Moonshot

by Alessandra Torre

  “Some things can’t be quit, Ty.” His eyes darkened, and his hand, the one wrapped around my waist, slid lower.

  “Like chocolate?” I teased, laughing when he moved on top of me, kissing my neck, his hand tightening on my butt and pulling me into place.

  “Sure,” he mumbled, pushing my legs apart, wrapping them around his waist. “Go with chocolate.”

  Then he yanked at my panties, pulling them aside, and I stopped thinking about Perkins and chocolate. I wrapped my arms around his neck, I opened my mouth to his greedy kiss, and I gasped out a sigh when he thrust inside of me.

  He loved me. Fiercely. Unselfishly. For most women, it was all they needed in life.

  But me, I needed the curse to stop.

  I needed a year to pass without blood marring our pinstripes.

  I needed a World Series win.

  63

  “We’re looking at nineteen million, paid out within the first eighteen months. A three-year term with the rights to the sneaker for perpetuity. You’ll get a five-percent royalty on the shoe, and you’re giving Nike an exclusive on footwear, but nothing that will affect your Under Armour sponsorship.” His agent tapped the table with each point, an incredibly annoying habit.

  Chase flipped over the page, reading the words carefully, the contract boilerplate, the fifth signed in the last three years. When he was finished, he initialed each page and scrawled his name across the bottom, sliding the papers across the polished wood table toward Floyd. “Here. Anything else?”

  “You could hold back your mountain of gratitude.”

  Chase shrugged, tossing down the pen. “It’s money. At some point, I’m going to run out of time to spend it.”

  “That’s what kids are for.” The man cracked a smile that went unreturned. “Sorry.” He stood up, leaving the contract on the table and buttoned his suit jacket. “Want to hit Scores while you are in town? We can—”

  “No,” Chase said shortly. “There’s a jet waiting at JFK.”

  The man studied him for a minute, then nodded, holding out his hand. “Thanks for making the trip. It was important for Nike to have the face-to-face.”

  Chase stood, and they shook hands, his exit through the agency done quickly, a car waiting for him up front. He ducked into the backseat without a word.

  “JFK, sir?” the driver asked.

  “Yes. Hurry.” He put on headphones and unwrapped a piece of gum, his jaw working overtime as he closed his eyes and tried to, during the drive, ignore the city around him. The city she lived in, towered over, the air filled with her scent, her presence. She lived on Fifth Avenue, just blocks away. Probably ran on these streets, ate at the restaurants they were driving past. Four years, and he hadn’t seen her once. Not at Yankee Stadium, not on the Orioles’ field. After his trade, he’d searched. Every seat, every inch of the dugouts, he’d expected to see her slim body encased in pinstripes, a hat pulled low on her head. But she’d been gone.

  He should have answered her early calls. The ones right after the night he’d been charged with assault, and then promptly traded to the Orioles. In New York one moment, and gone the next, arriving in Baltimore just in time to suit up and play. His phone had rang several times that night, during the game, the phone buzzing in his locker, the missed calls not seen until later. He’d been too pissed to return her calls, or to even listen to her voicemails. He hadn’t wanted to hear her excuses, or her apologies. She had ruined everything, including his trust, his spot on the team, his spot in her life. He’d ignored the calls, wanting a chance to cool off, wanting her to truly realize her mistake.

  Only she had stopped calling. Just a week after his trade, his phone had gone silent. And when he’d finally broken down and tried her cell, it had been disconnected.

  Then, the rumors had started, whispers about an engagement. He’d refused to believe it, had cut off Floyd’s casual question when it’d came. It was impossible. They were in love. For Ty to run to Tobey … it just didn’t make sense.

