Moonshot

by Alessandra Torre

  “No,” I bit out, in between hot kisses, continuing the jack of his cock, his hands pulling the shirt from my skirt, the other squeezing my ass. “I can’t.” I quickened the speed of my hand and he all but shuddered, his grip on me tightening.

  “I’m gonna come,” he panted. “Shit, get me a towel.”

  I almost didn’t. I almost dropped to my knees on that Egyptian tile and took him in my mouth. Thank God I didn’t. It was bad enough that I reached over, pulling a stack of white custom hand towels, the team logo finely imprinted on their paper front.

  I watched him come, his voice gasping my name, his hand pulling me to him and kissing me on the mouth, hard and desperate, his head dropping back when I shoved at his chest and walked to the sink, damp paper towels tossed in the trash, my hands furious in their wash, over and over, underneath water so hot I flinched.

  “Stop thinking.” His voice, broken and quiet, came from behind me. I looked up into his reflection, into his face. An impossible directive, my thoughts frantic in my mind. I just cheated on Tobey. I wasn’t that woman, I couldn’t be that woman and … especially not with this man. This wasn’t a one-time, dirty affair kind of guy. This was the man who owned my soul. This was the man who, despite the miles of separation, and the years, and the gold ring on my finger, I still loved. Fiercely loved.

  “That was a mistake,” I said quietly, fixing my blouse, straightening my skirt, my hands shaking in their attempt to right all of this wrong. “A mistake.” I repeated the words because everything I was feeling … the shame, the regret—it wasn’t over my marriage. It wasn’t over my husband, sitting at a table just rooms away. It was the shame of leaving Chase without explanation, of marrying Tobey and not driving to fucking Baltimore instead. It was the regret that I wasn’t, right now, five steps closer, back in his arms, pulling off our clothes until we were skin to skin, heart to heart, future to future.

  “It wasn’t a mistake.” He pushed off the wall and stepped toward me.

  “Stop.” There was enough strength in the word that he listened. “I can’t think straight when you’re near me. Please. Just … just stay over there.”

  “I didn’t want to come here, Ty. Your side is responsible for this. I was happy in Baltimore.”

  I shook my head, turning to him with a sad smile. “You hate Baltimore.” He told me that once, back in 2011, over midnight milkshakes on a Baltimore street corner. A story of a terrible childhood visit, a discussion of our youth and how memories can taint cities. He hated Baltimore. I hated Pittsburgh.

  “It feels wrong, hating the city where I lived with my mom.” I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder, watching traffic roll by, the downtown street busy, even in the middle of the night. Occasionally, there was a horn, a shout, a fan who recognized him, their arms waving in excitement.

  “But that’s not why you hate it, is it?”

  “It’s just that … all I can remember from that time was being sad. All of it, the house, the park where I played, everything made me miss her more.” I had been glad when we left. Glad to start fresh in New York, in a house that didn’t have her furniture, in a truck that didn’t carry old tubes of her lipstick in its glove box. It felt like when we moved, we left her behind. And now, every time we returned, the city felt dim, draped in sadness. Thank God the Pirates were in the National League, our paths rarely crossing, my memories in Pittsburgh fading away.

  “There’s nothing wrong with missing her. Or with being sad. You’re sad because you loved her, and because you had great memories to miss.”

  “Do you still miss Emily?”

  “I’ll always miss Emily. She’s a part of me.” He took a sip of his milkshake, his arm tightening a little around my waist. “Like you.”

  I looked up at him, my face scrunching in disbelief. “Like me?”

  “Yeah.” He looked down at me, and there was a moment. One of those where everything stopped, where I saw dots of streetlights reflecting in his eyes, the tickle of my hair across my face, the warmth of his breath against my lips. I looked in his eyes and believed that I was a part of him. Just as I believed when he said he loved me. I believed it because I understood it. I understood it because I felt it too. “Come on.” He pulled, swinging me around and nudging me in the opposite direction, away from the street. “Let’s go.”

  “I hated Baltimore, but only because you weren’t there. And now…” He ran both hands over the top of his head. “I’ll hate New York because you are here. How fucked up is that?”

