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“What did you paint today?” Like he’s genuinely interested.
“Oh. A still life. Tomorrow we’ll have our paintings revealed to the class and we’ll be talking about whether they’re any good or not.”
His slow smile is basically like staring at the sun. “I’m sure yours will be the best one.”
I can’t help smiling. He says it like he already knows it as fact. “I’m definitely not sure about that. We were only allowed ninety minutes to finish the whole painting. I usually take a lot longer than that.”
“What made you get into painting?”
“My mother was an artist. I sort of followed in her footsteps.”
“Actually, I remember that about her. And I know that you and Coach lost her. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“I lost my mother too, a long time ago. I don’t even remember her.”
“I’m so sorry.” My heart hurts for him, and for me. It’s a bond we share and it provides an unexpectedly powerful link. I feel so much for him, that he never even got to know his mother, or have any memories of her at all. My urge to comfort him is so strong I have to stop myself from reaching out to him and doing something crazy. Like giving him a hug.
I can’t help but notice his teammates are watching us and it’s easy to read the concern. They shouldn’t be concerned. We’re having an innocent, heartfelt conversation. We just randomly bumped into each other, which is bound to happen from time to time. We’re acquaintances now. But that’s as far as this will ever go. It has to be.
Besides, someone like Elias O’Shea probably has a harem of women at his beck and call. No doubt he plays the field to his heart’s content. It’s one of the reasons my dad’s rule exists, of course. Because athletes at the top of their game tend to leave a trail of broken hearts wherever they go.
“Do you ever sell any of your paintings?” he asks.
“No, not yet. I actually sent some out to a couple of galleries a while ago.” I’m not sure why I’m even telling him this. Maybe because he’s so enthralled. He’s watching me like I’m the most fascinating person he’s ever met.
“How’d it go?”
“Actually, that’s why I went to visit my dad just before, to get a letter that came to our house. It’s from a gallery.”
“What did it say?”
“I haven’t opened it yet. I haven’t been brave enough.”
“Do you have it with you now?”
“Yes.”
“Open it.”
Bossy much? But I guess that’s to be expected of a quarterback. The Alpha and all that is bound to have a take-charge kind of attitude. “I was planning on waiting until later.”
“Go on. I’m right here for moral support.”
A huff of laughter escapes me. I’m not sure what’s funny. Maybe it’s just that he’s so damn cocky. “I want to be alone when I open it, in case it’s a rejection like it usually is.”
“It might be a win this time. I think you should open it.”
His eyes really are amazing, with their different shades of blue, like there are embers burning behind them, lighting them from within.
Something about his riveted, manly interest gives me courage. So I reach into my back pocket and pull out the sealed envelope. “This gallery is in New York. It’s called the Sea Glass. It’s where a lot of new artists get their first break. It’s kind of what they’re known for. Launching newbies. Everyone who gets exhibited there becomes an instant sensation.”
“All right then. Let’s see what they have to say.”
Damn it. I’m really doing this. I start to slowly rip the seal. But I can’t do it.
“Do you want me to open it for you?”
