Moonshot

by Alessandra Torre

  36

  What the…? Chase looked down at his phone, rereading the lines of text, the conversation taking an entirely different direction than he had anticipated. When he’d gotten Ty’s number from one of the ball boys, he’d planned to have it for emergency purposes only. Then … after overhearing that attempt to push her toward Grant’s silver spoon of a son, he couldn’t help himself. He had planned to rib her a little, poke out a little fire. He hadn’t expected to uncover this bomb. He texted back, his fingers fighting against common sense, the words out and sent before he could bring them back.

  Who did you think it was?

  There was a flash of blonde, and he locked the phone, sliding it into his pocket, watching her as she reentered the private room, her dress navy and short—too short for a place like this, one filled with men—her smile the only feminine thing in the room. She was a blur of tan legs and tight material, her long hair swinging as she settled back into her chair, her smile easy as she responded to something her dad said, her phone elsewhere, along with her concern. His text would be unread, would sit out there, insecure and abandoned, for who knew how long.

  He shouldn’t have sent it. It was pathetic. He shouldn’t have messaged her at all.

  He picked up his knife, his cut into the steak rough and hard, his irritation mounting as he stabbed the piece with his fork. Chewing, he glanced down the long table and wondered who, of the men present there, she had mistaken him for.

  37

  Cincinatti

  Maybe it was because I’d skipped lunch. Or maybe it was because Forte had left his gold chain at the hotel and I had to get a driver to take me there, then back, missing batting practice, all so he could put that nasty thing around his neck and still error. It hadn’t been ‘right on the dresser’ like he’d said. It’d been in the shower, coiled up next to a used bar of soap with various old man hairs stuck in it.

  Whether it was due to hunger, or Forte’s errand, I was grouchy. We were also down by two, which made me jittery, my palms sweating as I hung off the dugout and watched Fernandez whiff.

  “Ty.”

  His voice was low, but I heard it, pushing off the fence and turning to Chase. He sat on the metal bench, his hat pushed back on his head, one hand rubbing at his mouth.

  I said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.

  He lifted his chin, nodding his head back. “A few rows up, the brunette in the tight red shirt.”

  I fought to keep my expression level. “Yeah?”

  “Get her number.”

  I glanced back, Fernandez still at bat. An oh-and-two count, two outs on the board. I could tell you, without even seeing the pitcher’s curl, what was about to happen.

  There was the smack of a ball against leather, and Chase leaned forward, coming to a stand, his hand working into his glove. “You got a problem with that, Little League?”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to scout girls from the stands. It was practically part of the job description. A player saw a girl they wanted, they sent one of us over. It had never bothered me before. But now, after his kiss, after our talks, it burned. It burned hot and red and made me want to launch myself at him, fists swinging. I shouldn’t have sent that text. I’d thought it was cute. Witty. I’d thought it would make him more interested. Instead, he’d just moved on.

  “She’s a Reds fan.” I spat out the response that I should have kept to myself.

  “So?” he shrugged. “I like the forbidden.” He grinned at me, and I looked away, the dugout suddenly crowded, traffic moving both ways as we took the field.

  “Brunette. Red shirt,” he reminded me, his smile wide, grabbing a ball from the stack and tossing it my way, my catch of it automatic.

  “He bothering you, Ty?” The hand that clapped on my shoulder was big and strong, and I turned to meet our catcher’s eyes, ones filled with protective concern.

  “No,” I managed. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?” He climbed the steps and paused, one foot on the field.

  “I’m sure,” I said, more conviction in my words. “Now go and shut this shit down.”

  He laughed, bright white teeth shining out from his dark skin. “You know it, baby.” I watched him jog off, the crowd on their feet, stomping and cheering.

  Swallowing a groan, I moved to my bag and grabbed a pen and pad of paper.

  I like the forbidden.

  A Reds fan. Talk about terrible taste. I took whatever warm and fuzzy feelings I had about Chase Stern and let them flutter out, caught by the wind, into the night sky.

