“When you were in high school?” I wrinkled my nose. “You would have ignored me.”
“No.” He sat up, tucking some hair behind my ear. “I would have fallen for you the minute I saw you. You would have been the star of our softball team, and I would have stayed after practice and offered to help you with your batting.”
I snorted. “And I would have told you where to stick it.”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “I was a stud in high school. You might have tried to play hard to get, but you would have been all over me.”
“You know … you’re still a stud.” I looked over at him, his eyes lifting off the field and back to me. “I think you’re probably more of a stud now than you were here.”
Something in his eyes dimmed. “High school’s funny. It builds gods out of those who don’t deserve it. Makes them feel invincible just because they can hit a ball, or score a goal.”
I heard the catch in his voice and knew he was thinking of Emily. Of the late practice and distractions that had cost her life. And I distracted him the only way I knew how, throwing my leg over his and straddling his lap, my hands settling on either side of his face. “What would you have done, if I had let you coach my swing?”
He ran his hands slowly up the back of my thighs, caressing the skin before he got to the edge of my cutoff shorts, his fingers carefully sliding under the edge of them, hot points of contact that squeezed my ass. “I would have gone to first base.”
“Which is?”
His hands pushed further, and I lost my breath, his mouth lifting to mine as he pulled me down, harder on his lap, the rough fabric of my shorts almost painful as he lifted his hips and pressed against me. His mouth was greedy, his kiss ragged and deep, my hair falling around our lips as they battled. His final kiss slowed the tempo, his hands sliding out of my shorts and I panted, my body craving his, craving more, and never wanting to stop. “That’s first base?” I asked. It felt enormous for something so minor, yet nothing between us had ever felt ordinary.
“A Chase Stern first base.” He smiled at me and swept my hair behind my shoulder, his hand on my neck as he tilted it back and kissed the delicate skin there.
“Would you have tried for second?” I closed my eyes, his hold on my neck comforting, his mouth on my throat the most sensual thing on the planet.
“With you, I’d have tried for anything.”
I pushed gently on his chest, his lips leaving my neck, and pulled at my T-shirt, the thin material stretching over my head, everything Yankee gray for a moment before it was off, and he was staring at me, and if I could have taken a photo of his face right then, I would have saved it for eternity.
“Don’t even think about third,” I said. Then, I reached back and unclasped my bra.
He hadn’t tried for third. He’d been a perfect gentleman, even when I could feel him rock hard in his jeans, his expression painful when he went to stand. I had reached for his jeans, ready for more, but he’d stopped me, his hand firm on my wrist, his voice solid when he’d spoken. Now, in the light of the next day, my arousal calmed, I was glad he’d had the strength when I didn’t.
I yawned again, forgetting to cover my mouth, and heard Higgins chuckle. “Shut it,” I snapped, both of us straightening to attention when there was a pitch—strike. The third strike. I pushed off the wall and joined Higgins, both of us jogging for the dugout. I caught Dad’s eye from the pitcher’s bullpen and waved.
“Want to come out with us tonight?” Higgins offered. “Shawn and I are hitting the local casino. Watching us win at blackjack might wake you up a little.” He threw an arm around my shoulders and squeezed.
“Nah.” I smiled up at him. “But thanks. I’m gonna head to bed early.”
We approached the dugout, and he motioned me ahead, my eyes quick as I came down the stairs, scanning the bench, looking for anything that needed to be done. Behind me, a wave of men took the stairs, the area filling up quickly, spirits high, the air rough with masculinity and competitiveness. Still, I knew the minute Chase walked past. I felt the soft touch of his fingers as he brushed them against mine. I felt his presence, then ached for it as soon as he was past, as soon as his butt hit the seat of the bench, and I had only his eyes—burning contact that I had to avoid, had to look away from, lest we get caught. I turned toward the field, stepping up to the fence, and watching the outfield settle into place, but couldn’t stop my smile.
