Moonshot (25 page)

“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.

“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.