  I said nothing, picking up my purse from the floor. “Don’t touch me again, Chase.”

  “I can’t promise you that. You aren’t a girl anymore, Ty. It was hard enough to keep my hands to myself then.”

  I opened the door, and glanced back, memorizing the lines of his face, the clench of his jaw, the burn of his eyes. I gave myself one final drink. “Try.”

  Then, I stepped back into my world and closed the door.

  “The second girl died on October 3rd, 2012. April McIntosh. She worked at a deli right around the corner from the stadium. Left work that Wednesday afternoon, and just disappeared. They found her a few days later, when a construction dumpster started to smell. She’d been a troubled girl. Got around a lot, partied a lot, that kind of girl. Had a Yankee pendant around her neck, a nice piece. Gold and diamonds. But like I said, nobody noticed things like that back then. Not the timing, not the Yankee connection. Not ’til Julie Gavin’s death, in 2013, did they connect those dots. Not that it was a stretch. Her death was a damn flashing billboard. Anyone who missed that didn’t deserve to carry a badge.”

  Dan Velacruz, New York Times

  73

  “Smartest decision I ever made.” Tobey bent over, kissing me square on the lips, then reached and clapped Dick on the back. “You were right, Ty. God, were you right.”

  Dick cleared his throat with a smile. “Smartest decision I ever made. Let’s not forget who picked this golden boy.”

  I sat between them helplessly, staring at the field, the seventh inning beginning, the stadium lights illuminating the truth so bright it hurt my eyes. Chase had gotten better. I’d avoided any mention, any highlight of him in the past four years. I’d boycotted Orioles games, inventing a lifelong hatred of them as my excuse. I’d stopped watching ESPN purely to avoid the mention of his name. And now, with his perfect body encased in our jersey, I had seen everything I’d missed. His footwork. His arm. His bat. Two homeruns already. Five different plays that had made Tobey swear in excitement. Solid grounding, incredible focus, and the speed of an eighteen-year-old rookie. No wonder he had dominated the MVP ranks. No wonder Dick had ignored Tobey’s fifty million dollar number and gone to seventy. I was shocked the Orioles gave him up.

  “Fine, you get the credit.” Tobey laughed. “But don’t let him go. Ever. I don’t care if he smuggles drugs on the off-season, he’s retiring a Yankee, got it?”

  What if he fucks your wife, Tobey? The question rang so loudly through my head that I brought my hand to my mouth, worried it’d slipped out.

  “Are you okay?” Tobey bent over me, concerned. Always concerned. Always caring. I felt the true urge to vomit and pushed myself to my feet.

  “Excuse me,” I said quickly, with a tight smile. He let me pass, worry in his eyes.

  I didn’t vomit. My body didn’t allow me that reaction of guilt. I dry heaved into the toilet, wanting it, hoping it would ease some part of what I did, but my stomach stayed calm, the step away from Tobey’s love all that it had needed.

  I could not be this woman—a cheater. Not to this man who loved me so much. Not to this man who had given me everything.

  I opened the skybox vanity kit and took out a fresh toothbrush and paste. After brushing, I stepped out and back into place next to Tobey, the seventh inning stretch beginning, the stadium swaying before us in harmonic concert.

  “You know how the seventh inning stretch began?” Chase spoke quietly
next to me, his arm resting on the dugout rail, his eyes on the field, “God Bless America” floating down and over the dugout roof.

  “Yes.” I rolled my eyes.

  “You do?”

  I laughed quietly under my breath. “There are five or six stories, and I have heard them all, so whichever one you use to pick up girls in bars, I know.”

  There was a long pause from his direction. “At Manhattan—”

  “College,” I interrupted. “Brother Jasper. Got it.”

  “In the summer of 1869, The New York—”

  “Herald published an article about the laughable stand up and stretch.”

  He turned his head toward me, my peripheral vision catching the action, and I glanced his way, his eyes challenging me. “A letter—”

  “By Harry Wright. Also in 1869. Cincinnati Red Stockings,” I shot back.

  “1889.”

  “World Series. Someone stood up and yelled ‘stretch for luck.’”

