Moonshot(2)

Baltimore

“We need help.” Pre-calculus got covered up by a meaty hand with a long career of cleat scars. I looked up into Shawn Tripp’s face and pulled the pencil from my mouth.

“Fernandez is having a breakdown over his wife. We tried.” He shrugged, and I was pretty sure that had been the full extent of any trying done.

“I’ve got…” I pushed his meat cleaver to the side. “Three more problems.”

“Come on, Ty.”

I glanced across the room at Fernandez, who tipped back a beer. “What idiot gave him alcohol?”

“It’s Fernandez.”

I snorted. “Fair enough.” I stretched, pushing back the textbook, and stood. Fernandez’s wife was on her third or fourth affair, but the first he had found out about. It hadn’t been pretty. We’d all dealt with the aftermath, through Boston, then Toronto, and now here.

I pulled at the chair next to Fernandez and sat. Reached over and stole a scallop off his plate. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“Want to talk?”

He shrugged. “Nope.”

I hitched my chair closer to the table. “You finished eating?”

He lifted his chin in a nod, and I grabbed a fork. Went to work on the remainder of his plate and met his eyes. He watched me warily, a good five minutes of silence between us before he let out a loud sigh. “You think I should leave her?”

I chewed his final scallop, musing over the question; my advice on affairs limited to midnight reruns of Dr. Phil. “Are you going to change?”

“Me?” He lifted his eyebrows.

“Yeah. Bring her on the road with you. If I was stuck at home for nine months a year, I’d cheat too.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” His thick accent was so adamant, I laughed.

“I might.” I reached for his beer, and he held it out of reach. “You don’t know me, Fernandez.”

He snorted. “Please, pepito. You wouldn’t.”

I leaned forward. “You would. You do.”

He avoided my stare. “I’m…”

“A guy? A future Hall-of-Famer?” I scoffed. “Don’t give me that shit. It’s the same. You don’t get a free pass because you have a bat of gold.”

“So what?” He looked me in the eye. “Two cheaters. What does that mean? We’re meant for each other?”

I stand up, my wisdom fountain almost dry. “Think about whether you’re ready to stop. If you’re ready to behave. That’s what you need to think about.”

He said nothing, just slouched in his seat and worked at the label of his beer. I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Love you, F.”

“You too, Ty.”

I did. I loved them all. I would do anything for those forty guys. And they would fight to their end for me. This team was my family, my soul. And I think that was what made everything that happened so damn complicated.





3



Chase Stern leaned forward, sliding the mane of red hair over the shoulder of the woman, tapping a line of white powder down her spine, a dot between each vertebra. She giggled, squirming beneath him, and he put a hand on her ass, squeezing hard, holding her still. “Don’t move.”

“Hurry.” She bounced back on his cock, the wet slide reawakening him, and he chuckled, leaning forward and taking the line, momentary spots of black in his vision before everything became blindingly, perfectly, clear. The squeeze of her around his shaft. The bounce of her breasts as he rolled her onto her back. The slow blink of eyelashes as she groaned, taking him fully in, the push of his thrust deep. The dig of her heels into his lower back, the gasp of her mouth, the taste of her skin as he lowered his mouth to her.

“Oh my God, Chase.” Nails scraping across his back. A sharp tug of his hair. Slick skin rubbing, his stomach against hers, her breasts hard against his chest. Her teeth dug into his shoulder. She contracted around him and screamed his name, shrill and sharp, over and over, a record on terrible repeat.

He was close, his balls tightening, his grip on her harder, his thrusts quicker, when the hotel door slammed open, bright light in the dark space. He lifted his head, a curse on his lips, his body unprepared when hit with two hundred pounds of muscle.

Everything so clear. The fall of his body, away and out of her, his dick still hard, still ready, still close. The huff of male breath, the smell of onion. Pain in his shoulder, a hand on his chest, a fist coming down. He ducked his head easily, pushing off, a bare hand against a T-shirt, the face hitting the light of the hall, a burst of recognition blaring. Davis. Of course. He laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all and pushed harder. Another punch. Another easy miss. Everything so slow in this world of mortals. He snapped up his elbow and watched the connection. The widening of eyes, the crack of teeth, the connect of elbow and jaw, Davis’s head going back, hands limp, the edge of the dresser right there and finishing the job. Davis out. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and stood, noticing the figure in the door—a woman from the hotel. A manager. Cheap shoes. Mouth half open. Face pale. Eyes darting, a ping-pong game of nervousness. To his dick. To his chest. Back down again. He twitched his cock and chuckled at her flinch, her eyes returning to his face.

He grinned, eye contact made, and winked. “Come on in, honey.”