THE ENERGY IN VELOCITY IS FRENETIC. WITH THE GALA ON Friday, there are so many tiny details to attend to: name tags, seating charts, printing the forms for the silent auction, putting together the boxes that will hold the raffle tickets, and on and on and on. There are details that I’d never even considered. Like assigning Table Captains—people who are well versed enough in the team’s charity to be able to speak about it passionately and coherently.
Gabe doesn’t get back until Monday and has practice and team meetings on Tuesday, but we plan to have dinner together on Wednesday at Moretti’s.
Just before noon, I get an email that the office is providing lunch in the Lakeside conference room. I expect to poke my head in, grab a box, and go somewhere to eat. When Katie and I open the door, there’s no food and the entire staff is crowded around the table. Arman, Javi, and Mara stand along the window. Arman waves, but Javi and Mara are whispering intensely to each other and don’t acknowledge us.
I wedge myself between Katie and the suspiciously empty sideboard. “Is this a meeting?” I whisper. “Is the food not here yet?”
“I don’t know, but I’m starving.” Katie wraps her arms around her middle. “I feel like we’re being held hostage.”
“From who?”
“From our food.”
I have to stifle a laugh as Aunt Emma walks to the head of the table. “I called this lunch meeting today to celebrate something remarkable.” She nods to William, who turns on the video projector. A still image of Gabe at the piano fills the whiteboard. Em grabs a red marker from the tray and draws a big circle around the hit count. “This video is officially viral! It’s gotten more than 5.4 million hits in the first seven days. And perhaps the most amazing part is that it was conceived, shot, and edited by one of our interns—Maddie McPherson!”
The staff applauds. From across the room, Arman cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Good job, Maddie!”
And I stand there frozen, cheeks burning, barely feeling Katie’s hands pushing me toward the front of the room.
I stumble toward my aunt, who pulls me into a tight hug, and then leaves her arm around my shoulders. “Because of this video’s success on multiple platforms, Mr. Fortunato has been invited to play on Good Morning America’s Summer Road Trip series, which will be in Chicago on Thursday!”
My mouth drops open in shock as the Velocity staff cheers again. Pride shoots through my veins. I’ve totally done something right. For once in my life, I set out to do a good thing and everything went according to plan.
“At Velocity, we believe in celebrating each other’s victories,” Aunt Emma continues, as Patty rolls in a catering cart laden with boxes from the fancy restaurant in the Four Seasons hotel. “Please, eat and enjoy, before we all have to get back to work.”
Everyone laughs and then the junior and senior executives—who have mostly only thanked me for their coffee—come up to shake my hand and tell me what a fabulous job I’ve done this summer. One even asks if I plan to come back next year.
“Congrats, Mads.” Emma pulls me into another hug. “I’ve already run everything past Gabe, and he’s looking forward to it.”
The words crack like a wet towel across my back, chasing away my happiness with a sudden sting. “He’s looking forward to it? Really? I thought he’d be a little hesitant.”
“He knows it will be good for his image and his future.” She smiles and tilts her head toward me. “Plus, he knows it will be good for you.”
I WORK LATE ON WEDNESDAY AND RACE OUT OF THE BUILDING TO get to Moretti’s. It’s a beautiful day, the bus arrives thirty seconds after I do, and I get to see Gabe. All good things.
The bus is a little crowded, but even that doesn’t dampen my mood. If I were in a musical, I’d do some choreography down the aisle and swing around the pole.
When my phone rings and his name appears on the screen, I almost do.
“Hey! I’m on the bus. Do you think Maria will have risotto again tonight? It’s on the menu so I’m assuming she has it every night.”
He’s silent for a second too long. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t left my apartment yet.”
“That’s okay. I got out of work late.” It’s like a rain cloud is trying to blot out my sunshine, but I’m not going to let it. “Em told me about the whole Good Morning America thing.”
A piano key plunks in the background. “Yeah.” Then it’s painfully quiet. “Good news, right?”
“Do you think it is?”
“Scott and Emma and everyone think that it’s a great opportunity, so it must be.”
I readjust my grip on the overhead bar, thinking about the other big opportunity Scott and Emma think he should take. Now is definitely not the time to bring it up. “And yet, I’m not convinced that you’re convinced.”
He plays some chords in the background, and I can’t help but imagine him in his too-dark apartment with the phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder, posture curved with unhappiness. “I can’t figure out what to play.”
While I believe that’s part of it, I think he’s also worried what people—specifically his family—will say when they see it.
“I can get off the bus at the next stop, pick up some food, and bring it to you.” The bus jolts and a crew of people start to spill out. “We can figure it out together.”