51
New York
“Chase, baby, how is life?” The fast crone of his agent took him right back to Los Angeles, to that big glass office full of ambitions and regrets.
For a rare moment when speaking with the man, Chase smiled. “Life is good, Floyd.”
“Really?” The skepticism was high, and Chase had to laugh. “The Yankees are treating you well?”
“I think they’re still warming up to me, but the home runs are helping.”
“How many COC lectures you gotten?”
Code-of-Conduct. The Yankees were big on everything, especially image. No facial hair, other than mustaches. No fighting. No drunk-in-public behavior. Nothing that would flutter the perfect hair of Maxine Grenada, the PR tycoon who kept the Yankee’s reputation squeaky clean. Chase winced. “A few.”
The man lowered his voice. “I really want you to think about stopping any powder. Every stupid thing you’ve done—”
“Already ahead of you,” Chase interrupted, opening the sliding glass door of his hotel room and stepping onto the balcony.
“Meaning what?”
“I’ve stopped. I could piss in a cup right now and be good to go.”
“Keep that up through the season, and you’ll make me a happy man.”
“I’m done with that shit. Permanently. Like you said, it gets me into trouble.”
The man was silent for a long, suspicious minute. “What about girls?”
“I’m dating someone.” The thought of her made him, for the hundredth time that day, smile. “Exclusively. So stop worrying. I’m behaving, I’m happy, I’m playing like God.”
“Who’s the girl?” His agent wasn’t happy yet, four years with Chase turning the man into the worst kind of cynic: a suspicious one.
“You don’t know her.”
“I need details. She a stripper or a saint? Where’d you meet her? No offense, Chase, but you’re batting zero when it comes to picking the right women.”
“She’s a bat girl for the team. She’s eighteen,” he added quickly.
“What are the Yanks doing with an eighteen-year-old bat girl? That’s asking for trouble.” The man’s voice was quicker, wheezing through the phone line.
“She’s been with the team a long time, since she was a kid.”
“Jesus Christ.” The man caught on, a heartbeat of pause before he continued, “You’re talking about the closer’s kid. Frank Fucking Rollins’s daughter? Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“She’s an adult,” he defended, his hands tightening against the balcony railing. “She’s five years younger than me. This isn’t—”
“Rollins makes one call to anyone, and you are fucked. The Yankees will drop you before the ink dries on the statutory rape press release. You’ll be done with MLB—shipped to Canada or Japan to play. And I don’t care if she’s eighteen. They’ll accuse you of cumming in her teenage panties. You think they’re not gonna care—screw that. They’re going to throw a fucking party over this story. You think Nancy Grace is gonna let this slide? She hasn’t had a Caylee Anthony or a Natalee Holloway in years. She’s gonna ride your ass right to a ratings high, and convince every person in America, and in the Yankee organization, that you’re a pedophile.” The man took a deep, shuddering breath. “You think I’m happy you’re exclusive with this girl? Do me a favor and find another girl. Hell, I got a stable of them on call. Just tell me hair color and measurements and I’ll send ten of them over.”
“You can’t replace her, Floyd. Ty,
she—”
“Stop talking right now. Don’t be exclusive with this chick, in fact, don’t even go near her. I’m tempted to call up Thomas Grant right now and tell him to yank her from traveling with you guys.”
“Listen to me very carefully.” Chase turned from the view and stepped inside, closing the sliding glass door and speaking clearly in the silence of his room. “You can try to paint this however you want—the press can paint this however they want—but there is nothing wrong with our relationship. It’s the purest thing in my life. She is saving me. And I don’t expect you, in the twisted world you live in, to understand that. But you know this industry and that’s the only reason I’m still on the phone with you right now. I need this to work. I need her in my life. And I need you to tell me how to make that work.”
There was nothing between them on the line for almost a minute.
Then, with a heavy exhale, Floyd started to speak. And, for the first time in his career with him, Chase actually listened.
