30. Gianna

"You ready to admit that things with baseball boy are serious?" Mila asked as we weaved our way through the throng of people.

"What do you mean?" As we approached the gate, I tucked my phone into my pocket.

"You're smiling. I'd swear you're almost giddy." Mila shook her head. "And that happens every time he texts you. I've never seen you like this. Now, if that apartment had been in your price range, maybe I'd believe it was the reason…"

Yeah. The apartment. We had seen two. The one today was ridiculously unaffordable. The rent the guy had quoted via text didn't include the building fees, which added another four hundred dollars to the price. The one yesterday had potential. It was a studio and at the very top of my price range, but it was smack dab in the middle of the city and surrounded by buildings. Not to mention the traffic down Fourth was insane. In the last couple of weeks, I'd gotten used to the harbor view and the slightly slower pace of Boston. But I couldn't stay there.

"Emerson and I are good with what we are. And I'm still looking at moving back to New York."

The thing I'd come to realize about Emerson was that he didn't want to label a relationship as serious, even though he was as actively willing to be involved with me for as long as I was. I had his unwavering support and so much of his attention. So if he didn't want to put an official name on what we had, I could live with that. Because often, things worth having were worth waiting for.

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."

I turned at the sound of my name and smiled.

Mrs. Knight rushed across the sitting area toward the glass where I stood. She was decked out in jeans, a pin-striped number 21 Revs jersey, and a Boston Revs baseball cap. Beaded bracelets circled both wrists, making her by far the most devoted-looking fan in the suite. She had to be close to sixty, but by the way she looked like she was going to hurdle the seats in a rush to get across the room, you'd never know it.

Without a pause, she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me tight.

"You are just as perfect in person," she said, patting my cheek, her accent thick.

My face heated. "Um, thank you?"

"I'm obsessed with your eyelashes."

Behind her, the other three Knights were all sporting number 21 as well. My stomach spun. Shit. I was the only one in the suite not sporting Revs or Metros gear. Even Mila had on a Boston tee.

One of Emerson's sisters, Yvette, I thought, stepped closer and invaded my space as much as her mother had. "I want all the lash secrets. Because those look real."

"Way to have chill," her sister snickered.

"None of you have chill." The deep voice was so similar to Emerson's, I might have been fooled if I didn't know he was down on the field. "I'm Andre. The better-looking Knight brother."

I didn't agree. Not that I'd tell him that. The brothers were probably the same height, but where Emerson was all lean lines and tight muscle, Andre was softer. His features weren't as defined, and he sported none of the scruff that peppered Emerson's jaw.

"The look on Gianna's face totally called you a liar, Andre," Yvette teased.

Isabella giggled. "Pretty and smart. What a combo."

The back-and-forth felt so normal, so much like the way Chris and I had bantered my entire life. I'd known these people for minutes, and already, I understood how Emerson fit so well with Avery, Pop, and Chris.

"Enough." Mrs. Knight snapped her fingers at her children. "Leave the poor girl alone. Your brother will skin you all if you scare her off."

She shooed them away and turned back to me. "Come sit with me. We will get to know each other."

She reached up and patted my cheek again. And although I knew I was about to sit through an inquisition. The warmth that flooded off Mrs. Knight in waves put me at ease. Until the first question, that was.

"Tell me about my son." She cocked her head, studying me with knowing hazel eyes.

Tell her about her own son? How could I even begin? There were so many things I could say, but she probably knew him better than anyone.

I looked down onto the field where he stood with his team and considered the options. What wouldn't she get to see?

"He's the giver in every situation. Always passing out smiles or high fives or offering a supportive shoulder to lean on. He'll happily cook for his friends and always offers himself up when someone is in need." I couldn't pull my eyes from him as he tossed ball after ball into the stands after Mason Dumpty had signed them. "I just want him to learn he's worth enough to receive that kind of kindness too. He deserves as much joy as he spreads every day." My voice cracked on the last word, so I cleared my throat. Why the hell was I getting emotional about this? "Sorry." I turned back to her, only to find her blinking back tears.

"You and me? We are good." She grasped my hand and gently tugged it closer. "But you don't let him go on stealing the eggs for long, mi hija."

I had no idea what me ha meant, nor did I have any idea what eggs he was stealing, but I didn't want to upset her.

"Uh?" I worried my lower lip, racking my brain for an appropriate response.

She chuckled, the skin at her temples crinkling. "It's milk." With a pat to my hand, she released me and fanned herself. "The saying is about buying cows and stealing milk. But personally, I don't see why any woman would want to be a cow. I'd much rather be the chicken."

"The chicken?" I asked, confusion swirling inside me.

She nodded. "Yes. Because the hens get all the good cocks."

My mouth fell open, and my face heated, but I couldn't help but laugh. "Mrs. Knight!"

She smirked. "Mama Knight, mi hija. Everyone calls me Mama knight."

I nodded, hit with a wave of gentle affection for the woman. "Okay. Mama Knight."

"The world now, there are free eggs." She shook her head. "All over, free eggs." Angling closer, she stuck a finger in the air. "But you must remember, even the best men need a good shove in the right direction. Including my son." With a firm nod, she patted my thigh. Then she pivoted, changing the subject altogether. "Tell me about your family."

"Uh…" The way she jumped from topic to topic left my head spinning.

She waved me off. "I've met them, of course. But I want to see them through your eyes."