“Madeline.” A hint of humor laces his tone. “If you come over here, I will not be able to focus on the piano.”
I flush all the way to my hairline. “That feels like a backhanded compliment.”
He laughs, and that heat meanders all the way to my toes. “Just a compliment.”
“Fine,” I say with a happy sigh. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Ci vediamo presto.”
I don’t know what that means in English, but it sounds like a promise.
WE HAVE TO BE AT THE STATION BY 5:30 A.M. EMMA AND I WILL PICK up Gabe on our way, so there’s no chance of him sleeping through his zombie apocalypse alarm clock or having his phone die or whatever possible excuse.
By some miracle, he’s leaning against the side of his building when we turn onto his street. With his navy pants, emerald green blazer, pin-striped shirt, and a pair of loafers that must be Italian, he looks exactly like a photo from a fashion magazine. Seeing him again sends an electric shock through my body, and all the butterflies in my chest scatter in a spastic flurry.
So much for trying to play it cool.
“Well,” Emma says, as she leans across me. “We won’t have to dress him for the occasion.”
“It’s just one more thing that he does well.”
Emma looks over at me, eyebrow cocked.
“I’m just saying that he’s good at a lot of things,” I correct myself, but it makes her bite her bottom lip to stop from smiling. “You know what, never mind.”
“Hmm.”
The car pulls into the half-circle driveway in front of Gabe’s apartment, and he climbs in the front passenger seat. I sort of wish he would have squeezed in the back with us, which is ridiculous. It would have been a tight fit, but it would have given me the perfect excuse to be pressed up against him, to brush my hand against his, to smell that faint woodsy cologne he wears.
I’m wearing a robin’s-egg blue sheath dress that makes me look more like a woman than a stick of celery. That was one of the comments from the WAGs Instagram account, and it’s unfortunately accurate. The dress hugs my nearly invisible curves. Yes, I wore it with the post in mind, hoping Gabe would notice.
When he looks over the back of the seat, I think he does. “Good morning,” is all he says, but the quirk of his lips, the way his eyes linger on me, make it seem like he said so much more.
Emma wishes him good morning—reminding me that we’re not alone—and congratulates him on the team’s last two victories. He does exactly as he’s been trained and comments on his teammates’ hard work and their accomplishments, and how well his opponents played. It’s polite and to the point, but a little too on the nose. She asks him a few questions from the list Good Morning America sent over. It’s all the same—canned answers. No personality. No charm. It’s like he’s reading lines.
“They’ve set up an open-air studio near Buckingham Fountain,” Em explains, leaning forward slightly in her seat. “You’ll film the piano piece first and then the interview.”
He nods without looking back at either of us.
Em gives me a questioning glance and mouths, “Nervous?”
“He’ll warm up,” I respond, hoping it’s true.
When we reach Grant Park, a white tent is set up on the gravel that surrounds the giant wedding cake—style fountain. Behind that a temporary awning provides shade to the camera crew and anchors without blocking the cityscape rising over the dancing spray. The water reflects the sunrise, gilding the verdigris seahorses at the base. I can see why they chose this location. It’s gorgeous.
We’re greeted by one of the producers, then whisked into the tent, which is cooled by industrial-sized fans. Emma and I stand off to the side while the hair and makeup crew fawn over Gabe. He turns on the charm under their attention, and the stylist takes extra long fixing his already perfect hair. I’m pretty sure it’s an excuse to stay close to him. Jealousy prickles on the back of my arms, but I ignore it.
Finally, they move on to the next guest because, honestly, how much work can you do on a guy who looks like that? Emma is off in the corner talking to someone she knows. Gabe and I are relatively alone for the first time in a week. I slide up beside the tall studio chair they’ve given him. His right ring finger taps against the chair’s arm like that first day in the conference room. It’s his tell. He is nervous.
I touch the back of his hand, stilling the tapping finger.
His real grin appears—it’s sweeter than the one he’d given the makeup artists—and I know it’s for me.
“Stop fidgeting. You’re going to be brilliant.”
“I’m always brilliant.”
I roll my eyes at his confidence, but I’m also glad he has it. At some level he struggles with insecurity—just like me, just like anyone—but deep down, I know that Gabriel Fortunato truly believes in himself, in his hard work, in his skill. And, I remind myself, that he’ll never achieve his dreams if his insecurities keep him in MLS.
Encouraging him to meet with Geoff is the right thing, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy for him to hear. “Speaking of your brilliance, Emma and Scott really want you to think about playing for Arsenal.”
