Moonshot

by Alessandra Torre

  I tipped back my beer and sank into the chair. Took another pull. I’d been using alcohol to avoid sex with Tobey. Guzzling drinks and then stumbling into our room at night. Funny, since alcohol was what put us in bed together the first night. That chug of his beer, then the next round of shots, the fuzz they brought when they hit my virgin system. The recklessness it had pushed him to. I doubt Harvard boy would have fucked little Rollins without a condom, had his head been on straight.

  Another inning, another run brought in by the Cubs. Tobey growled under his breath next to me, the entire box quiet as we watched. We should have changed pitchers earlier. Should have put Franks before Chase in the lineup. Should have, should have, should have. I should have ended things with Tobey a long time ago. I could have done it before the attachment, before the love. Then maybe this wouldn’t feel so seedy. I was a woman unaccustomed to guilt, and it drowned me—pulling me deeper, cutting off my air supply.

  I stood at the final pitch, tossing my empty beer bottle into the trash, the loss painful as I stared at the final scoreboard. Two more losses and we’d lose the World Series. Two more losses and … what? Would another girl die?

  I stumbled for the door, and Tobey caught my arm, holding me steady, his hand a shackle I reluctantly leaned on for support.

  It was too much pressure, all of it. Baseball shouldn’t be life or death. Baseball shouldn’t determine fates.

  104

  World Series: Game 5

  Our last day in Chicago. I stepped from the elevator, into the huge lobby, one that towered upward, its grandeur constructed over a century ago. I paused, my eyes sweeping the room, looking for Tobey. He’d come down fifteen minutes earlier, anxious for our lunch with Dick and John. Not seeing him, I headed for the restaurant, walking quickly, tension knotting my veins, any public experience always running the risk of—

  “Ty.” Chase. Freshly shaven, a nick on his jaw, his hair wet. He wore sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, the smell of soap drifting off his skin, a duffel bag hanging from one shoulder. He joined me, our steps carrying us closer to the restaurant, and I glanced around.

  “I’m meeting a group for lunch,” I said quickly.

  “Right here,” he ordered, herding me left, down a short hall and through a doorway. I stopped just inside, a long desk holding three computers and a printer—the business center.

  “Chase,” I argued quietly, reaching for the handle, his hand covering mine for a moment, one dip in heartbeat, before he reached higher and locked the latch, my eyes following his movement as he reached for the blinds, twisting slowly, our window to the outside world reduced, then shut off. There was a dull thud when he dropped his duffel.

  “Don’t fight me on this, Ty.” He stopped before me and rested his forehead on mine, inhaling deeply, his voice gruff, hands sliding up my arms and into my hair. “Five minutes. Please.”

  “What is this?” I asked faintly, my eyes closing as his fingers traced across the scoop of my sweater and down, over my breasts, his mouth soft as he pressed just under my ear, then on my collarbone, then up to my mouth.

  “This is a dying man’s taste,” he whispered, brushing his lips over mine. Softly. Harder. “This is me reminding you of what we have.”

  “I don’t need reminding,” I mumbled, stumbling back as he stepped forward, pushing me until my butt hit the desk, and he broke from my mouth, his hands at the back of my pants. Unzipping. Pulling.

  “Turn around,” he choked out, pulling up my sweater, the scrape of his nails against my skin when he yanked at my bra.

  I did. I turned around.

  I turned around, and he bent me over, my name a hiss between his lips when he pushed—bare and thick and hard—inside of me. My panties stretched around my thighs, my pants not even at my knees, my sweater and bra pushed just high enough that my breasts hung out for him to grip, to squeeze, to tease as he began to fuck me.

  And that was what it was. Hard fucks that knocked across the desk, my fingers grasping for some hold, one of his hands hard on my back, pushing me forward, until my bare breasts were flat on the cool surface, my cheek turned sideways, hair falling in my face. I gasped, hiccupping for breath, the steady motion one of absolute need and lust, my right butt cheek gripped hard by his hand, pulling me on and off him in rhythm with his thrusts, the hum of the idle printer broken by the loud sounds of our bodies connecting.

