43. Emerson

The entire street was front stoops and wide sidewalks. A long line of stone steps and wrought-iron railings. Brick buildings and trees.

A dog barked at the far end, and Beckett Langfield bellowed, "Deogi, get back here!"

"Bossman," came a little voice, "he's just chasing Junior because she stole the trash lid again."

A smile pulled at my lips. I loved my street. The guys on the team thought it was nuts of me to buy a house two doors down from the momcom. But no one could ever claim my street was boring.

The crisp fall air blew, rattling the trees, and a few leaves drifted down onto the stones.

I trotted past the line of pumpkins along the stoop and opened the door on the left.

We'd only moved into the brownstone a week ago, but it was already feeling like home.

The first week of August, my agent called me about the deal the Revs had sent over. I had been blown away by the number of zeros on the five-year contract. But it opened the door for me to purchase Gi's dream house.

Not that she needed my money. In the three months since her show, she'd been offered a contract with the Revs to design their new city jerseys, and she'd sold two more paintings. And although she could have afforded to take care of herself, I loved spoiling her.

Since it was just the two of us for the foreseeable future, we didn't need all four floors of a traditional brownstone, but we'd found one that had been split into two homes. So we had enough space with the three-bedroom brownstone to give her an art studio and still have a guest room for my mom.

I climbed the steps to the second floor and pushed the door open.

Some kind of angry girl music was blasting. Something about ruling the world.

Gianna was standing at the stove, stirring what smelled like stir-fry.

The white cabinets and subway tile brightened up the dark wide-board floors and moldings.

I stood in the doorway, watching her silently for a minute, enjoying the way she rocked her hips to the beat. The loud crackling pop from the fireplace made her jump, and that, in turn, made me chuckle.

Alerted to my presence, she turned and gifted me with the welcome home smile I loved.

"You got home fast."

The flight had only landed thirty minutes ago, but I hadn't stopped at Lang Field today. If I had, Kyle would have totally tried to drag me out to a bar for a celebration drink.

The entire team was stoked that we'd officially come home the east conference champs and were heading to the national league championship for the first time in almost twenty years.

Game one was tomorrow at home, and I had big plans.

"Couldn't wait to see my girl." I ate up the distance between us, pulled her into my arms, and pressed her into the counter, giving her a kiss.

"Mmm. I'm glad you're home."

"Missing me make you cranky?" I teased.

She swatted my stomach, but smirked. "Come on, let's eat."

"Dinner or you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, I'll hold, but the stir-fry will burn."

"Okay. Dinner. Then you show me that painting you've been telling me about. And then bed."

She laughed. It was my favorite sound to come home to. Nothing was more real in life than the sound of Gianna Damiano's laugh.