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“August.”
“It’s fine.” I catch Sunday by the shoulder, stopping her from reprimanding her son because I agree; this is bullshit. My hand slips to her lower back, gripping the loose fabric there like August was just minutes ago. “Are you okay with me driving you home or do you wanna go with Izzy?”
His response is only a grunt, but it’s a grunt accompanied by him reaching for the door handle and trying to close it with me still in the way. Stepping back, I let him, swallowing my sigh of relief—I don’t know what I would’ve done if he’d taken me up on my offer.
Once the door slams shut, I all but drag Sunday around to the other side of my Jeep, putting it between us and any prying eyes. When I sink down onto the running board, I don’t think before guiding Sunday to stand between my spread legs, breathing a little easier when she comes without resistance. Slumping forward until my forehead rests against the soft curve of her stomach, I inhale the cinnamon-sugar scent that always clings to her. “Please don’t be mad at me too.”
“I’m not.” When palms curl around my shoulders and smooth down my back, the warmth of them chases away some of the tension. “Just frustrated.”
“I’m sorry. I really wish I didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“I’m pretty sure those little shits set him up.”
Sunday stiffens. “Seriously?”
“I’m pretty sure it was my fault.”
Slow, soothing movements briefly stutter to a stop. “I saw you talking to Kristal.”
The mere mention of her name has my mind racing, searching for reasons to kick her and her little shit off the team for good. “She wasn’t happy.”
Fingers methodically dig into the achy muscles at the nape of my neck. “How rare.”
“She accused me of favoritism.” I huff. “Nepotism.”
Sunday stops the much-needed massage. Her hands drop, moving to tuck wavy hair behind red ears as a flustered noise escapes agape lips. “That’s ridiculous. He’s not your son.”
“I know.” Just like I know my internal wince is completely unfounded, just like I know me grabbing her hands and guiding them back to where they were is completely pathetic. “But he’s yours.”
Gaze downcast, I don’t witness my words’ impact. Sunday’s silent for so long, I fear I said the wrong thing—said too much. Only when she sighs my name do I find some reassurance.
“Oh, Cass.” As a thumb smoothes over one cheek, lips brush the other. “You did nothing wrong,” Sunday assures me, and my eyes flutter shut, my body sags against hers. “Just give it a couple days, okay? Let him cool down.”
* * *
I don’t know what vengeful god August has a direct line to but he must’ve called in a favor because the next week of my life fucking sucks.
No August at practice means no Sunday either. Which means I miss out on three guaranteed Sunday-sightings.
She called me the morning after the incident. Said August was still really upset, requested more time. To not go to them, to let them come to me.
They haven’t.
I don’t like it.
I feel like… fuck I feel like I’ve lost all my purpose for the second time in less than a year. Like I’m lying on a concrete sidewalk again with a fucked-up shoulder and pro-baseball fans leering over me, wondering what the hell just happened.
I feel like the grumpy, cynical motherfucker the Lanes saved me from permanently becoming and I. Don’t. Like. It.
27
SUNDAY
“What doyou mean you’re in Sun Valley?”
Patronizing laughter fills the kitchen, echoing from my phone’s speaker where it sits on the counter. From where she lounges in the living room, Willow jerks upright, peering at me wide-eyed over the back of the sofa. I return her confused, horrified stare with one of my own.