  The final nail in his coffin was a damn People Magazine. Her smile had shone from the glossy cover, her eyes warm, a baseball glove covering her mouth. He’d stopped in the middle of the hotel lobby, and stepped into the gift shop, his hands trembling as he’d pulled the magazine off the rack, flipping through pages upon pages of junk until he’d found the article. They’d called her the Blue & White Baby and had played the Cinderella aspect of the story—a ball girl marrying the billionaire’s son. It didn’t contain any helpful details, just that they had known each other for seven years and had dated for “some” time. Whatever the fuck that meant. There had been a picture of her ring, an enormous diamond that she’d never be able to pull a glove over. And a photo of Tobey, the prick’s grin big enough to piss off Chase.

  He still hadn’t believed it, expected her to pull out of the engagement, to show up, follow him to Baltimore, but she hadn’t. She’d walked, three weeks after the article, down an aisle dripping with flowers. He’d drank enough whiskey to black out. She’d changed her name, moved into her new husband’s house, and started a different life. One he’d known nothing about. He’d vowed to never speak her name again and turned all of his focus to the game.

  It had hurt. More than just hurt. It had destroyed him. Almost as bad as Emily’s death had. This destruction hit a different part of his heart. It’d stabbed him there and stayed, a constant ache that never left, her scent imprinted on his soul, her voice in his ear. He ran until his chest ached and thought of her. He threw balls until midnight and wondered where she was, what she was doing. He had sex with a blonde, then a brunette, then swore off women all together, each experience only bringing her to mind.

  It’d been almost four years since he’d touched alcohol, drugs, or women. Four years since he’d last seen her smile, heard her voice. Four years of being a saint and focusing only on baseball. His reputation had soared, as had his stats, and his finances. But his sanity was still in question. Four years later, and he couldn’t even bear to stay a night in the same city as her.

  First loves were supposed to be flimsy and temperamental. They were supposed to burn bright and fade fast. They weren’t supposed to stick. They weren’t supposed to eat away at a man’s heart, his capacity for life. The car slowed, the jet beside them, and he reached for his sunglasses, pushing them on and stepping out.

  It wasn’t until he was in the air, ten thousand feet above the city, that he could take his first clear breath. He had, at least physically, survived.

  64

  On the night I had told Tobey about my pregnancy, I had been both tearful and emboldened, stiff and defiant when I’d uttered the words and waited for rejection, every pore of my soul ready to fight to the death for my child.

  He had been silent, then he had sworn, a stream of curses punctuated by his hands tearing through his hair, his fall into one of their chairs heavy, mood black. I had watched without words. In that moment, I hadn’t judged him. I had gone through a similar moment, everything in my world breaking apart, everything suddenly changed. I’d waited for him to come through it, to collect himself. To say the next thing, something that would tell me exactly what my baby’s father was made of.

  “You’ll get married.” His father spoke for him, stepping out onto the porch, his voice allowing no discussion on the subject, my own dad behind him in the open doorway.

  “Dad—” Tobey’s one word died, his head turned to his father, their eye contact held for a long moment before he turned away.

  “You’ll finish this semester at Harvard, and you and Ty will live with us until you graduate. You can get married at Thanksgiving. Grad school will have to wait.”

  Mr. Grant turned to me, his nod firm, the affection I’d always seen in his eyes still present, his excitement at the news almost worrisome in its glee. And with his declaration to Tobey, the decision was made. Tobey and my eyes met, and his face was that of a trapped man. I looked away, a fresh wave of nausea rising.r />
  Maybe I should have protested. If I had, maybe the baby would have lived. Fate was funny that way; it had its own way of changing our lives.

  AUGUST

  “It was like the Curse of the Bambino, just bloodier. You see, the girls each died on whatever day the Yanks lost their chance at the World Series, be it the final game of the season or the playoffs. It was a brilliant strategy, if I can even say that. All of the attention, all of the pressure, went to the team winning it all. But every year, they fell short. And every year, another girl had to die.”

  Dan Velacruz, New York Times

  65

  I propped a foot on the windowsill, all of Yankee Stadium stretched out before me. To my right, Tobey sat, his phone out, his finger moving. To my left, Dick Polit, the team GM and a world-class idiot.