52
Toronto
At night at Woodbine, the horses ran. Million dollar muscles bunched underneath slick coats, spotlights illuminating colorful silks, wide eyes and the spray of dirt kicked up by hooves. We made it to the last race of the night, having to wait until after ten to leave, my father’s bedtime now a nightly waiting ritual. A car took us to the VIP entrance, hidden from press and onlookers, but there was no need. In Canada, Chase Stern’s face didn’t carry the same weight, his low-pulled baseball cap the only disguise needed. We sat at the rail, my arm looped through Chase’s, and bent over the program, my fingers rolling down the list of horses. Kirby’s Moonshot. The name stood out, as if in bold, and I tapped it excitedly, turning to Chase. He smiled when he saw the name.
“You think he’s the one?”
“Definitely.”
“He’s a longshot,” he pointed out, running his hand over, past his name and to his stats. “Hasn’t won a race all season. 14-1 odds.”
“I like the longshots.” I beamed at him and something in his eyes changed, a look that I was starting to see more and more. Awe was too strong of a word but close. It was a look that made me feel a million feet tall. And it came at the most unremarkable times. Like this. He leaned over and kissed me, a soft press of lips that he followed with another, then another, our kisses turning to laughter as I almost fell sideways from his enthusiasm. “Stop,” I giggled, pushing him back. “Now focus. We only have a few minutes.”
“Moonshot,” he said, pushing to his feet. “I got it.” He held out his hand, and I surrendered my savings, forty-three dollars scrapped from my stipend fund. We had decided, on the drive over, that I would be the primary investor of this evening. He had wanted to cover it, but I had been greedy with the possibility of winning, wanting full ability to pick my own horse and then be obnoxious with all of my excess cash. “You want it all on him? Win-place-show?”
“Just win,” I said confidently. “He can do it.”
He raised his eyebrows skeptically, and I gestured at him to hurry. I watched him go, my eyes following until the last minute when he stepped through the doors. They returned to the page, my finger running over the horse’s name. Yes, he was a longshot. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t come out on top.
He didn’t come out on top. Kirby’s Moonshot struggled through the first corner, fighting for a third place position before hitting the first straightaway and getting left in the dust. Literally. I almost lost him a few times in the cloud of dirt created by the horses ahead of him. I was dismayed, Chase laughed, his mouth finding mine at every opportunity, my lost fortune blatantly unconsidered.
I insisted that we find the horse, to give him a consolatory pat, something for his harrowing journey. Chase remarked, with worrisome sincerity, that we might walk in on him being put down, the racer’s performance less than ideal. My steps quickened at that possibility, my breath held until the moment I rounded the corner and saw him being hosed down, his head hanging low, mouth munching contentedly on something. Surely they wouldn’t bother to wash a horse destined for death. And surely they didn’t do that anymore, the glue factory a mythical thing designed to torture the minds of small children trying to happily paste school projects.
I approached the horse and dug in my bag for the apple—one I had snagged from a welcome fruit tray in Dad’s room, the bright green skin catching the eye of a handler, who stopped me. “Can’t give him that, ma’am.”
Chase stepped in, and there was a moment of celebrity fandom, one where the man smiled brightly and hands were shaken and photos requested, and my fingers itched to sneak the fruit into the racehorse’s mouth. He flapped his lips at me, his big brown eyes watchful, and I inched closer.
There was a negotiation of sorts, tickets to tomorrow’s game mentioned, and then Chase waved me on, the apple allowed, and I stepped up to the horse, holding it flat in my palm, my fingers running along his face as he crunched into the apple, half of it gone, the other half quickly taken, my palm wet from his contact. I had a horse once. One winter. Boarded fifteen minutes away. I had memories of standing in our kitchen, in front of the blender, a concoction of apple cider, carrots, and oats in the blender. I poured it into a thermos, and Dad and I went to the barn on her ‘birthday,’ pouring the dubious mixture into a bucket, my excitement mounting as she ate it all. There were winter days where schoolbooks were pushed aside, and I climbed upon her back, riding her bareback through the ring. But then there was spring training, those months in Florida and far from her. And then there was the start of the season, and somewhere along the way she was sold, and I barely noticed, my world dominated by pinstripes, little time for anything else. Suddenly, with my hands capturing the racehorse’s muzzle in mine, his breath huffing against my palms, I missed her.
