Hanging on the wall opposite of the bed, the painting is massive. Done in tones of grays and blues, it’s a close-up of a man’s arm holding onto a battered football helmet.

“Dex did that,” Gray says, looking up at it. “I loved it so much, I nagged him until he gave it to me.”

“It’s fantastic.” The composition is simple, but the strength in the arm, the way the hand grips the helmet, speak of suffering, perseverance, and love of the game.

“Yeah. He’s ridiculously talented. Not that he lets anyone but us know about it.”

I’m not surprised. A lot of athletes have hidden talents or hobbies they like to do in their down time. “There’s a guy in the NBA who can play the violin like a master. But he only performs for his teammates.”

“Who?” Gray’s voice is curious but subdued. Our fight stands between us, and I hate myself for what I said to him in the heat of jealousy and defensive anger.

I give him a forced smile. “That’s his secret to tell.”

Gray shakes his head. “Tease.”

He flops on his bed, the frame screeching in protest, and promptly lies back, tucking his arm behind his head. Okay then, maybe I’m the one overthinking things. Taking a breath, I sit next to him. Gray has other ideas and tugs me down next to him. I land with an “oof” and he grins.

“So.”

“So,” I repeat, rolling on my side to face him. “You ready for the game?”

While his team is favored to win, anything can happen on the field.

“Fuck yeah. We got this.” His smile fades, replaced by a searching look. “The bus leaves in three hours, so we’ll be heading out soon. I wish you were coming.”

Guilt hits me anew. Because I want to at his game more than anything. But I’m staying put and celebrating Fi’s birthday, which happens to be the night before the game. “I wish I were too.”

“You sure Fi wouldn’t want to celebrate with us? My guys know how to party.”

Sighing, I flip onto my back. “My dad has ditched Fi on her birthday for as long as I can remember. When we were little, it was for a ball game. Then for championship games. It’s a big recruitment time for him.”

“That’s kind of shitty of him.”

I don’t know why I feel defensive of my dad; Gray’s not saying anything I haven’t thought, but nothing in life is straight black and white. “It’s his job. Follow the players. Score the deal. Take care of the client. Talk to sponsors.” I glance at Gray. “When was the last time you weren’t expected to play on or around a major holiday?”

“Fourth of July count?” He gives me a cheeky look but then sobers. “I said it was shitty, not that I don’t understand. Which is another reason I haven’t done relationships.” His blue eyes darken. “I hate the idea of doing that to anyone.”

Sadness sits heavy on my chest. Gray isn’t the type of person who should walk alone through life. But it’s not like I can protest his choices. A selfish part of me doesn’t even want to encourage him to find a girlfriend, something I know would put even more distance between us. Which makes me all sorts of wrong.

I pick a piece of lint off his comforter. “Anyway, Fi’s kind of touchy about her birthday and football. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near a game during her time. I’m not going to ask her to change her plans. No matter how much I want to.”

Gray’s voice is soft and low. “I get that too.” He sighs as well. “Fuck, how I get it. Aside from my mom, I came second—hell, more like fifth—to football.”

“And yet you love it.” I glance at his strong profile. He’s frowning up at the ceiling, but as if he feels my stare, he turns.

Joy fills his expression. “I do love it, Ivy. It gives me a high unlike anything else.”

He says it with such reverence, I find it hard to swallow. I’ve never loved anything that way. A strange sort of yearning fills me. To love something with that intensity. To be loved in turn, put first above all things. How would it be? If Gray’s love of football is anything to go by, it would be the best thing in the world.

“I envy you,” I say, my eyes focused forward so I don’t have to see his face.

But I feel him watching me. “Why?”

“I want that out of life, that excitement.”

“And you don’t have it with baking?” Gray sounds genuinely surprised, but his voice is gentle, almost hesitant. Does he pity me?

I shrug. “Not in the way you love football.”

His shoulder moves against mine as he takes a breath. “What excites you, then?”

You. “Sports. Interacting with others…” I shake my head. “Nothing concrete. Nothing flashing a big sign that says, ‘Here is your passion!’”

He seems to soak this in before responding. “I don’t know, Mac. I still think you’d make a kick-ass agent. Maybe not the sharky parts, but life planning. Marketing and coaching athletes through their social issues.” The comforter pulls as he rolls fully on his side to face me, and I can’t help but turn my head. A shock of dark gold hair flops over his forehead as he peers at me. “You should have seen the way you lit up when you talked to the guys about that stuff.” The corner of his lip curls upward. “It was beautiful.”

My fingers dig into the worn comforter beneath me. “I don’t know, Gray… I’ve grown up hating my dad’s job half the time.”