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“Not if it’s true.” I bury my face in her hair.
We lie in silence for a few minutes, the hum of the heater the only sound in the bedroom.
“Did you have fun tonight?” she asks, breaking the quiet.
I breathe against her neck. “Yeah. We were able to raise a lot of money.” I press closer. “When I was looking for you, I wandered over to the silent auction.”
She stiffens in my arms.
“I saw something interesting there. Two interesting somethings.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I smile against her neck. “Yeah. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“I might …”
“When did you donate your paintings, Doe?”
“The day after you told me about the gala. I went to Madison. Told her I wanted to contribute something. She suggested I donate a painting, so I donated two. She arranged the rest.”
Emerson shifts until she’s lying flat on her back. I hover over her, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose.
“And the one of me?”
She shrugs, the blush deepening across her cheeks. “I guess I couldn’t resist.”
It means a lot that she supported a cause that’s personal to me. It means even more that she sees me like she does. Enough to capture it on canvas.
“Thank you for doing that.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” she insists.
But I think she did. It feels like she did it for me.
“You’re wasting your talent if you aren’t painting.”
She searches my face in the dim lighting. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always had opportunities the rest of us might never have.”
“How so?” I ask.
I grew up in a working-class family. I skated my ass off to excel at hockey. I earned a scholarship, which landed me at Sinclair, and continued to work until I was called up to the big leagues. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon inside my mouth. I was born with talent, but that talent had to be honed.
“Athletes have things handed to them. Big bank accounts. Endorsements. Fame. Women’s panties …” She draws out that last one. “All because you can shoot a puck into a net.”
“Hockey’s a little more than that.” I scowl, dropping onto my back beside her with my arm propped behind my head. Yes, there are a lot of perks for professional athletes. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t struggle along the way. “I worked hard to get to where I am.”
“I know,” she acknowledges, her hand landing on my chest. “I just meant that you have doors opened for you that are locked for others. The arts aren’t like that.”
“Have you tried to show your work?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She blows out an exhale. “I took a couple of paintings to three or four galleries when I first arrived in Chicago. They weren’t interested.”
“So, try again.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But I didn’t land here by standing back and letting things just happen to me. You have to make them happen.” I look her in the eye. “You’re really talented, Emerson. You should be painting full-time.”