  “1910.”

  I smirked, the final one too easy. “President Taft.”

  He grinned at me, the trademark cocky smile a little different. Softer. Sweeter.

  “Well?” I challenged. “Please. Tell me all about your precious baseball history, Mr. Stern.” I put on an innocent face, and he laughed.

  “Ty!” The bark made me jump, and I glanced over my shoulder at the bench.

  “Go grab some more Gatorade,” Fernandez said, his glare on Chase.

  “You got it.” I flashed a smile at Fernandez, and he watched me warily, his eyes darting back to Chase.

  Thank God we’d finally switched back to the seventh inning stretch’s original song, our troops out of Afghanistan, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” resuming its tenure. Every game, that stretch had mocked me. Every game, I had steeled myself for its chords.

  Now, I looked at the empty field and thanked God that I wasn’t down in that dugout. Up here, in our throne, I could almost forget his presence. I could definitely avoid his eyes.

  Behind me, there was the loud pop of a champagne bottle, and I flinched.

  74

  After those minutes with Chase, I suddenly couldn’t stand Tobey’s touch. I didn’t feel worthy, not with his loving gaze already clawing through my skin. That night, when he pulled me to him, I winced, the brush of his fingers across my stomach prickly, my hand unable to stop in pushing him away.

  “Not tonight.”

  “Do you feel okay?” He was worried, after my rush to the bathroom during the game. I’d had nausea during my first pregnancy. So maybe … always the maybe, floating out there. He didn’t know about the birth control implant I had put in. I’d done it after the miscarriage, terrified of the chance of another baby, one that might chain us together forever. Now, four years later, our marriage was in a different, stronger place, one where love had grown from the seeds of friendship and circumstance. But even after the love, I didn’t remove the implant. I told myself that I couldn’t handle another loss. And I didn’t tell Tobey. I’m not sure why, except that I didn’t know how to discuss my motivations. How do you tell your husband that you don’t want to carry his child?

  “Just something I ate.” I could feel the disappointment in his silence. He kissed the back of my neck, our bodies connected, torso to toes, and I closed my eyes, trying to relax against his touch. The love of a man who had stayed. It should have felt wonderful. Instead, it felt empty.

  Funny how much things could change in four years. In the beginning, when we were first pushed into the engagement, Tobey didn’t care about the team. It was my thing. Mine and his father’s. Tobey was an occasional participant in team meetings, sometimes at games, his schedule as sporadic as our affection, our common ground being our impending parenthood. After we lost the baby, we were two strangers in a big, new house, avoiding the nursery, avoiding each other, neither sure why we were still in the union. The team was what pushed us back together, Tobey’s father having his first stroke, stepping down from his role in the organization, and pushing Tobey to take the reins. I think the old man knew what he was doing; I think he saw our marriage falter and wrapped pinstripes around the two of us, binding us. Whether by design or fate, we stepped into Thomas Grant’s shoes as one, splitting duties and decision-making, our stiff dinners becoming more of business meetings, everything focused on the team and its success. And success did come, both for the team and for us. We moved on from the baby. Had sex more, awkward conversation less. We became friends, grew to respect each other’s opinions, trust each other’s decisions. Tobey grew up from a spoiled rich kid, and I grew up from a tomboy. And from our friendship, grew a love. A love that I thought would carry us, and the team, until our deaths.

  “I love you,” he whispered against my hair.

  “I love you too.”

  I loved him. I did. Anything that I had once had with Chase … it had to stay in the past. What had happened in that powder room—it could never happen again.

  SEPTEMBER

  “Julie Gavin … she died on September 29, 2013. A date that will live in Yankee history. Her death left the clues that everyone needed to start tying the girls together. For starters, she was wearing a Chase Stern jersey, one from the 2011 season. Add the fact that she was left at the stadium, and a giant red arrow couldn’t have been any clearer. That was when the press started calling it The Curse of Chase Stern. That was when the detectives started looking at dates and for Yankee connections with each of the blondes. Julie Gavin, bless her soul, was the tie they all needed. Her blood’s still there, on the pavement outside the west gate. They tried to hide it, poured fresh concrete over it, but it’s there, a mark that will never leave that stadium.”