On the ride back to the hotel, I told Chase about her. Her name had been Rosie. She’d been an Arabian, fiery and ill-mannered. “Like you,” he said, and I made a face. He reached over and took my hand, pulling it to his mouth. “You are never allowed to pick winners again, Ty Rollins.”
“It wasn’t my best moment,” I conceded. “But in all fairness to Moonshot, I think he was robbed. There was clearly some unfair jostling at the start.”
He raised a brow at me. “I saw no jostling.”
I shrugged. “You’re old. Your eyes are getting weak.”
Then he laughed and leaned over the center console. “I’m falling in love with you,” he said softly.
I swallowed hard, my eyes lifting to his. They were steady on me, sure and unwavering, as if he spoke an absolute certainty. My smile began, a runaway train out of control, no force able to stop its spread. “Okay,” I whispered, unsure of how to respond.
“I just wanted you to know.”
“Okay,” I repeated. “That’s good to know.”
And it was. It was, actually, great to know. My smile grew, until the moment that he pulled me forward and kissed it away.
53
It felt like everything was moving too fast, yet time was also standing still. It’d been three weeks and six cities since that night we broke apart and then fell back together. Only 24 days, yet … when every evening was spent with him … it felt like a year. There were just over sixty games left in the season. Then, I would have a decision-filled offseason. The biggest question that weighed me down? Whether to tell my father about Chase.
“We don’t have to do this.” He gasped into my mouth as his hand yanked at my zipper.
“Shut up,” I pulled at his shirt, my nails skidding across his back in my haste to get it off, to expose that torso, the perfect lines surrounding each muscle, his abs a ripple of beauty.
“Are you sure?” he asked as his fingers dug under the waist of my jeans, pulling them over my hips, his mouth on mine as soon as the question left it.
“Third base,” I shot out, in between frantic kisses. “Stop arguing with me and do it.”
He gripped my waist and pushe
d, then I was on his bed, my jeans skinned off, flip-flops tossed somewhere, and he was pushing me back, crawling on top of me, his weight gently on mine, the press of him hard and hot, in between my legs.
It was strange how so many points of our body could touch, from foot to shoulder, the length of him atop me, his weight supported by his hands, his mouth on my neck, marking his territory, and yet the only thing I felt, right then, was his cock. It was hard, in his boxer briefs, between my legs, his cotton underwear against mine, my legs wrapping around his hips, and when he gently ground against me, I almost lost my mind. Suddenly, I didn’t want his mouth on me; I didn’t want to go down on him. I only wanted him to pull it out and push it inside of me. I wanted him to own that part of my body, to replace any memory I ever had of Tobey, to thrust inside and teach me how it was done. This time would not be a rushed affair, with no phone calls, total silence afterward, both of us running back to our normal lives. This time, with Chase, would be done right, sex filled with love and passion and the promise of a million more times. I begged him for it, and he silenced me with his kiss.
“Don’t ask me for that, Ty. Please.” His voice rasped on the beg, his hips shifting, dragging his arousal over me, each pump of his hips sending me to a new level of delirium. He pushed up on his hands, looking down between our bodies, my panties sticking to me, his bulge extended, and he slid one last painful time across me, my back arching off the bed with the need of it all. “You have no idea how badly I want that,” he groaned. “But right now, I want something even more.” He sat up, pulling at my legs, unwrapping them from his waist, and pushed at my knees, spreading them apart, his body sliding down the bed before I realized what was happening.
“Wait!” I called out, reaching for him, propping up on my elbows and trying to stop him, my hand on his shoulder, pushing him off. “I changed my mind. We can just skip this base.”
Moonshot Page 10