  “Tell me that you love me,” he begged, his fucks increasing in speed, the staccato building my own climax, both of us racing to the top. I squeezed with my inner muscles, and he almost came out of his shoes, a swear crossing his lips, one hand reaching down and gripping my waist.

  “I love you,” I gasped. “I love you so much it hurts.”

  He didn’t slow when he came, he kept at it, fucking and fucking and fucking, my own orgasm coming, his cry of my name only pushing me higher and higher and higher until I reached heaven and fell back down, his arms catching me, crushing me against his chest, both of us collapsing into a kiss that didn’t want to end, never wanted to stop.

  Certain loves can’t be fought. The harder you tried, the harder you would be knocked back, over and over again, until it beat you into submission, until your heart caved and body surrendered. Love like that didn’t know the rules of society; it didn’t care about life mistakes. It only knew what must be, and what would happen—no matter what.

  I kissed him and didn’t care about the Series anymore. I kissed him and only wanted to run away. I kissed him and tasted our future.

  105

  World Series: Game 6

  We were back home, our stadium full, fans roaring, energy everywhere, and we needed it. With our win in Game 5, we just needed one more win, and we were done, the championship in hand. I needed my Yankee career to end on this note. I needed to give this to Tobey to ease the stab of my betrayal. I needed this for the girls’ families, and for every single blonde in NYC.

  But one more win didn’t seem to be in the cards. Not when we were in the ninth inning and down by two. Cook hit a ball, low and far, dirt leaving his heels as he sprinted to first, making it just in time, a sigh of relief passing through the box as the ump called him safe. Chase was two batters down. One out already on the board. If either runner made it to base, we had a chance.

  I ate sunflower seeds at a rapid pace, my lips dry and chapped, a cup in hand, my spitting of shells quite unladylike but noticed by none. Dad sat to my left, Carla beside him, Tobey pacing as soon as the game began, stadium lights bright, the windows open, no one bitching about the chill. I had dressed up for the occasion, upgrading to heels, a blazer pulled over a navy silk cami.

  “When are you telling him?” Dad spoke low, leaning into me, his eyes on the game.

  “Tomorrow. Maybe tonight … if,” I spit into the cup, “you know.”

  “That’ll kill the buzz of a win.”

  “I know.” He was right. No way I could ruin the biggest moment of our marriage, of our life so far, with the news of me leaving. I’d have to at least wait until the next morning. Really should wait a few days after. Especially if, God forbid, we lost. But I couldn’t wait. Not when every minute with him felt like infidelity, and Chase’s patience was already stretched thin.

  I watched Cinns try to bunt, his short legs not fast enough, and I cursed, rising in my seat, just high enough to watch him get tagged out, the scoreboard changing, boos erupting from fans as our outs increased to two.

  “You can’t win them all, Ty. You know that, right?” Chase spoke quietly, the words barely heard as he bent over the water cooler, filling his cup. I slouched on the bench next to it, the end of my ponytail in my mouth, nerves fried as the freaking Marlins handed us our asses.

  I snorted, spitting out my ponytail. “You see that on a motivational poster? That’s bullshit. We can win them all. We’re—”

  “The Yankees,” he finished with a smile, tipping back his cup. “Yeah, I heard you were a little fanatical.�
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  “It’s called loyalty,” I retorted, my eyes back on the field.

  “I like it.” He tossed his cup into the trash. “It’s cute.”

  I didn’t look up, instead stared at the field, but knew the moment he looked away, the moment he walked away, saying something to the first base coach, our conversation over.

  Ball three. I watched in interest, gnawing through another seed, as the pitcher spoke with his coach. I glanced at Dad. “Think they’ll walk him?”

  “They’d be stupid to.” He watched the conversation on the mound. “Not with Chase up next. He needs to throw him out.”

  “Only one strike on the board.” Unnecessary words, spoken only to fill the conversation, to distract.

