Page 90 of Gap Control

"Huh interesting." She set the sketch down but kept one finger on its edge. "This was done from life?"

"Yeah. He didn't mean for me to see it."

Elena's eyebrows shot up. "So, this is stolen goods?"

"Not stolen. Found. Accidentally."

"Kid, I've been married four times. I know the difference between found accidentally and went looking because you had a feeling." She picked up the sketch again, inspecting how Mason had captured the sweat flying from my brow. "Question is: are you here because you want me to tell you it's good, or because you already know it is and need someone to confirm you're not crazy?"

I opened my mouth to lie, then closed it. Something about Elena's directness made deflection feel pointless.

"Both, maybe?"

"Honest answer. I like that." She leaned back in her chair. "You want the technical assessment or the gut reaction?"

"Technical first?"

"Technically, your mystery artist needs to work on proportions. The shading technique is self-taught, probably learned from YouTube videos and library books rather than formal instruction."

My heart sank. "So, it's amateur."

"I didn't say that." Elena sharpened her tone. "Amateur means someone's playing at art. This person isn't playing. Look here—"

She pointed to where Mason had captured the tension in my jaw. "See how they didn't just draw what they thought a face should look like? They drew the specific face in front of them. They got all the asymmetrical bits that make it you instead of Generic Hockey Player Number Seven."

She traced the outline of my jersey with a paint-stained fingernail. "And here, they didn't idealize the uniform. Got the wrinkles right, how the fabric pulls across your chest. That's observation, not imagination."

"What's the gut reaction?"

Elena was quiet for a long moment.

"My gut reaction is that whoever drew this sees you the way most people get seen maybe twice their whole lives. If they're lucky." She set the sketch down gently. "This isn't an artist trying to prove they can draw pretty pictures. Someone is trying to hold onto a moment because it mattered to them."

I squirmed. "So it's... what? Good?"

Elena barked out a laugh. "Good is what you call a sandwich or a parking spot. This is skilled. Raw, but skilled. Your friend's got an eye—the kind you can't teach, only nurture."

"What does that mean?"

"Means they see things worth capturing and know how to present them. Most people look at a hockey player and see theuniform, the gear, the surface stuff. This person looked at you and saw..." She gestured at the sketch. "Whatever this is. The you underneath all the performance."

The word hit hard: "Performance?"

"Oh, come on." Elena's smile turned knowing. "You walked in here dressed like you're trying to hide from paparazzi, asking me to evaluate art, perhaps fearing I will laugh at you. Everything about your body language screams 'I perform for a living.'" She leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "But whoever drew this? They saw past the show."

I stared at the sketch, trying to see what she was seeing. "Are there more questions I should be asking?"

"Only one that matters: are there more drawings?"

The question felt like it pushed me to the edge of a cliff. "I don't know. Maybe."

"And the artist?"

Every instinct screamed at me to protect Mason's privacy, but sitting amid the chaos of creative energy, watching Elena treat his work with reverence instead of judgment, made me want to shout his name from every rooftop in Portland.

"I can't say yet. He doesn't know I took this."

Elena nodded like she'd heard that story before. "Fair enough. Artists are touchy about showing their work before they're ready. Hell, I once dated a sculptor who wouldn't let me see his pieces until they'd been fired, glazed, fired again, and blessed by a priest." She stood, moving to a filing cabinet. "But here's the thing about talent—it wants to be shared. Eventually."

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