  38

  “Really? Chase Stern?” Any chance the mystery girl wouldn’t be interested drowned in her giant stadium cup that I’d bet twenty bucks was spiked with liquor. She bounced up and down in excitement, letting out an unladylike squeal.

  I tried to smile. “He’d like your number,” I repeated, this time a little slower, but she was too busy freaking out to listen.

  “Your number.” Her friend poked her, stopping the mess of brown curls from bouncing any higher. “Give the girl your number.”

  “Can I get a picture with him really quick?” the girl whined, holding out her phone as if I might inspect it. “Just right now, super fast?”

  “They’re in the outfield,” I said dryly. “So, no.”

  “I can wait. Just right down there, by the rail thingy.”

  I smiled again and contemplated knocking the drink out of her hand. “If you could just give me your number, you can take all the pictures you want with him after the game.” Chase was an idiot. Meeting fans during the middle of a series. He should spend tonight focused on the next game, not doing God-knows-what with this giant-breasted Barbie doll.

  When I walked back down the steps, her phone number tight in my hand, I looked out to the field, my eyes finding Chase. He lifted a chin, I lifted her number, and our gaze held for a minute.

  Then there was the crack of the bat, and our eye contact broke. I jumped the dugout railing and contemplated throwing the number in the trash. I didn’t. Instead, I was a good little ball girl, putting it in Chase’s helmet, right where he wouldn’t miss it, a location that eliminated any need for follow-up conversation.

  Maybe I was getting too old for this job.

  Maybe I should call Tobey.

  39

  Our traveling secretary liked to put the team all together on one floor. And whenever possible, she put me in a room adjacent to Dad, a proximity that allowed him to sleep better at night. I didn’t used to have my own room, that change coming the summer I turned fourteen. I’d gotten my period for the first time, Dad suddenly got uncomfortable, and when we’d landed in Seattle, I’d unexpectedly had my own room key. That first night, I stayed up until four in the morning watching reality TV. The next night, two. Three years later, I was a boring old woman typically in bed by midnight.

  Typically. But tonight I was squashed against my door, a book in hand, waiting for Chase to come home. We’d passed him in the hall earlier, Dad and I coming back from Moe’s, takeout containers in hand. Chase had stepped aside to let us pass, he and Dad exchanging a curt greeting. I’d looked away, but I’d noticed everything.

  The smell of him. Different than before—cologne.

  He’d been dressed up, a stiff button-down tucked into slacks.

  His phone stuffed into one pocket as he’d moved past, toward the elevators.

  He had been going to see her—a possibility I’d stewed over since we’d left the field. It’d been an afternoon game, putting us out early—early enough to allow for a date, should one asshole of a player feel up to it.

  Dad and I had eaten our dinner in his room, watching the Devil Rays play, little said until the fifth inning, when he’d turned his chair toward me.

  “Stern ever hit on you?”

  “What?” I coughed, his timing right during a sip of soda, the liquid confused when I jerked, catching in the wrong pipe. Dad just sat there as
I struggled between life and death, my eyes watering by the time my esophagus figured out the issue.

  “Has he?” He muted the TV, and it was suddenly a serious conversation, the telltale signs beginning to emerge. Awkward silences. A stare you couldn’t avoid. The chasing of a subject until it died a slow and painful death. The Sex Talk, executed one year earlier, had been just like this. I didn’t know who Dad thought I was going to have sex with, but he’d seen some TV special about teenage pregnancies and had stumbled through a forty-five-minute lecture about STDs and pregnancy and condoms. I’d interrupted him around the time he got to death via labor with a clear proclamation that I was a virgin and had no plans to change that so could he please, thank you very much, turn on ESPN.

  “No, Dad. He hasn’t hit on me.” I managed the words, unsure if they were true. He had kissed me. But since then, he’d gotten that girl’s number. Was on a date with her right now.

  “Anything I need to know?”

