I glance over to the couch where Christian lays, blanket pulled up around him, trashcan next to him.

“How is he?”

The look she gives me tells me I have no right to ask, but she answers anyway. “He’s got a fever and can’t hold anything down.”

His little head pops up an inch and the smallest smile tips his tiny lips.

“Hey, little man.” I cross to him, taking a seat at the end of the couch. “Heard you weren’t feeling well.”

“My tummy hurts,” he admits. “Are you gonna stay and watch Bolt with me?”

“We don’t want Joel to get sick, buddy,” she says and Christian’s face falls.

It would be bad if I get sick this close to the tournament, but it’s the farthest thing from my mind.

“I’ve had my flu shot. Plus, I never get sick.”

That much is true. Can’t remember the last time I had the flu. Fingers crossed.

“Your dad should be here in a little bit,” she says. I’m sure it’s meant to scare me off, but I don’t budge.

“Cool. I’ll just stay until he gets here.”

I glance back at Katrina, can’t read the expression on her face, but she shrugs a shoulder giving me permission that I know is purely for Christian’s benefit.

Little man crawls over to me, rests his head on my lap, and my heart hammers in my chest possessively. We watch the movie in silence. Katrina stays away, except to check Christian’s temperature and instruct him to drink more water.

She checks her phone no less than twenty times and I have to wonder if Victor’s blowing her off.

“He’s out,” I whisper quietly when Christian finally falls asleep.

“Oh good.” They’re the first words that have left her mouth without attitude. She stands in front of me angling like she wants to reach out for him but equally wants to refrain from touching me.

“You want him in his bed?”

“Yeah, maybe he’ll sleep for a few hours. He was up all night,” she says for the second time.

I stand with him, careful not to wake him, and take him to his room, place him on the bed, push back his hair from his forehead that’s still warm to the touch. I feel Katrina watching me, but I don’t let her rush me. I pull the comforter up to cover him and sing quietly the song my mother sang to me at night.

“Buenas noches, Hasta mañana, que Juan Pestañas ya va a llegar. El viejito de los sueños bonitos cuentos te contará. Buenas noches, Hasta mañana, que Juan Pestañas ya va a venir. ¡Ponte tu pijama y métete a la cama¡, porque ya es la hora de dormir.”

I stare at him a moment longer before I force myself up.

Katrina is sitting on the couch, legs crossed under her, staring hard at me, phone in hand.

“Victor on his way?”

Her jaw tenses. “He’ll be here.”

I try not to let her intimidate me as I take a seat next to her. She’s so angry, or maybe hurt, and I know my being here is probably making things harder, but I’m having a real hard time walking away.