Page 18 of Play the Game
She nods. “Yeah, for most of the day today. It just keeps getting worse. I probably have a virus or something. I should have just stayed home, but Rio was picking me up and I wanted to be here for Chris. It’s his first World Series, and he should have family really watching him. But now the thought of sitting through nine innings makes me want to throw up again.”
She takes another sip of the water and then props her elbows on the table, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. Sitting with her like this, without any hint of the tension that usually simmers between us, a million questions bubble to the surface. Some new ones, and some I realize I’ve had for a while, but never let myself think.
Are you as close to your brother and his partner as it seems like you are?
What did you mean by family really watching Chris? Is there family that doesn’t watch him?
What were you doing in your pajamas at work last week?
Why do you drink black coffee when you obviously don’t like it?
Is it the Jolly Ranchers that make you smell like cherries all the time?
Do you like the work we do, or are you sometimes as frustrated with it as I am?
Do you also wrack your brain, without success, for the way our feud even started?
Why do you always carry a pink spiral notebook around?
Do you think about the night in the conference room?
Does it haunt your dreams the way it does mine?
But I don’t ask any of them.
“Are you okay to walk to the exit?” I ask her, resisting the urge to stroke a hand down her ponytail, my fingers itching to touch her in some way. “I’ll order you a car and wait with you until it comes.”
Evan shakes her head without lifting it from her hands. “I should stay. It’s my brother’s first World Series.”
This time I do give in to the urge to touch her, laying a hand on her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath her jersey. “Rhodes, you just threw up in a trash can and your head is killing you. You’re going home.”
She heaves a sigh and lifts her head, narrowing her eyes at me. “I don’t like being told what to do.”
I laugh becausethere she is. “Okay. So, I won’t tell you what to do. I’ll ask you instead. Do you want to stay here and watch three hours of baseball?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise and remove your hats for the singing of the national anthem.”
The booming of the loudspeaker through the concourse could not be more perfectly timed. Evan’s hands fly back to her temples as she squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head slowly, as if any more sudden movements will increase her pain.
“Let me just text Rio,” she mumbles, taking her phone out ofher bag and unlocking it, opening up her messages and typing something in. Her phone dings with a response immediately, and she gives a half laugh that sounds just a little pained before shoving her phone back into her back, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
When Evan opens her eyes and looks back up at me, that tinge of vulnerability is back, and for a second, it’s like I see all of her. Not the lawyer who works her ass off and will do anything to get ahead. But the woman who comes to a baseball game even when she feels like shit so she can watch her brother play. The one who fills her purse with cherry Jolly Ranchers and likes to read romance and wears pajamas at the office early in the morning. There’s probably a whole lot more, and weirdly, in this moment, I kind of want to know all of it.
But first thing’s first.
I stand from the table, holding out a hand to her. “Come on, Rhodes. Let’s get you home.”
She nods and stands too. When she sways a little on her feet, I wrap an arm around her waist and walk with her out of the stadium in companionable silence. Twenty minutes later, I stand on the curb outside the stadium, watching as the taillights of her car disappear and wondering why it suddenly feels like the world has shifted under my feet and why I don’t hate it nearly as much as I should.
CHAPTER SIX
EVAN
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
My head shoots up at the sound of Cooper’s voice, and I regret it immediately as a sharp stab of pain lances through my temples and my stomach churns ominously. I hook a foot around the trash can under my desk, surreptitiously pulling it closer to me, so if I have to throw up again, at least it doesn’t end up on the floor.
My threshold for embarrassment has risen dramatically in the last fourteen hours.