  “About Chase Stern?” I shook my head. “He’s just another player.” A laughable statement. He would never be just another anything. It wasn’t in his DNA to be normal. He was a superstar, the best in a sea of greats, and that was what my soul struggled with the most. Because as much as he may be a slut or an ass, all it took was him swinging that bat against a fastball, or his impossible leap into the air after a line drive, and I was lost. Watching him play poured steroids into the bloodstream of my want. It wasn’t fair to give one man so much, to put him in pinstripes, and on the greatest stage on Earth, and then ask me not to notice.

  “He’s a good looking guy,” Dad pointed out awkwardly. “He—”

  I laughed, grabbing a pillow off his bed and throwing it at him, my accuracy deadly, his duck slow. “Stop, Dad. Just stop worrying. Please.”

  He tossed the pillow aside. “Go out with Tobey. For me. Just a movie or ice cream, something to get the Grant family off my back.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t know.”

  He stood and held a hand out for my trash. “Go. I’m forcing the issue. He’s a nice guy. If you aren’t in love with him, that only puts my mind more at ease.”

  I passed him my burrito wrapper, taking a final sip of soda before handing over the cup. “Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll call him.”

  “Be back by eleven,” he added, his interest in matchmaking apparently limited in scope.

  “That won’t be a problem.” I glanced at my watch, the time just after seven, and headed back to my room with every intention to call Tobey.

  Only I didn’t. I went back to my room, took a shower, and pulled on a jersey and some underwear. Redid my pedicure. Read an entire Cosmopolitan and was left with the mental task of committing ‘85 Ways to Make Him Moan!’ to memory. I stared at Tobey’s number. Went back and reread Chase’s texts. Went back to Tobey’s number. Decided I had no interest in being set up by my father. I’d been there, tried Tobey. If we were meant to be, I wouldn’t be trying to talk myself into calling him. So I hadn’t. I’d raided the minibar of snacks and grabbed my book.

  And now I was here. Squashed against the door, pretending that it was the most comfortable place in the room to read. It was, really. I liked a cramped back and sore shoulder.

  Just after nine, there was a sound, the elevator landing, and I dropped the paperback, shooting to my feet, my hands flat on the door, my eye glued to the peephole.

  It was Chase, his hand at the back of his neck, rubbing the muscle there, his walk down the hall slow and—thank God—alone. I relaxed against the door, keeping my eye in place, treasuring the moment of uninterrupted voyeurism. He was just out of sight, his walk past my door slow, when he stopped. Backing up a step or two, he turned to me. I flinched, lifting my eye off the peephole, before I realized he couldn’t see me. He lifted a hand and rested it on the doorframe, his head hung, and there was a long moment of nothing. I didn’t breathe, didn’t move, just stood there and waited. What would I do if he knocked? What if Dad heard him knock? What if he pounded on the wood, and then Dad opened his door, and I opened mine and the three of us were standing there?

  He lifted his head, and I got a full, front row view of beauty. Even in my warped peephole view, he was gorgeous. Heartbreakingly so. Terrifyingly so. I stared into his face and tried to figure out what he was thinking. Why he was standing there, and what his next move would be.

  It turned out to be to his pocket, his hand reaching in and drawing out his phone. He turned away from my door and hunched over it, his fingers moving, and I jumped in surprise when my phone buzzed, loud on the desk. My eyes darted back to the view, Chase facing my door again, his head down, looking at his phone.

  My steps were quick, my hands fast when I grabbed my cell, the text on my screen simple and demanding.

  Open your door.

  I didn’t try to think of a witty response; I didn’t fight with what to do. I went against all reason and reached down, twisting the knob and pulling open the door.

  “Ty.” His eyes held mine.

  “Yeah?” I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Realized, watching the fingers of his hands curl around the edge of the doorframe, that he was mad. Shaking mad, his body tight, like it was being held back. Or maybe not mad. Maybe just upset. Or—

  My hypotheses ended when he lunged forward, his hands rough in their grab of me, walking us backward, his foot kicking the door shut as soon as he was inside.

  I didn’t fight it. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let his kiss crash into me.