  Dan Velacruz, New York Times

  75

  My entire life, I’d known security. The team, whether it was the Pirates or the Yankees, always had security, men in black uniforms that flanked the players as we traveled, local cops closing roads, opening pathways, and holding fans at bay. After a while, they faded into the background, just one more bit of wallpaper in my life.

  As a Grant, our security was completely different. Our home was a fortress, a trusted team of security everywhere. It was stifling, when I moved in, the feeling of constant monitoring. It was why I loved our weekends at the Hampton estate, the security protocol there almost non-existent. We had only one guard, James. He sat at the front gate, three hundred pounds of muscle that discouraged gawkers. And inside the house, we were free. Free to wander down to the beach, swimsuits optional. Free to fall asleep on the couch, the windows open, the scent of the ocean strong. Everything about that house was an escape, away from the city, away from the team, away from the murders.

  Until Tiffany Wharton tainted it.

  After that, there was no escape. After that, there was no more running. After that, everything in our world narrowed into one focus: Winning. Our world became a prison, the World Series our key to escape. And my nights on the field? That was my prison time spent in the yard. A big yard, one where gods played. A yard with thousands of steps and halls, plastic and grass and clay. It was the most secure compound in the Bronx, and it was, at times, the only thing that held my sanity in check.

  The parking garage was quiet, my Range Rover the only car present, the sound of the door echoing through the empty space. I stepped to the back of it, opening the hatch, Titan jumping to the ground beside me, his nails clicking along the concrete. When I shut the hatch, I set the alarm, dropping my keys in my bag. It might be a fortress, but this was still New York, still the Bronx. I hit the button for the elevator, glancing at Titan as he sat, facing out, at full alert. We got him from Germany, completely trained, his journey to the US accompanied by a handler, a short man who lived with us for two weeks and yelled at me a lot. Apparently I had needed a lot more training than Titan. But now, three years later, Titan and I worked together just fine. He protected me, and I snuck him table scraps when Tobey wasn’t looking.

 
; The elevator opened, and I stepped on, pressing the button for the ground level. As it descended, I picked up the elevator’s phone, listening to the automatic ring. Somewhere, making rounds, were more security guards, four of them. When my miss of the field had become too great, when I decided to move my midnight workouts here, Tobey had worried. Not worried enough to accompany me, his early mornings putting him on a different sleep schedule than me. Initially, he’d had one of the house team escort me. But in the quiet of the night, the extra person had seemed invasive, as if I were being caged more than protected. So we had made an agreement. I’d bring Titan, and I’d check in with security when I arrived and departed. The arrangement allowed Tobey to sleep well at night, and I didn’t feel smothered. Didn’t feel as smothered. At some point in my life, I’d find the ability to live a life without pressure. At some point, I wanted a lack of expectations, and appearances, and decisions that affected lives.

  Security answered and I cleared my throat, speaking into the phone. “It’s Ty.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Grant. How long will you be with us this evening?”

  “About an hour. On the field and in the stands.”

  “Wonderful. Will you need us to open the locker facilities?”

  “No, not tonight.” The elevator shuddered, the doors opening on the ground level. “Thank you.”

  “Certainly.”

  I hung up the phone and stepped out, Titan beside me. All was dim, emergency lights bathing the halls in a soft, red light, and I flipped switches as we walked, bringing the hallway to life, my steps quickening as I got closer to the place where I was happiest.

  I’d heard that cutters enjoyed the pain of their activity because it caused them to feel. I’d never understood that until the first night I’d stepped back out on this field, almost two years after Chase left. I didn’t know why I first did it. Part of it was because I had ordered myself to stop mourning his loss, and was ready to take the first step. Part of it was because I’d thought I was ready, ready to reenter the world which my pregnancy, which my dad’s retirement, which my marriage—had all taken away. The nights afforded me privacy, the late hours insuring no party to my pain. Each visit, the scent of the grass, the dig of cleats into the dirt … each sensation brought back a flood of memories. Sometimes I cried, most nights I didn’t. But I always felt.