  “Shrimp cocktail?” the waitress offered, first to Dick, then to Tobey. She didn’t say anything to me, the staff accustomed to my tastes, the first rule of thumb being that I didn’t eat anything dignified during a game. Nachos, peanuts, and hot dogs were fair game. Beer was fine, soda preferred. I liked the massage girl if we were up by more than three runs, and could be downright hostile if we were down. My first days in the box, I adhered to the expected dress code, pairing a navy sheath with a white cardigan. As soon as I felt comfortable, I went native, ditching anything dry-cleanable for a jersey and jeans.

  I watched Perkins closely, his step off second stiff. “See?” I elbowed Dick. “Watch Perkins move. He’s favoring that knee.”

  “He’s also batting .284. He’s recovering from his surgery; it’ll get better.”

  “It won’t. He’s a weak point. We could get some draft picks for him if we move quickly.” I chewed on the end of my straw.

  “If we move quickly, we’ll have a hole in the outfield until the draft.”

  “Coach says Vornisk is ready to move up. I watched his footage last week. He’s already better than Perkins.” There was the crack of a bat, and we all watched in silence, my eyes focused on Perkins, his run to third more of a hobble. “See!” I pointed, nudging Dick again. “Look at him. That could be a run. Right there, he just cost us a run.”

  “I’m not trading an experienced player for a Minor League graduate.” He leaned forward, talking over me to Tobey. “You want me to get rid of Perkins? Give me enough cash to get a real player in. We can’t wait for the draft, and we can’t bring someone up, not halfway through the season. If Ty has a point, and you know I hate admitting that, we need quality, experienced blood.”

  “I have a point,” I grumbled through a peanut shell, an empty cup to my lips, the shell spit out.

  “You’ve got the biggest payroll in the league,” Tobey snapped, looking up from his phone. “Don’t poor-mouth me now. Not after I just paid twelve-mil for that reliever.”

  “Hey, your wife’s the one griping.” Dick sat back in his chair.

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek, staring at Perkins, working through the scenarios. “He’s right,” I finally said, turning to Tobey, ignoring the dramatic sputter of Dick. “If Perkins needs to go, and he needs to go, we can bring up Vornisk from the Minors, and he can step in. He’ll be stronger than Perkins, and we can finish this season in a better place than we are now.”

  “I’m missing the place where Dick is right,” Tobey said slowly, his eyes on mine.

  “We’d finish the season in a better place than now,” I repeated, “but it’s still a waste of a season. We’ll make the playoffs, but we won’t win. And that’s why we’re here—to win. You’ve got three hundred million invested in this season for that reason—to win. And,” I pointed to the field, “you can’t do it with him. And you can’t do it—not this year—with Vornisk. We need to stop fucking around and fix this. And an experienced shortstop, one with a strong bat, would do that. It’d put us where we’d need to be. It’d put the World Series in reach.” I didn’t need to mention the girls, the curse. It was there, unsaid, in the corner of every room, haunting all of our lives, especially since Tiffany Wharton. I blinked away the memory, her lifeless eyes, and focused on Tobey’s face.

  “How much?” he asked, the question directed at me.

  “I think we could get—”

  “Ty,” Tobey interrupted. “How much?”

  “Fifty,” I said without hesitation. I could have said more. I could have said a hundred. But a hundred million put us in Chase Stern territory and—damn the curse—I couldn’t stomach that possibility. Fifty million would give us a solid player. Fifty million would be enough to fix everything

  “And you’d be happy?”

  The corner of my mouth lifted, and I hid my smile behind another sip of my drink. “For now.”

  He leaned forward, pulling the drink away from me and kissed my mouth, the contact quick and hard. When he sat back, he nodded at Dick. “Fifty million. Get us the best bat and glove you can. But I want a promise, from both of you, that we’ll be in the World Series.”

  “We will.” I nodded, Dick less than enthusiastic in his guarantee. He shook the hand Tobey held out, and I settled back in my seat, my eyes leaving Perkins, my outlook considerably improved.

