Edging a little closer, I hear Scott say, “You have got to be realistic about this.”
And even though I don’t know the agent that well, I swear there’s an undercurrent in his body language, a tenseness in his massive shoulders.
“I am being realistic.” Gabe’s tone is flat, focusing on his ankle. “My answer is no.”
“At least listen to him,” Scott continues, telegraphing “be nice” with his eyes. “I suggested Moretti’s for dinner tonight. You game?”
You know those cartoon characters whose faces get redder and redder until fire bursts from their ears? Gabe is the human equivalent of that. “I can’t believe you’d even consider it.”
“Now, you hold your horses—”
“Hi!” I say, way too loudly. Both of their heads whip toward me. “Scott! It’s so good to see you. Again. Wasn’t that a great game? It was such a good game. Gabe you played so well. You hit the ball perfectly.”
Nice, Mads.
I sound like an idiot, but my blabbering throws them off for a second. Long enough for me to face Gabe. “Are we still on to film those clips tonight? I know you’re getting ready for your road trip, and I’d love to have them before you leave so we can keep the ball rolling, social media—wise.” I turn to face Scott. “I don’t know if you heard, but Gabe’s Instagram videos have gotten an immense response.”
Gabe’s confusion is enough to diffuse the bomb that was about to explode in his head. “Clips.” It sounds like a question to my ears. “Yes. Right. We had plans to film clips.” He nods at his agent. “I’m sorry. I have other plans.”
Now Scott’s the one with the short fuse. “Gabe, Geoff has come all the way from the UK to talk to you. Maddie will have to get some ‘clips’ later.”
That’s funny, I thought Geoff came to see Watford. I don’t say that out loud. I took my shot, and now the ball is figuratively at Gabe’s feet.
“Tell Mr. Jones I’m not interested in anything he has to say.” Gabe holds his hand out to me.
Okay, so that’s how we’re playing this. I step to Gabe’s side, slipping my fingers between his. His grip is so tight that I can feel his pulse racing, hard and fast. “Let’s go, Madeline.”
The blood vessel on Scott’s right temple is about to rupture. There’s no other way to explain why it’s throbbing that hard. “This conversation is not over.”
“As my agent, you should have known it was a conversation we would never have.” Gabe throws his bag over his shoulder and half drags me out of the room. I look back right as we push through the door, and Scott’s staring after us, face beet red. Not good.
“What just happened?” I ask, once we’re out to the parking area. No one’s close enough to make me worry about being overheard.
“I just told the future manager of Arsenal and the biggest agent in sports to vai a quel paese,” Gabe says as he opens the passenger side door for me.
“I have no idea what that means, but yes.” My stomach is bubbling nervously, but I also think I might burst out laughing. “Should I have stayed out of it? You looked like you were going to punch Scott, and he looked like he might strangle you, and there were still reporters and I was worried that they’d catch it on camera, and it would be all over the news. But then when I started talking, Scott looked like he wanted to kill me. I mean, he’s got fists the size of oven mitts, so he could probably take both of us out at the same time.”
I cover my mouth with both hands and lean back against the side of the Ferrari. “Did I do the wrong thing?”
Gabe pulls my hands down, holding on to my wrists. “Scott tried to ambush me, and you saved me with your … talking.”
“Why would Scott ambush you?”
He grimaces. “Food first, then explanation.”
GABE AND I SNEAK THROUGH THE DIM LOBBY OF THE BELDEN-Stratford and into the gold elevator with two bags of greasy takeout. The front desk receptionist doesn’t say anything, more interested in the romance novel she’s got on her desk than us.
He didn’t want to go back to his apartment, afraid Iliana might have brought home guests. I certainly couldn’t take him back to Emma’s place. She might balk at me bringing a client home. Even if it is just to eat Chinese food.
Instead of stopping at the top floor of apartments, we ride the elevator all the way to the sundeck. It usually closes at eleven, but when Emma gave me the key to her apartment, she also gave me one to the sundeck. It’s one of the perks of owning space in the building, instead of just renting it.
Gabe drags a small side table between two lounge chairs, and we sit across from each other and open our boxes.
“That smells delicious. What did you get?” He leans forward to see into my box, but besides the lights from the facade of the building and the streetlights far below, it’s almost impossible to see.
“Vegetable lo mein.”
“No meat?” He grimaces.
“You ordered enough for five people.” I reach toward his box with my chopsticks, and he slaps them down. “I’m offended. I can’t have one bite?”
“Italians do not share.”
I’m shocked. “You’re making that up. Didn’t Italians invent family-style eating?”
Even in the dim light, I can see the disgust on his face. “Family-style means our meals are served from the same container. We do not eat off the same plate.”
“You’re not eating off a plate.” I snatch a piece of orange beef and pop it in my mouth. “I scooped it out of your container.”
He leans halfway across the table. “You’ll pay for that.”
I give him my most innocent smile. “I am not afraid of you.”
Gabe coughs into his elbow, choke-laughing. “Most people would be.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I look at him, and he looks back. The imaginary thread connecting us ratchets tighter. These moments have got to stop.
