Page 17 of Play the Game
“This was a bad idea,” Cooper mutters, glancing at his family and then at me. Then, without warning, he stalks past me out of the row and straight up the stairs. He disappears into the concourse, leaving behind the scent of his cologne and a gnawing ache in my stomach. I sit down heavily and take a deep breath, willing myself not to look at a single member of the Wyles family even though I can feel all their eyes on me.
“Wow, what did I miss?” Rio asks, sliding into the seat next to me.
“So, so much,” I mumble, grabbing the slushie he hands me and taking a long sip, wincing a little as the brain freeze mixes with my simmering headache, the cold, icy liquid doing nothing to calm my stomach.
“Well, dish girlfriend. But fortify yourself first.”
Rio holds out a hot dog, and the second the smell hits me,nausea rises like tsunami. I breathe deeply in an attempt to calm my roiling stomach, but all that does is give me another whiff of the hot dog and I want to die. Sweat beads on the back of my neck, and my body flips between hot and cold so rapidly that my brain can’t make sense of anything except for one single thought.
I’m about to throw up, and I’ll be damned if I do that here, in front of Cooper’s whole family and an entire baseball stadium.
Shooting to my feet, I grab my bag and practically vault over Rio, taking the stairs up to the concourse as fast as I can, praying to whatever god will listen that my stomach stays where it is for just a little while longer.
COOPER
Dragging a deep breath in through my nose, I lean against the wall of the concourse and close my eyes, trying to get my shit together. People stream by me as they make their way to their seats, the entire stadium buzzing with excitement, but all I can think about is Evan’s face when I snapped at Jo for being nice.
I’m usually nice.
What I did down there was the opposite of nice.
I’m not this guy.
I push off the wall, intending to go back down and apologize, even if I have to choke on the words when I do it. But before I can get very far, I’m almost mowed over by a tornado of blonde hair and a very familiar cherry scent.
Evan.
She seems to be heading for the bathroom, but before she can make it there, she freezes in the middle of the concourse. Her face twists into a combination of panic and horror before she makes a beeline for the garbage can right across from me, gripping it with both hands as she vomits violently.
I’m next to her before my brain even engages, situatingmyself behind her to block curious onlookers as best as I can. Gathering up her hair in one of my hands, I hold it away from her face while my other hand rubs circles on her back.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, as she stays bent low over the trash can.
My stomach clenches in sympathy because there is literally nothing worse in the entire world than throwing up, unless it’s throwing up in front of an audience.
Evan lets out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course it would be you who sees this,” she mutters. She goes to say more, but she’s cut off by her entire body seizing as she heaves again, her fingers turning white where they grip the trash can.
Gently lifting one of her hands, I slide the hair tie off her wrist and secure her hair in a ponytail. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, barely moving a muscle. When she talks, her voice is low and strained. “Trust me, I’m not moving.”
Laying a hand briefly on her back, I walk across to one of the emptier concession stands and buy a bottle of water. Grabbing a handful of napkins, I go back to where Evan is standing, still bent low over the trash can but not throwing up anymore. Kneeling down beside her, I take one of the napkins and wipe the tears streaming down her face then hand her another napkin she uses to blow her nose.
She tosses the napkin in the trash and stands up straight to face me, her cheeks pale, her eyes sunken and bloodshot. “I’m fine now,” she says in a raspy voice. “You can go. They’re about to sing the national anthem and then the game is going to start. I’m sure you want to be with your family.”
Her voice is sharp with embarrassment, but there’s a hint of vulnerability in her tone that has every one of my protective instincts surging to the surface, shoving our feud right out of my head. “No way, Rhodes. I’m not leaving you like this. Come on.”
I take her hand and lead her to an empty table across from a crowded taco stand. I feel a zap of electricity where our hands touch, and a part of me just accepts it as fact, even as another part of me questions what the hell is happening right now.
“Here,” I say, taking the chair next to hers, uncapping the water bottle and handing it to her. “Take it slow, okay?”
She nods her assent, taking a small sip of the water and then another one. Setting it down, she digs into the bag looped across her body and pulls out what looks like a cherry Jolly Rancher. She pops it in her mouth, letting out a little sigh of relief before bringing her eyes to mine, looking at me like she’s trying to figure me out. “Why are you helping me?”
I shrug, mostly because I think the answer to that question is far more complicated than I’m ready to parse right now. “My mom would kill me if I walked away from a woman I know when she’s sick. And not in the metaphorical way. She would literally, actually kill me.”
Evan gives a short laugh and then winces, digging her fingers into her temples.
“Headache?” I ask.
