Moonshot(3)

The woman on the bed picked that moment to scream, a shock of red hair scrambling across the bed and to her husband’s side, a stream of Puerto Rican curses pouring out and directed at Chase. He smirked and glanced back to the door, his grin dropping when he saw the new face in the opening.

John Stockard. His and Davis’s manager. The head of the Dodgers’ MLB coaching staff. And he looked pissed.





4



I propped a foot on the desk and blew on my toes. Second coat: perfect. I shook the bottle of clear and leaned back in the chair.

On the TV, SportsCenter ran. I rested my head against the chair and watched, an occasional push of my foot keeping my chair in movement. Nothing exciting. The NBA lawsuit, an NHL coach who needed to be fired, a steroids idiot who got caught at USC. I was starting to doze when Chris Berman straightened in his seat, something catching his attention.

I listened to his first few words, my own back coming off the chair, my hand reaching forward and grabbing the remote, turning up the volume. “Dad!” I called, my eyes on Berman’s face, the screen changing to a highlight reel of sorts, showing clips I’d seen a hundred times, the man in them the current dominator of our world.

Chase Stern. The best bat to hit our game since Barry Bonds. A shortstop who made Ripken look like a rookie. A body built for baseball, a face that made GQ editors swoon, and enough swagger to fill Dodger stands with females. Chase Stern had played for Stanford for two years before blowing through the Minors and landing on the big stage. That was four years ago. Around the time I traded in my training bra for a real one. I wasn’t immune to a little hero worship. The boys in the dugout had given me more than a little hell for my blush when he walked out on our field. I once caught a ball he tossed on his way to the dugout, and he’d winked at me. I’d been fourteen, and did everything but trip over myself in response.

But it wasn’t his looks that had sucked me in. It was his play. His effortless grip of a game that we all struggled with. His swing, his throw, the dip of his body when he scooped up a ball, the stretch of his six-foot body when he leapt in the air … it was my porn. I would die a happy woman for one slow-mo clip of his swing, the bite of his bottom lip, the squint of his eyes, his fingers sliding over his bat’s handle, the slow release, the easy swing of his body he jogged around the bases, oblivious to the crowd, to the cheers, to the madness.

He was beautiful.

He was perfection.

And he had, according to the news report title, been a very bad boy.

CHASE STERN: AFFAIR WITH TEAMMATE’S WIFE, THEN FIGHT.

“Dad!” I yelled loudly and reached forward, banging my fist against his hotel room wall.





MAY





“When Stern did that, it broke the cardinal rule of sports. You don’t mess with your teammate’s wife. And you certainly don’t punch the guy after messing with his wife. That put Stern on everyone’s radar. No one expected him to go to New York. But we expected someone to snatch him up. Nobody who bats four hundred is going to go unclaimed. And that summer, he was the hottest name in the game.”

Dan Velacruz, New York Times





5



“You’re fidgeting, Ty.”

“And you’re drinking too much.”

“It’s coffee.”

“It’s not good for you. I’ve got juice in the fridge that I pressed this morning.”

“I’d rather have coffee.”

“Is it the kale you don’t like? I can do it with just spinach and carrots.”

“Stop changing the subject from your fidgeting.”

“I’m not. I could try adding kiwi. That’s what I do for Duncan.”

“He’s not coming here, Ty.”

“Who?”

“Don’t play stupid. It’s not attractive.”

“He might come here. The Dodgers can’t keep him after this. And you know we should have gotten him straight out of the—”

“He’s not coming. You know the reputation we keep. His bullshit isn’t going to fly here.”

“Maybe he’ll change. Maybe it was a one-time thing. It might not even be true; you know how the media spins things.”

“Good. Then they’ll have no reason to trade him.”

“How can you not want him on our team? He’s Chase Stern.”

“I have a teenage daughter. That’s the only reason I need.”

“I’m, like, five years younger than him.”

“You’re not that dumb, Ty.”

“You know he’d be good for the team. Admit that.”

“He’s not coming here, so it’s a moot point.”

“We need him. Especially with Douglas’s sprain. And Corten is a few years from retiring. And—”

“Ty. Stop. Finish that damn essay you’ve been staring at for two hours.”

“Pour out that coffee, and I’ll do my essay.”

“Do your essay, or I’ll tan your hide.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to tan my hide anymore. I think that stops at, like, age eight.”

“I’m pouring it out, okay? Now shut up.”