I clear my throat and tip my box to scoop some noodles directly into my mouth because I’m sexy like that. “So you were going to tell me about Scott’s ambush?”
He returns total focus to his dumplings. “No business while eating.”
“Please.” I poke his arm with a chopstick. “I thought we were friends.”
“We are.” He says it fast, like he doesn’t even question it anymore. It feels nice that we’ve crossed that threshold. “Geoff Jones wants to negotiate a deal that could result in me playing for Arsenal.”
“And that’s bad?”
He shrugs, switching to my noodles. I don’t make any comment about his refusal to share earlier. Hypocrite.
“Do you know you do that a lot?”
“Do what?”
I mimic his shrug. “That’s not an answer. That’s a subject change or redirection, but I jumped into a conversation I wasn’t really a part of tonight because we are friends and I deserve an explanation for why you needed to be rescued.”
“Is there any grammar in your spoken sentences?”
“Stop. Changing. The subject.” I throw a couple noodles at him in frustration, and he picks one off his shirt and flicks it back at me, grinning in a way that makes something in my chest swirl.
Ugh. He’s done it again. “You were telling me about Geoff and Arsenal.”
Gabe sighs and sets down his chopsticks. “Geoff and I have history, and I’d rather play anywhere than for him.”
“He retired before you started playing professionally. How could you possibly have history?”
“He was one of the announcers for the World Cup Final. After I missed the goal … he said I choked in a high-stakes moment. That I was another Adu, a Macheda, a player who entered the league too young and would never live up to the hype.” Gabe rests his elbows on his knees and keeps his focus between his feet. “Everyone believed him. The media. The fans. Even my parents. And then when I was in the car accident, Geoff said it was proof that he was right about me. That I was too young, too immature. That I was imp
loding under the pressure.”
I cringe. The Geoff I knew was never that cold, that callous, but it sounds exactly like something The Cheating Bastard would say.
“I’m sorry.” I turn my knees toward him and take both of his hands. “But if Geoff wants you to play for him, couldn’t that be a good thing? Like showing the world that what he said was wrong?”
“When I lay out all the details, I know, logically, this is a step closer to where I want to be. And yet, the thought of playing for him …”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. How hard would it be to be coached by the person whose commentary led to your nightmares? To face that person every single day? To wonder if he’d throw you under the bus if you had a bad game? I understand how hard it would be to say all of that aloud, so this time I change the subject. “Did they give us fortune cookies?”
Gabe fishes in the bottom of a brown paper sack and comes up with six plastic-wrapped cookies and a dozen packets of soy sauce.
“Ooo!” I take one of the sugary treats. “They were generous today.”
“You did say I ordered enough to feed five people.”
“True.”
I crack mine open, breaking a piece to put in my mouth and pulling out the little message. It’s too dark, so I shine my phone’s flashlight on it and immediately shake my head.
“What does it say?” he asks, dropping all the garbage into the bag.
“‘Work on improving your exercise routine.’”
“Don’t listen to that cookie. You’re perfect.” He snatches the paper out of my hand and drops it in with the leftovers. “Try this one.”
I open the next one, pretending he didn’t call me perfect in a totally offhand way. “These fortune cookies suck. ‘Be kind to pigeons.’ What kind of fortune is that?” I shake my head. “What does yours say?”
“My phone’s dead.” He moves around the table and drops next to me so he can use mine. He crumples his cookie in his palm and fishes the paper out of the bits. “Go—”
He stiffens and folds the fortune in half and shoves it in his pocket. “You’re right. These fortune cookies are stupid.” He shakes the crumbs into his mouth.
“Rude!” I bump him with my elbow. “I read both of mine to you.”
“I’ll pick another one.”
“No! I want to know what that one said.” I reach toward his pocket, but he tips sideways, hiding it between his body and the chair.
“You big baby.” I throw another fortune cookie at him, and he catches it before it hits the deck. “You have to read it out loud this time. It’s a rule.”
“Are you the boss of fortune cookies now?”
“I always have been.” I lean close so that I can see the paper as soon as it’s out of the wrapper. My shoulder is wedged against his side, and I’m holding the phone so he’ll have to put the fortune where we can both see it.
He pulls the slip out of the cookie without breaking it and reads, “Go for it.”
Everything goes perfectly still for a moment, like a movie I’ve paused. I can see us on the screen in my head, sitting on a Chicago rooftop late at night, sharing the same reclining chair. I’ve gotten so comfortable with the hugs, the cheek kiss, the closeness between us, that I hadn’t even registered that the heat of his body is keeping me from shivering every time the breeze rises off the lake.
“Hmmm.” I flick off the flashlight, plunging the roof into sudden darkness, but I know his eyes are on me. “What do you think that is supposed to mean?”
“It was the same fortune both times.” He turns sideways to face me completely, hand falling on top of mine, knuckles dragging slowly up my forearm, fingers opening against the back of my neck. “Seems more significant twice in a row, no?”
He’s asking about more than fortune cookies; he’s asking for a sign. If I want to pull away, he’s giving me every opportunity.
I don’t. I want to stay right here, in this moment, where it’s just us and the moonlight. I want his hands on me and his lips on mine. I want to be closer.
