NA

He walked over to the hockey painting and stood before it, the s

tomach, like a student waiting f

ed by something I couldn't quite decipher. "It's very good," he said, his voice

sweet talk ever could. Heat rushed t

folio I'd left on the cof

. It was a genuine qu

on the couch and

into: digital art, logo designs, and even

one by one, his fingers lightly tracing the lines and colors I had c

ions felt more intimate, more vulnerable, than him seeing me without any

d up at me, his eyes more serious than I had ever seen them

didn't u

deserves to be seen by more people. It sho

a "hobby." My brother was the only one who ever offered quiet encourageme

left on the coffee table after shopping that a

almly. "So stop treating it like you're afr

, confused. "Wh

urself a real place to work. Get a professional easel. Upgrade your digital setup. Buy whatever materials you

e trust fund from the contract. That must be it. This was still part of the "contract," an investment to make his "PR girlfri

arts," he added, a hint of a smile in his voice, trying to diffuse the

I picked up the card. "Alright, Mr. Hayes. I

transformed his face, melting the ice an

the frantic, runaway t

zed beside a professional easel, and I added a new digital display to replace the aging tablet I'd been struggling with. It wasn't a

ly for training and came back late. We didn't

e. He'd wash the dishes. We were like two room

anything, just watch. I could feel his gaze on me, a strangely comfor

rching goalie masks, studying the way skates cut

ust raised an eyebrow, but sa

ld last. Then, a week later, m

all this time! You have to bring him out tomorrow