  40

  Chase had tried. He’d tried and fought it as long as he could. Two nights without sleep would drive a man wild. Two days of watching every man on the team and trying to figure out which one had touched her. Two days stacked on two months of seeing her face, her smile, her body … and a man could only retain so much self-control. He’d tried to end it, sending her up into the stands, toward a strange girl. He’d wanted to test her reaction, to try and push some space between them. It had worked, on some weak scale, until he’d seen Tobey Grant.

  The asshole had been downstairs. Drinking at the bar, two friends with him, idiots who cheered him on and laughed too loud. Given the hour, given the slur in Tobey’s speech … Chase had only wanted to warn Ty. Tell her about the drinking, maybe dissuade her from seeing him that night. But then she had opened the door, wearing what appeared to be nothing but a jersey. Hair down, cheeks flushed, she had smelled of soap and fucking innocence. She stood there in that doorway and studied him, and so help him God, he couldn’t stop.

  He had stepped in, reaching for her, his touch too rough, his control shot, and had a moment of worry, hearing the slam of the door, feeling the tremor of her body—that he was forcing himself on her.

  Then her arms had wrapped greedily around his neck, her mouth opening for his, her body soft against his … and it was official.

  He was screwed.

  41

  I suddenly got it. I understood why women cheated on husbands, why teenagers screwed in the backseats of dirty cars, why naïve girls let men like Chase Stern into their hotel rooms late at night. Our mouths met, our kiss fed, and I couldn’t stop. I wanted to touch him everywhere, pull him closer, inhale his scent and never stop breathing. His hands slid to my waist and lifted, my feet coming off the floor, and my legs were suddenly around him, my mouth frantic, his kiss deep, my fingers digging into his scalp, pulling his hair, wanting a hundred more moments and terrified that he would stop.

  My butt hit the desk, my legs around him, his hands yanking up my jersey, the brush of fingertips against my sides surprising, my mouth gasping off his as he pulled back, his hands lifting the jersey higher, mine quick to grab it and hold it down. “Wait,” I panted, his hands stopping, his head lifting until our eyes met. “Wait,” I repeated, both of us breathing hard, his hands trembling as he released my shirt. “Leave the shirt on.”

  “Okay.” He swallowed, putting his hands flat on the desk, one on either side of me, the
motion lowering his head next to mine. “Is this okay?”

  I rewrapped my legs, bare skin against the smooth fabric of his pants, and pulled him closer to the desk. “Yes,” I whispered.

  He ran his lips slowly down my neck, nuzzling the skin, pushing aside my hair with his nose, his hands still flat against the desk. His mouth opened, and I shivered, the scrape of teeth against my shoulder, then the hot, wet flick of his tongue. “Is this okay?” he repeated.

  “No.” I said, bolder, my hands running up his sides, coming across the front of his shirt, my fingers pulling at the top buttons of it. “I need more.”

  He growled, the sound low in his throat, and I felt the twitch of his thumb against the outside of my left thigh. He shifted, keeping one hand flat, and lifted the other, sliding it softly up my thigh, his fingers spreading across the skin, his head dropping to watch its journey, my breath losing a beat when his fingers hit the edge of my jersey, gently tracing the fabric before slipping underneath it.

  I could feel every single finger and its movement, the anticipation heightening the arousal, my heart hitching as he whispered my name, his kiss suddenly soft as it landed on my collarbone, then the hollow of my neck, then my jaw. I tried to prepare for it, tried to stay still, tried to contain the sound in my throat, but I whimpered, unable to hold it back, his fingers now moving along the edge of my panties, the gentle scrape of his nails, and then he gripped them, pulling slightly on the cotton, the boyshorts cutting in between my legs and my arousal turned the corner of insanity.

  I had never known this. The pulsing need, the urge to grind against something, anything, my legs trembling, body crying, every thought reduced to the primal instinct of wanting more. Everything. Anything. I sat on that desk before him and opened my mouth and begged, the word please slipping out, over and over, my hips twitching against the desktop, needing more friction, my hands clawing at his shirt, pulling at the fabric, reaching for the belt, my actions instinctual, the consequences be damned.