and bro hugged him before they trotted to the bin of balls. There, Mason started signing, and Emerson began tossing them into the stands.

What a way to introduce him.

Movement near the dugout caught my eye, pulling me away from ogling Emerson's ass in those baseball pants. Hannah was recording the fans as the entire stadium screamed. Talk about marketing. The woman was genius.

As I slid my attention back to Emerson, my heart sank a little. Although he had been on the field for the entire song, leading it even. He'd yet to sign a single thing.

"Does Emerson not sign merch like the rest of them?" I asked.

"I've never seen him do it," Avery said.

"He's usually busy throwing for the guys who need shoulder rest. The pitchers, the catcher, guys in situations like Mason's," Wren explained.

Mason had been out for days with his head and shoulder injuries. And clearly everyone was glad he was back.

"That is true," Avery agreed. "He does it for Price or Chris pretty regularly, but I don't think I've ever seen him sign anything. Weird." Avery shrugged.

No, not weird. It was so on-brand for Emerson. I'd bet money he didn't think anyone wanted his autograph. The comments from the building super a few weeks ago floated in my mind, along with a few offhanded remarks Emerson had made. Had anyone ever actually told him how much of a fan fave he was, or how important he was to the team? It hurt to think that they hadn't. Emerson was always taking care of the people around him. His team, his friends, his family, me. Putting those he cared about above himself. We might have been nothing more than a fling, but I wouldn't leave Boston without making sure he understood that he was worth so much more than he realized.