  “Curveball,” he muttered, reaching over and grabbing a handful of my seeds. “That’s what I’d do.”

  It was a curveball, Dad’s prophesy coming true, but it was too wide, too high, and Franks watched it go by, the energy in the stadium amping up as he took the free base, two runners on, our star—my star—now stepped up to the plate.

  I rose in my seat, my cup left behind. Chase carried the bat by its end and flipped it, his head turning in my direction, his chin lifting until our eyes met. Just a second, a moment of connection, then he looked away, his cleats digging into place, the pants tight on his thighs, his ass. His forearms clenched as he wrapped his fingers around the bat’s handle, and then it swung slowly back, everything in him tensing as he waited, his eyes on the pitcher. I held my breath, watching him, the first pitch wild, his body never moving, the catcher behind him lunging for the ball. I caught my breath, eyes darting to first and second, where we had runners. Both taking leads, the second runner’s a little too generous for my taste. I looked back to Chase, his lead foot moving slightly in the dirt, then he stilled. Everything in our stadium stilled with him, fans on their feet, breaths held, hearts in throats.

  An inside pitch, but he swung, his face tight, a blur of beautiful movement, the connection loud and crisp, the ball soaring, high and fast, disappearing into the lights of the stadium, then gone, to the moon. A moonshot. I was yanked sideways, Tobey’s arms around me, his body jumping up and down, our box filled with cheers, my body shook from others’ arms, my gaze staying on Chase, who slowly tossed his bat to the side, his face turning up to our box, his arms spread out from his body as he looked up to us.

  “Yes!” Tobey shouted, pounding the glass. “Yes, you son-of-a-bitch! Run!”

  Chase wasn’t looking at him. He held my gaze, then spun slowly, raising a fist to the crowd, and then jogged toward first, slapping hands with Rich at first base, my eyes on him the entire lap, his gaze reconnecting with me in the moment before he crossed home, the entire team there to greet him. Around him, around me, the stadium exploded.

  Three runs. One enough to take the lead. One enough to end the series.

  It was over. We had won the World Series. On a moonshot of all things. A moonshot off the most beautiful bat, from the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Somewhere behind me, champagne sprayed. And before us, the sky exploded in fireworks. I watched the brilliant display, lighting thousands of faces, the faces of Yankee nation, all of my boys in a pile of exuberance on the field, and felt a piece of me, the last tie of my childhood, break away. I choked back tears, smiling bigger than I ever had, and pressed my hands to the glass, devouring the scene, my last from this life.

  It was a beautiful final moment.

  It was a beautiful goodbye.

  106

  I left in the middle of the celebration, our security distracted, like everyone else, by the win. I yanked off my heels and sprinted down the private stairwell, passing through secret halls until I was underground, on field level, by the equipment bays, the muffled sounds of the stadium everywhere, celebrations in full force. I grabbed the ball boy when he ran by, stuffing a hundred-dollar-bill in his hand and told him to get Chase. He recognized me, the teenager old enough to understand the problems with the owner’s wife wanting a private meeting with a player. But he took the money, disappearing onto the field, and a few moments later, Chase was there, my hands pulling off his hat, his shirt damp with sweat, his clay-streaked baseball pants pushing against my hips, our mouths frantic as we kissed. With boxes of balls at my back, his hands cupped my face, my hands raked through his hair, and we kissed as if it was our breath, necessary for the beating of our hearts, the flow of blood through our veins.

  “I love you,” he said, pulling at the holder of my ponytail.

  “I love you too,” I gasped, kissing his neck, the taste of it salty champagne, my hands gripping at his uniform.

  “Come home with me tonight. We won. You promised.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” I swore. “Just give me until tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait that long.” He kissed me again, his fingers tangling in my hair.

  “Yes, you can.” I stepped back, his hands falling, my chest heaving. “I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

  “I love you,” he repeated, his eyes stuck on me.