I looked out over the field, finding Emerson again. He was laughing with Mason, craning his neck like he was searching the stadium for something. Maybe he was looking for his family, but his gaze didn't stop on anything, including us. And I couldn't wave, because I wasn't supposed to be here. Because Chris would be too much about it. I looked back at Mama Knight, who was watching me, wearing a patient smile.

"My brother is annoying."

She chuckled. "Aren't they all?"

And from the there, the conversation was much easier. It wasn't until halfway through the second inning when Andre stopped by to drop a water off for his mother that the questions stopped.

"Emerson will be up this inning, Mama."

She patted my leg. "Thank you for humoring me. You are as lovely as my son promised."

With a smile, she stood and followed her other son into the open-air seats.

Zara dropped into Mama Knight's seat beside me before I could even get up. "The mother stamp of approval. That's a big hurdle."

"Oh, uh, no." I flushed.

Apparently, Emerson had talked to his mom about me, but I didn't know what he'd told Zara. And since her husband played for the Revs, I didn't want to give her the wrong idea.

Flicking at a piece of fuzz on my jeans, I lowered my gaze. "It's really not a thing."

"Trust me, it's a thing. I've been married almost ten years, and I still don't have it." Zara shook her head.

"Really?" How could anyone with half a brain not approve of her? She and Asher were the sports world's favorite couple. They were all over magazines and TV, always smiling and put-together.

"In my mother-in-law's opinion, no one will ever be good enough for her angel boy." She frowned. "But most certainly not some English girl. And she has no trouble reminding me of that. Heaven forbid her grandchildren don't love apple pie and baseball."

From the bite in her tone, it was obvious there was a real issue there, but I didn't know her well enough to pry, so I just forced a smile.

"But," she said, splaying her hands on her thighs, "I came over to talk about you."

"Me?"

With a nod, she launched into details about what Emerson had told her when he first reached out about Jake.

"Leopards never change their spots, and since Emerson wanted to keep you out of this completely, I went back to his last two employers and starting asking questions. Pretty quickly, a pattern emerged." She scowled.

"Emerson mentioned that you found some people who were upset with him."

"This goes way beyond upset. These weren't just coworkers who didn't like him. No, he stole their designs, used them in his portfolio. Literally stepped on people to get ahead. Harassed them, forced them to quit. I've been in touch with a few people at Socials Weekly and Into Design."

Both magazines were huge in the graphic design field. Even now, when people were forgoing magazines for websites, Doucette Designs still subscribed to both.

"They're both interested in researching how often credit is stolen, especially from new designers." She smirked and sat back in her seat. "Turns out Jake's a great illustration of such issues. They are reaching out for quotes in the next couple of days. Give it a couple of weeks, and the guy will be out of a job."

The pressure in my chest made it hard to breathe as I absorbed the implications of what she'd said. "I don't even know what to say."

A cheer echoed around us, interrupting my thoughts and pulling my attention to the field. Emerson was rounding first and headed to second. He pulled to a stop after stepping on the bag and smirked at the guy next to him.

"I'll let you watch Emerson. But I just wanted to say thanks for letting me do this." She smiled at me as she pushed to her feet.

"Don't thank me," I assured her, standing up too. "I feel like I owe you."

She shook her head, and her black braid flicked over her shoulder. "You owe me nothing. I forgot how much I loved digging for the truth and exposing it. This is the most fun I've had in a long time." With a pat to my arm, she wandered across the space and sat beside Beth.

On the field, Emerson was taunting the pitcher. Three strides from the base wasn't much, but Em didn't need much of a lead to beat a throw. Two pitches later, his squat deepened. This was it. He was ready to move. And the moment the pitcher released the ball, he took off.

My heart skipped at the sound of the ball smacking into the catcher's glove. Emerson was two-thirds of the way to the base. It was going to be close.

I held my breath as he dove. His hand skimmed the top of bag only a second or two before the Declan Lowery's glove swiped across his back.

A smile lit Emerson's face, and I couldn't help the one that flooded mine.

"He's so good at that." Isabella came to stand beside me. "Makes me nervous every time, though."

"Yeah," I agreed. My heart was still working its way back down from my throat. Where he found the nerve to take off on a wing and prayer was a mystery.

"He said we're not supposed to say anything because of the whole Chris issue." With a scoff, she rolled her green eyes. "And I kinda get it. I mean Andre"—she flicked her hand out the window at her brother—"would murder any of his friends in their sleep if I hooked up with them."

She huffed hard, pushing her hair back from her face.

"He can hook up with girls without judgment, but somehow, I can't do the same." She snorted. "Whatever."

"Brothers can be annoying." I had too much firsthand experience to not throw that out there.

"Not Em." She smiled down at where he was standing at third base. "He's always just been there for us. I was little when he went to triple-A, and for a long time, I didn't realize what a big deal it was. He was younger than I am now. Yet here I am, too scared to even go farther than Montclair, New Jersey, for school because I don't want to leave my mom." She laughed at herself, then schooled her expression and pulled in a big breath. "I understand it now. How much he did for us. And I'm really happy that when he talks about you, he smiles. Like really smiles."

I wasn't prepared for that statement, and it stole the breath from my lungs.

She rolled her eyes again. "It's not that deep. You just make him happy, and that's cool."

"Oh." I cleared my throat and shifted on my feet. "Thanks?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "It's a good thing. So…" She glanced outside at her brother and sister. "Now that Vet isn't here, what's the deal with the lashes?"

I laughed, my heart feeling so light. Was there a person in this world who didn't love the Knights? Because this family was the definition of perfectly imperfect.