23
Steve’s hands were inches from Carly’s waist when she cried out into the night.
How many times had he faced that one unanswerable question? Hundreds? Thousands?
He finished the gesture, slipping his arms around her. She fought. Without hesitation. Pounded her fists at his arms where they crossed in front of her belly. He heard the sobs, felt them shake her. She redoubled her force then, unleashing one last cry of anguish before she stopped as abruptly as she’d started.
Carly turned in his arms, rested her face against his shoulder, and wept.
He held her close. Rested his own cheek upon her hair. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t rescue women. Around weeping women, he was careful to never leave the dugout, never mind enter the batter’s box.
But a rocking motion came from somewh