  “Always.” I smiled, pulling my hair back, tucking in my shirt. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”

  I ran back to him for one last kiss, then turned and slipped through the door, leaving him in the dark room, the taste of him still on my lips, my promise hanging in the air. I ran up the service stairwell, toward the sky level, back to Tobey. One flight before the top, I stopped, pulling on my heels, smoothing down my hair, my heart still pounding. Taking a deep breath, I slowly climbed the final stairs, back to Tobey.

  107

  Even though the deaths had stalked my mind, invaded my thoughts, and dominated my nightmares for over two years, I’d never felt in danger. I’d felt pressure, I’d felt blame, I’d felt guilt—but never fear.

  That changed when I rounded the final bend in the stairs and came face to face with evil. The man stood at the top of the landing, and I knew. I knew it instantly, as clearly as I knew my love for Chase. As clearly as I recognized my mistake. As clearly as I now knew a win would not satisfy.

  I hesitated, his name taking a second, my mind sluggish in the face of danger. Finally, it came, a squeak off my lips.

  “It wasn’t about me trying to be God. I was just in a unique position to see into a part of the Grants’ lives that no one else could. And that position came with a degree of responsibility. Tobey and Ty were one of those meant-to-be couples. And that was really that. They just couldn’t seem to move out of their own way to make that happen.”

  Dan Velacruz, New York Times

  108

  “Dan?”

  Of anyone I’d ever pictured, Dan Velacruz was the last person I’d ever thought capable of murder. I’d known him for over a decade, his face appearing whenever anything newsworthy happened, his pieces guaranteed to paint us in a positive light.

  Nothing, in that moment, in that empty stairwell, seemed positive. I stared at him and tried to figure out the pieces I was missing from this puzzle. He pulled his hand out of his cheap suit pocket, and I watched, time stuttering to a stop, as he opened the blade.

  I stepped backward, and felt the edge of the stair, my descent stopped as I balanced at the top of the flight. “Please.” The word was tissue paper against fire, a whisper of smoke that he couldn’t have heard. He stepped toward me, and my hand tightened on the railing.

  I could run. I could kick off these damn heels and sprint, barefoot, down the flight. But kicking off Louboutin slingbacks wasn’t an easy task, and it would certainly eat up precious seconds, seconds where his fingers would close on me and that knife could gut me. Just like Rachel’s side. Just like April’s neck. An image of Tiffany flashed before me, her eyes blank, her mouth open, her caked and dried tongue sticking out slightly through the opening in her lips. My tongue would not dry. I’d be found before then, unless he planned on sneaking me out of Yankee Damn Stadium after a World Series win. The win reminded me of the curse, a curse that should be
beaten, our fans safe. I found my voice, the edge of my left heel hanging off the edge of the step. “We won,” I said weakly. “Shouldn’t everything be fine? I mean…”

  “You thought the killings would stop,” he stated, seeing my thought process, a look, almost pity, crossing his face.

  “Yes.” He shouldn’t be here, in this stairwell. It was a private one, for staff only, used for emergencies when the staff elevators were too busy, the stale air in here proof of their non-use.

  “I didn’t kill them because of the World Series, Ty. That…” he waved his hand into empty space, the knife in it flashing, “that was an assumption the papers made, an assumption the police adopted, all of it embraced by the fans. Only Yankee fans would make this all about baseball.”

  “It wasn’t a stretch,” I pointed out, my stupid mouth unable to contain itself. “The Yankees’ necklace, the girl in the jersey right outside our gates—”

  “Oh, Ty,” he interrupted, his voice quiet and sad, stepping forward. Closer. Closer. The knife in arm’s reach. If he punched out, right now, it could hit so many vulnerable places. My stomach, cutting across the faint stretch marks that showed in harsh light. My heart, so full and happy, just minutes earlier. My lungs, empty caverns that had suddenly forgotten how to function. I watched it, his hands stilling as he stopped, and I lifted my gaze slowly, carefully, to his face. A face filled with so much pity that I almost forgot he was the enemy. “You are so much smarter than this. Think.”