Moonshot(37)

I turned on the TV as a distraction, something to keep my mind off him. Instead, with a somber Scott Van Pelt speaking into the camera, I watched our fairy-tale summer shatter.





58



The facts known were little, a few sentences that the newscasters discussed on repeat, each flip of the channel bringing the same maddening three sentences.

Chase Stern was involved in a physical altercation with a member of the Yankee organization.

He was not arrested.

The Yankees have not issued a statement at this time.

We have no further information.

I’d been in the walls of that stadium long enough to know what would happen if this information was true. A member of the Yankee organization? Was it a coach? Another player? A member of the crew? Who it had been wasn’t really crucial to the outcome. This wasn’t Los Angeles, where it took punching a fellow teammate after f*cking his wife to get a rise out of management. This was New York, where every person on the NYY payroll was family, and we protected our family. We loved our family. We fought for our family. And we fought against any discord in our locker room, in our stadium, in our family.

My fear was confirmed at 2:17 AM. I was bleary eyed, my fingers numb from pushing buttons on the remote, from redialing his cell and getting voicemail. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically, my psyche raw and brittle, when an update finally happened, one thin line of text scrolling across the bottom of the screen, mid-commercial.

UPDATE: Chase Stern traded to the Baltimore Orioles.

Seven simple words that brought down everything we had.

The phone dropped from my limp hand, and I fell back on the bed, my eyes closing in defeat.





59



I couldn’t stop crying. At first it was small leaks coming out at inappropriate times, my hands wiping at my cheeks while stirring Carla’s spaghetti sauce. Then it was giant, gushing sobs, impossible to hide, Dad’s wide-eyed confusion not helping. I locked myself in my room, not eating, not working, not talking to anyone. The week ended, and then the next, and then the Yankees were back on the road, Dad leaving for Chicago, his knocks on my door unanswered, his calls to my cell ignored. I was in bed when he kicked in my door, the frame splintering, my head turn too slow to suit him, my quiet study of his flushed face one that seemed to make him more upset.

“Talk to me, Ty. I’m not leaving until you do.”

I rolled away, pulling the comforter over my head. “There was a key to my door in the kitchen junk drawer,” I mumbled. “You didn’t have to break it down.”

The comforter was ripped from my grip, the aggressive move bending my fingers, and I yelped, bringing my injured hand to my chest. “Ow!” I yelled. “That hurt!”

He bent over the bed, his fists biting into the sheet, his glare matching mine, twin sets of Rollins-bred anger. “What’s this about? What happened?”

I rolled back, my knees curling against my chest, needing the cover of a blanket, something to hide me. “Nothing.”

He walked around and knelt beside my bed, his face there, in the narrow view of my peek. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

“You’ll miss the flight,” I mumbled.

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll get in trouble.”

“You’ve never missed a trip before.” I knew it would cause a red flag. Even more than my fits of tears. I didn’t miss games, this last week an oddity in itself, an argument every time Dad left for the field. I had blamed a stomach bug, then the flu, and Dad had called bullshit on both. He’d yelled, I’d cried more, and he’d stared at me, bewildered. Rollins didn’t cry. We cursed, we fought, we punched walls and said hateful things. He didn’t understand a teenage girl whose face became hot and whose voice broke. Hell, I didn’t understand that girl. I had become a walking mess of emotions at a time when I should be making plans, calling Chase, fighting for our relationship, our future life.

I love you.

He’d meant it, hadn’t he? Even if I had f*cked up, even if I wasn’t the virgin he’d assumed me to be, he had loved me.

I’m going to marry you one day, Ty Rollins.

True Love didn’t give up because of a hiccup. Or a trade. True Love stood together and fought. But I wasn’t fighting. I was being, in the worst way imaginable, like every emotional girl I had always ridiculed. And I couldn’t seem to find a way to stop. I couldn’t find the energy to call him again. I couldn’t find the strength to meet my father’s eyes and tell him the truth.

“I’m old enough to stay here.”

“You’ve never wanted to stay here. That’s the problem. Is it the Stern trade?”

Fresh tears leaked weakness. “Why would you say that?” He knew. He had to know. Or maybe he didn’t.

“It’s convenient timing with this breakdown.”

“It’s not a breakdown.” I sat up and sniffed, a glob of mucus thick down my throat.

“Then toughen up. Whatever it is. Either talk to me about it, or stop crying and get the hell over it.”

I twisted my mouth, holding back a burst of angry words. I was mad at him, and for no good reason. We had always talked, often no one else around to bounce things off of, and his treatment of me as an adult was one I valued, my attitude and silence for the last week uncharacteristic. I didn’t blame him for being confused, or for being sharp. He wasn’t at fault in all of this. Chase was. Who punched a security guard over a slow key machine? Who told a girl he loved her, and then moved to Baltimore without saying goodbye?