  “You guys are the weirdest couple on the planet,” Dick muttered. I laughed, Tobey’s hand sliding over mine, our fingers intertwining.

  He knew what I needed, how to make me happy. And in that moment, I was.

  I didn’t know. I didn’t know that I had just signed our relationship’s death warrant.

  66

  “Good news,” the voice rang through Chase’s headphones, and he paused the treadmill, slowing to a walk, his heart beating hard.

  “What?”

  “Yankees want you back.”

  “What?” His hand jabbed the emergency stop, and he stepped off the end, ripping the earbuds from his head and lifting the phone to his ear. “Are you fucking with me?”

  There was a long pause. “I thought you’d be happy,” Floyd said cautiously.

  “I’m not. You told me four years ago, very clearly, that I was—and this is a direct quote—‘dead to them.’”

  “I thought you were.”

  “I don’t want to go to the Yankees.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, controlled breath.

  “Are you serious? Stop holding a grudge and get excited about this. Remember when you were in LA, and obsessed with playing for them?”

  He closed his eyes tightly. “Tell me it’s not fucking done. Tell me that, Floyd.”

  Another long pause. “You don’t have a no-trades clause. You knew that. Back then, when we signed the contract, you were so fucked up, Chase. We were lucky to get you any kind of contract.”

  “Tell. Me,” he gritted out. “That. It’s. Not. Done.” He crouched, the hotel gym too small, the room closing in on him. He couldn’t do it. He could barely survive four hours in that city, much less move back there. Put on her husband’s uniform. Walk back into the world where they fell in love. What would happen when he saw her? Every emotion that he’d tried to bury, every piece that he’d tried to forget … it would all come back.

  “It’s done. They want you there tomorrow for the Red Sox game.” All the excitement was out of his agent’s voice, the words dead in their delivery.

  “I can’t,” he said. “You gotta get me out of this, Floyd. You have to.”

  “There’s nothing I can do.” The man sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  Chase ended the call and sank to the floor, leaning against the gym’s rubber wall, his mind trying to work through its knots.

  New York. Tomorrow. He needed more time to prepare. But a lifetime wouldn’t be enough. He’d never be ready to face her again. Not without pulling her into his arms. Not without refusing to ever let her go.

  67

  “Chase Stern?” Two words I had promised myself, on the floor of a bathroom so long ago, to never utter again. “That’s who you got?” My knees wobbled, and I gripped the edge of the doorfram
e, my eyes moving to my hand, watching in detached horror as my knuckles turned white.

  “Go ahead,” Dick mocked, from behind his desk. “Find fault with that.”

  I thought of Thomas Grant’s funeral. Thousands of roses as white as my knuckles. The same blooms, identical in every way, to the ones that had blanketed our marriage chapel. I remembered hating that tie of his death with our union. I remembered thinking, if I ever wed again, that—I had stopped that thought right there, not allowing my brain to finish the thought. There would be no other weddings. I had my husband. And there, at that funeral, his father lowered slowly into the ground, my husband inherited my team. Our team, one which suddenly included Chase Stern on its list of assets. Again. Last time it had made me nearly scream with joy. This time, a scream once again threatened my throat, one birthed in an entirely different place.

  I swallowed. “He’s a leftie.”

  Dick laughed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He was right; it was a stupid thing to point out. Getting a left-handed batter with Stern’s fielding was like finding a unicorn.

  “He doesn’t fit our standards.” A better argument. We were the only team in the league with appearance and ethics standards. It was part of our pedigree, our history.

  He snorted. “Since when? Five years ago? He was a kid then. He’s been squeaky clean ever since. A freaking priest.”

  Not five years. Barely four. Three years, ten months, four days since I last saw him. An obsessive statistic to know.

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “You feel okay, Ty? I thought you’d be doing backflips over this news.”

  “She’s not happy?” Tobey’s voice boomed from behind me, his hand gentle in its clap of my shoulder. He moved past me and into the large office.