As Chris added the tip and signed the receipt, Lauren grappled with anger and pain.
“You okay?” Chris asked, setting the pen down and looking at her.
She opened her mouth, but there were no words. The rage went too deep. She nodded and managed a small, tight smile, shielding Chris from her chaotic emotions.
Chris didn’t need to be drawn into this. It was her battle. Her problem. Not his.
He rose and extended his hand to her. As they moved through the tables to the entrance, he drew her closer to his side, his arm now circling her waist, resting on her hip.
They were almost through the crowded floor and several tables from John when he stood.
“Lauren?” he said in disbelief.
She turned and looked at him. Her heart thumped so hard she thought it would break free from her chest.
She didn’t realize she’d moved, but suddenly she was there, standing in front of him and his table. “John.”
John seemed nonplussed. He glanced past her to Chris. His brow creased. “You’re . . . with Steir?”
“Yes,” she answered, after a half beat of silence.
“Wow. Well.” John obviously didn’t know what to say.
Lauren had no desire to hear more. “Good night,” she said coolly.
She was walking away when John spoke. “I’m sorry about the kid,” he said.
Lauren froze. She blinked. Staggered.
The kid.
The kid, he’d called Blake.
Jesus.
She swayed. Chris’s hand went to her elbow. He was standing close behind her, so close she could feel his warmth and the light pressure of his fingers at her elbow, reassuring her.
But she didn’t want reassurance. And she didn’t want to be calmed. Slowly she turned and stepped past Chris to retrace her steps. “So you knew?” she demanded, her voice barely above a whisper.
John had sat back down and he looked up at her, surprised. “Yes.”
“You knew he’d died?” she repeated, her voice rising. She didn’t care who heard her. She didn’t care about the three teammates at his table. She didn’t care about anything but the truth.
“My parents told me.”
The ice inside her turned to fire. Heat raced through her. Her jaw worked, her eyes burned, it hurt to breathe. “And you did nothing? No call, no card, no flowers . . . no nothing?”
“I was on the road.”
“I see.” She was shaking, but she held her ground and stared hard into his eyes, eyes so much like Blake’s eyes, the same shape, the same color it was unnerving.
“But I was sorry to hear about the kid’s passing,” he added.
Lauren saw red. “What did you say?”
John frowned, puzzled. “I said I was sorry about—”
“Blake,” she said, interrupting him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “His name was Blake, and he wasn’t the kid, you fucker. He was your son!”
John rose. “Hey, now wait—”
“Your son,” she said again, jabbing his chest harder. “And he was amazing.”
She stepped away. John rolled his eyes at one of the guys at his table. She saw but before she could react, Chris threw a punch, connecting with John’s jaw, sending the Yankees pitcher to the floor, taking his chair with him.
John shoved the chair away and staggered to his feet.
“That was for Blake,” Chris said quietly, gesturing to John’s teammates to stay put, even as he nodded at John, inviting him to come back for more. “This next one’s for Lauren.”
John hesitated, uncertain.
But Chris wasn’t. He threw another punch.
Lauren walked out. Chris followed.
They were silent in the car. Chris drove and Lauren stared blindly out the window, her insides churning, her dinner threatening to come up any minute.
It wasn’t until they were nearing Chris’s condo that he spoke. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but I’m not sorry I did it.”
Lauren looked at him, chest tight. Is that what he’d been thinking this whole time? That she was upset with him?
“I’m not sorry you hit him,” she said quietly, fiercely. “I’m glad. I just wish I’d punched him myself.”
* * *
Tuesday morning, Sarah sat on the foot of their bed and held her breath, her heart racing as she watched Boone pack for a six-day road trip.
He’d be back late on July 29, and then Tampa Bay arrived in town.
Yay, Tampa Bay.
Screw you, Jeff Neeley.
But she said none of this as she watched Boone prepare to go, already so nervous about him leaving that she felt sick—physically ill—as the panic and anxiety bubbled.
She didn’t want the craziness, though. Didn’t want the fear. It was too much, and it was getting too big.