* * *
It was a full moon, and the weather perfect for a game. Lauren had to put on her coat by the third inning, but she was never cold. How could she be cold jumping up and down, cheering with the other twenty thousand fans? And she was jumping up and down a lot as the A’s crushed the Rangers, 12–1, the A’s big bats swinging.
Boone literally knocked the ball out of the park, and Lauren high-fived with Karen and others who felt like friends by the end of the night from cheering and high-fiving so much.
It was a truly fun night, and Lauren surprised herself by enjoying everything about the game at the Coliseum. She loved the outrageously expensive hot dogs and popcorn, and the even more expensive beer. She bought a souvenir pennant and a hideous green-and-gold pen. And while it did take forever to get out of the park, she was really glad she’d agreed to come.
It’d been a long time since she did something fun.
Too long.
And yet it was also strange that on her first night out she would go to a baseball game. Because just like Boone, this was what John did every night, except John was a pitcher, one of the Yankees’ finest.
In bed, Lauren stared at the wall, the full moon bathing her room in bright white light, and for the first time in a long time she was able to visualize John.
She could see him in his Yankees uniform, sitting with the other players in the dugout. She could see him running onto the field to take the mound. Could see him wind up and throw the ball. And he’d be beautiful, too. And the girls would all love him. The fans would love him. Because John Meeks was a star.
* * *
Did you have fun last night?” Boone asked, taking his favorite seat at the counter.
“I did,” Lauren said, bringing him his coffee. “You put on quite a show, with that second home run in the ninth. Had the fans going crazy.”
“I got the right pitch at the right time.”
Bette walked past, tapped the chair next to Boone with a menu. “You like playing the hero card, don’t you?”
“Now, I don’t know about that,” he answered, but he was smiling. He was enjoying himself, enjoying the attention. “Everybody was hitting last night.”
“That may be so,” Phyllis said, jumping in on the conversation. “But your two home runs put a lot of those runs on the board.”
Boone shook his head. “I just did what I’m paid to do. Hit the ball.”
“And how you hit it. Clear out of the park.” Bette sighed, dreamy, reliving the moment. “Now, that’s baseball.”
Boone grinned. “Good thing I didn’t strike out in the ninth last night, would hate to think what my reception would have been like this morning.”
Phyllis waved her hand at him. “Aw, sugar, don’t you fret, you would have been fine. Some of us don’t care if you play baseball. We just like looking at you ’cause you’re handsome.” She gave him a naughty smile and a come-hither glance before sashaying away.
“Everyone loves you,” Lauren said, struggling not to giggle. “Young ones . . . old ones . . . but something tells me the old ones are the worst.”
“The old ones certainly aren’t shy about their feelings,” he agreed. “But they’re often pretty dang funny, and usually very sweet. It’s the young ones you have to worry about. They throw themselves at you, and they don’t want chitchat or an autograph. They’re pretty hard-core.”
After last night’s game, Lauren could see what he meant, and she thought of Boone’s wife, at home with the kids.
It couldn’t be easy being married to a professional athlete. You’d have to be strong, and confident about your marriage. Good thing Boone was a devoted husband.
Later, when Boone reached for his wallet, Lauren refused. “Today’s on me,” she said. “My treat for taking care of us last night.”
“Want to go again tonight?” he asked, sliding from his seat and rising. “It’s going to be another beautiful night and another good game. I can put you girls on the list again.”
“Karen has to work, and I’ve got to place orders and do payroll.”
“You can come late. I’ll make sure they put you in the family section. The wives and girlfriends are all really nice—”
“I appreciate that, but let’s leave that section to the wives and girlfriends. They might tolerate outsiders, but I’m sure they don’t really want strange women there.”
He slid a folded ten-dollar bill beneath the edge of his plate. “Chris wants you there, though.”
“Who?”
“Chris Steir.” He saw her blank look. “Bats right before me. Center field. Number seven. Girls think he’s pretty good-looking.”