Moonshot(31)

51



New York

“Chase, baby, how is life?” The fast crone of his agent took him right back to Los Angeles, to that big glass office full of ambitions and regrets.

For a rare moment when speaking with the man, Chase smiled. “Life is good, Floyd.”

“Really?” The skepticism was high, and Chase had to laugh. “The Yankees are treating you well?”

“I think they’re still warming up to me, but the home runs are helping.”

“How many COC lectures you gotten?”

Code-of-Conduct. The Yankees were big on everything, especially image. No facial hair, other than mustaches. No fighting. No drunk-in-public behavior. Nothing that would flutter the perfect hair of Maxine Grenada, the PR tycoon who kept the Yankee’s reputation squeaky clean. Chase winced. “A few.”

The man lowered his voice. “I really want you to think about stopping any powder. Every stupid thing you’ve done—”

“Already ahead of you,” Chase interrupted, opening the sliding glass door of his hotel room and stepping onto the balcony.

“Meaning what?”

“I’ve stopped. I could piss in a cup right now and be good to go.”

“Keep that up through the season, and you’ll make me a happy man.”

“I’m done with that shit. Permanently. Like you said, it gets me into trouble.”

The man was silent for a long, suspicious minute. “What about girls?”

“I’m dating someone.” The thought of her made him, for the hundredth time that day, smile. “Exclusively. So stop worrying. I’m behaving, I’m happy, I’m playing like God.”

“Who’s the girl?” His agent wasn’t happy yet, four years with Chase turning the man into the worst kind of cynic: a suspicious one.

“You don’t know her.”

“I need details. She a stripper or a saint? Where’d you meet her? No offense, Chase, but you’re batting zero when it comes to picking the right women.”

“She’s a bat girl for the team. She’s eighteen,” he added quickly.

“What are the Yanks doing with an eighteen-year-old bat girl? That’s asking for trouble.” The man’s voice was quicker, wheezing through the phone line.

“She’s been with the team a long time, since she was a kid.”

“Jesus Christ.” The man caught on, a heartbeat of pause before he continued, “You’re talking about the closer’s kid. Frank Fucking Rollins’s daughter? Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“She’s an adult,” he defended, his hands tightening against the balcony railing. “She’s five years younger than me. This isn’t—”

“Rollins makes one call to anyone, and you are f*cked. The Yankees will drop you before the ink dries on the statutory rape press release. You’ll be done with MLB—shipped to Canada or Japan to play. And I don’t care if she’s eighteen. They’ll accuse you of cumming in her teenage panties. You think they’re not gonna care—screw that. They’re going to throw a f*cking party over this story. You think Nancy Grace is gonna let this slide? She hasn’t had a Caylee Anthony or a Natalee Holloway in years. She’s gonna ride your ass right to a ratings high, and convince every person in America, and in the Yankee organization, that you’re a pedophile.” The man took a deep, shuddering breath. “You think I’m happy you’re exclusive with this girl? Do me a favor and find another girl. Hell, I got a stable of them on call. Just tell me hair color and measurements and I’ll send ten of them over.”

“You can’t replace her, Floyd. Ty, she—”

“Stop talking right now. Don’t be exclusive with this chick, in fact, don’t even go near her. I’m tempted to call up Thomas Grant right now and tell him to yank her from traveling with you guys.”

“Listen to me very carefully.” Chase turned from the view and stepped inside, closing the sliding glass door and speaking clearly in the silence of his room. “You can try to paint this however you want—the press can paint this however they want—but there is nothing wrong with our relationship. It’s the purest thing in my life. She is saving me. And I don’t expect you, in the twisted world you live in, to understand that. But you know this industry and that’s the only reason I’m still on the phone with you right now. I need this to work. I need her in my life. And I need you to tell me how to make that work.”

There was nothing between them on the line for almost a minute.

Then, with a heavy exhale, Floyd started to speak. And, for the first time in his career with him, Chase actually listened.





52



Toronto

At night at Woodbine, the horses ran. Million dollar muscles bunched underneath slick coats, spotlights illuminating colorful silks, wide eyes and the spray of dirt kicked up by hooves. We made it to the last race of the night, having to wait until after ten to leave, my father’s bedtime now a nightly waiting ritual. A car took us to the VIP entrance, hidden from press and onlookers, but there was no need. In Canada, Chase Stern’s face didn’t carry the same weight, his low-pulled baseball cap the only disguise needed. We sat at the rail, my arm looped through Chase’s, and bent over the program, my fingers rolling down the list of horses. Kirby’s Moonshot. The name stood out, as if in bold, and I tapped it excitedly, turning to Chase. He smiled when he saw the name.