“It definitely seems …” I say, leaning in infinitesimally. It doesn’t take much to line my mouth up with his. “Significant.”
The first kiss is a simple brush of his lips against mine. I pull back a little, heart thundering in the base of my throat. He doesn’t let me go far, shifting his hand so that it cradles my face before he kisses me again. The second kiss is nothing like the first. It’s everything that I associate with Gabriel Fortunato—heat, hunger, and self-confidence.
His lips part against mine, kissing me like this is his native language. My arms wrap tight around him, hands skimming up his back, while his slide down mine. Those musician’s fingers press against the knobs of my spine, the gaps between my ribs, sending shivery arpeggios all the way to my toes.
Five minutes pass, ten, a million, and we’re lying side by side on the chair, legs intertwined. His lips have discovered the underside of my jaw, then the dip of my collarbone, when my phone rings. And it jolts me back to reality.
What am I doing? What am I doing?
I’m making out with Gabriel Fortunato on the roof of my aunt’s apartment building.
I try to ignore both the phone and my rising sense of panic, but Gabe gives me a quick kiss just under my ear and asks, “You going to answer that?”
It’s a good enough excuse to buy myself some headspace. “I probably should.”
The call drops to voice mail, but a text pops through almost immediately.
Emma: I forgot to give you a curfew. But I’m giving you one, and it’s right now.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a curfew.” Gabe’s propped up on his elbow, looking down at me. “It must be nice to have someone worrying about whether or not you’ll come home.”
That’s one way to look at it. “I guess I better go.”
He pulls me back for one more kiss that stretches far longer than I intend it to. Kissing him is something I definitely should not be doing and something I definitely don’t want to stop.
“By the way,” he says against my lips. “Have you thought about coming with me to the gala?”
“So that’s what this is all about. You’re trying to convince me to be your date.” His teeth graze my bottom lip and I forget what I was saying.
Until my phone buzzes again.
Emma: I know where you are. Don’t make me come get you.
That does the job.
Me: On my way.
I walk Gabe down to the lobby, giving him one last goodbye kiss before riding the elevators up to Emma’s apartment by myself. I smooth my hair as best I can, but there’s nothing I can do for the bee-stung lips and dazed look in my eyes.
I expect the apartment to be dark when I swing open the door, but every light is on. And while Emma’s dressed for bed, she’s not alone. She’s on one end of the lavender couch, Watford curled around her feet. And Scott is overfilling one of the white wingback chairs.
“Whoa.” I stop in the entryway. “What is he doing here?”
He looks at Emma, and she flicks her hand at me, telling him to go ahead.
Scott stands. “Maddie, we need to talk.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
“I’M NOT ASKING FOR MUCH,” SCOTT SAYS, IGNORING THE FACT that I’m not even looking at him.
I’m scratching behind Watford’s ears. He abandoned Emma to come lean against my legs, and I’m grateful for the distraction. Everything about this situation makes me feel gross. Scott called Emma after our run-in at the stadium, and absolutely had to talk to us tonight. She set up this trap—there’s really no other way to describe it—although she called it an intervention.
“You have more sway with Gabe than anyone else.” Scott leans forward in the chair, and the fur on Watford’s back bristles. “He does more for you than he has for any publicist in his entire career. Just ask him to meet with Geoff. You know it’s in his best interest.”
All of Scott’s argumen
ts make it sound like playing for Arsenal really is the best step for Gabe’s future. Money aside, the level of competition and the opportunities for sponsorships are so much better. If he stays in Chicago, there’s a good chance he’ll never reach his potential. Which would also prove that Geoff was right.
I smooth down Watford’s coat, but it does nothing for my own emotions.
“He’s in a pattern of self-sabotage. Help him get out of it.”
“I don’t know why you think I can convince him. Gabe makes up his own mind.”
Scott looks at Emma for help, and she rubs her eyes tiredly. “I spent the last year trying to convince Gabe that we could change his public image, but he balked at everything. He pushed back on every idea or got himself in more trouble.” She stands up and crosses the room, arms folded tight. “This time, he might have been really worried the Fire would get rid of him, but after that day at Velocity—when I saw the way he looked at you—I knew he’d agree because it was a chance to work with you. He likes you, Mads, and it shows.”
He likes you and it shows. Those words should make me bubble, but instead I’m weighed down with guilt. Em never tried to hide the fact that my age made me an asset on his account, but I thought at some level she trusted me to work with Gabe because I was good at something. But really, she’d just found the right carrot.
“I know how much he hates Geoff. We talked about it tonight.” My voice sounds threaded too tight, too high. “So, you’re asking me to do something that seems a little underhanded.”
“Your mom used to yell at you to ice your ankles after—”
“I don’t see how that’s got anything to do with this, Em.” And it’s incredibly embarrassing that you brought it up in front of Scott. I shoot a sideways look at the agent, but she ignores it.
“But it is. Sometimes we don’t want to do what’s best for us because it’s uncomfortable.” She puts her hand on the arm of my chair, reaching for my hand but falling short. “Geoff is willing to apologize personally, but he can’t do it if Gabe refuses to meet with him.”
Far From Normal Page 14