Page 90 of Elite Player
Never.
But my hammy has been killing me lately, and standing around, talking about art I don’t understand, isn’t helping.
Naomi’s still dealing with some nausea, so I promised to take Jo out on a date, her choice in where we go.
And that’s how we ended up here.
I shift my weight, attempting to relieve the tension in my leg. Jo’s fingers intertwine with mine, squeezing gently. She leans in, her voice a soft murmur, “Is your leg still bothering you?”
“Yeah, just?—”
A familiar voice cuts through the gallery’s hushedatmosphere “Nicholas Tremblay the 3rd, what are you doing here? Haunting me?”
I pivot around with a shake of my head at the owner of the familiar voice. “I think you have that backward.Youare hauntingme.”
Malcolm stares at me, that tic of his eyebrow ever-present. Constantly annoyed. By me? The world? The paisley design of his tie? Who knows.
“What did I do to deserve you legal-naming me? Am I not allowed to be at an art gallery with my fiancée?”
He assesses me for a moment then turns to Jo. “Hello. I’m not sure we’ve ever been formally introduced.”
At that, I tug her into my side. “Malcolm, this is Josephine, my fiancée.” Then I dip my chin, lower my voice, though I make sure he can still hear it when I say, “This is Malcolm, the man paid to make me look like a saint.”
She backhands my stomach. “I don’t think anyone can do that.”
“Admit it, Jojo, life wouldn’t be half as fun if I was good. You like that I’m a little bad.”
She rolls her eyes and blows out a tiny puff of air, a nonverbal insult of sorts. Like,you big dummy.
Malcolm hums in agreement before splitting his gaze between Jo and me, tipping his head to the side in interest. “Though there might be some hope yet.”
“I haven’t been called to the principal’s office in months, so that should account for something.”
Again, Malcolm makes a kind of appeased sound, even as he narrows his gaze shrewdly. “You have surprised me, in more ways than one, including that you are genuinely a good man.”
Taken aback by the sentiment, I hear my voice ratchet up an embarrassing notch when I ask, “Really?”
That earns a laugh from both Jo and Malcolm, and he nods before motioning across the room at someone. A tall, ethereal Black man with long locs and earrings floats over to us. They’re acontrasting pair, Malcolm in his usual crisp suit and the other man in flowing linen pants and a loose silk shirt.
Malcolm introduces him as his husband Jensen, and we all shake hands. “He owns the gallery,” Malcolm explains, which makes Jo’s jaw hang open. Malcolm smiles at her. “Josephine is a photographer.”
Jensen inclines his head. “Oh? Would I have seen your work anywhere?”
She shakes her head, gone mute with nerves, so I take over. “I play for the Iron, and she’s one of the team’s photographers.”
“Assistant,” she quietly corrects, and I wave her off.
“She’s amazing. Here, look.” I pull up her Instagram on my phone and hand it over to Jensen, pointing out a few of my favorite photos.
“Do you have more?” he asks, and I nudge Jo to answer.
“On my website, yes, but I’ve been working with film more recently and?—”
“Really? Why film?” Jensen motions for Jo to step away to chat, and Malcolm turns to me, while keeping his attention on our partners.
“I mean it, Nico. You have surprised me, and I’m happy about it.”
I smile to myself at Jo talking, shoulders back, standing tall. She’s not hiding, and I’m so proud of her.