“Madeline—”
“Hold up. Just hear me out.” I slip my fingers between his and hold tight. “I know you have reasons to hate Geoff, but meeting with him, maybe playing for him for one season, could be your chance at getting back to European soccer. It could open other doors for you.”
He closes his eyes like he’s trying to block me out.
“I know you don’t want to be here. In Chicago. In MLS. But I don’t want you to give up on your passion. You love the game so much. You want to play somewhere big, somewhere competitive. So please.” I squeeze his hand again but get nothing in return. “Just consider it.”
Gabe lets out a long breath before pulling his hand free from mine. “I don’t. Want. To think about it.” His voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough to draw the closest hair and makeup team’s attention. He notices and stands up, squaring himself in front of me. “I will never consider it. Please don’t bring it up again.”
I look into his eyes and see resolve and a little bit of hurt. Hurt that I caused. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, touching his jacket sleeve. “I just want what’s best for you.”
“Then trust me when I say that Geoff isn’t it.” He walks toward the refreshment table, but it feels like he’s walking away from me.
Emma snags him before he picks up a pastry. “You’re up next. This audience is going to eat this up! Everyone is going to absolutely love you.”
“Because that’s what’s important, right?”
She ignores the acid in his voice, brushes lint off his shoulder, and smiles. “Yes, it is. Especially when you’re a public figure.”
He says nothing, allowing the producers to usher him to the piano, where we snap dozens of still photos of him standing between two of the female hosts. His smile is fake, but I don’t think anyone will notice that when I post the pictures as a teaser. Hopefully thousands of people will watch his segment the moment it goes live.
Because that’s what we want. Isn’t it?
Gabe sits down, wipes his palms on his pants, and begins to play a song from The Greatest Showman, but it’s not straight off the sheet music. He’s mixed in something from a British band I can’t name. It’s phenomenal. He is such a gifted musician. And athlete.
Both anchors are stunned by his talent and a little bit giggly. They do not stick to the preselected questions we prepped Gabe for.
The dark-haired host leans over the side of the piano, elbow propped dreamily on the side, and says, “Tell me: Is there some lucky girl in your life? Someone who gets to watch you play soccer during the day and fall asleep to music like that at night?”
Gabe gives her his practiced smile, the one that’s just a little too dashing to be authentic. “Are you auditioning?”
Everyone laughs. Everyone but me. I stand behind the cameras, watching Gabe play these anchors like he did the piano. He turns up the accent—it usually isn’t this heavy—for their benefit. It’s another tool in his arsenal of charm. These two older women fall for it and all over themselves for a boy who’s barely legal.
I think back to every conversation I had with Gabe, every text, every hand touch and smile, and I wonder if maybe I didn’t fall for it too.
“That’s not a straight answer,” the blond one teases. “You’ve been linked to dozens of models and designers and heiresses. Is there someone like that in your life?”
My breath catches in my throat, and I wait on pins and needles with the rest of the world to hear his response.
“No,” he says, shaking his head, but his eyes land on me. “There’s no one like that.”
My brain tells me he only said it because he protects his privacy and the people he cares about. But a little corner of my heart—maybe pinched by my own insecurities—is telling me that this is his way of saying there’s nothing between us.
AFTER THE SEGMENT ENDS, I RUSH TOWARD THE PARKING LOT, tapping on my phone, cutting and pasting the text that had already been approved for this post. When the car pulls up, I climb inside before the driver comes around to open the door. Gabe must have been right on my heels because he ducks in after me, so I have no choice except to slide across the seat or end up with him on my lap.
Should I ask him what he meant, or would that make me seem stupid? Or clingy? Or needy? I don’t want to be any of those things. I just want a clear answer.
But before I can formulate a question, he asks, “How do you think it went?”
Right. Of course he’s worried about that. “Good. Really good.”
“Good.” He nods once, then focuses on his phone.
I wait, hoping for an explanation because this is a perfect opportunity. The driver is outside waiting for Emma; we’re alone. When the silence stretches, I guess I have my answer. He’s ignoring me in favor of his phone, which makes it pretty obvious that he doesn’t want to talk. I turn to face the car window, so I don’t have to look at him, so I don’t have to notice how his suit jacket makes his eyes more green than hazel. I don’t want to think about the night on the roof. I don’t want to think about his skin against mine or the way my heart races every time I hear his voice.
Emma climbs in, completely oblivious to the tension in the car. She’s thrilled the interview went so well and that both anchors were so charmed by him. “You really have a gift with people. You make everyone believe they’re someone special.”
That is an understatement.