Moonshot(41)

The final nail in his coffin was a damn People Magazine. Her smile had shone from the glossy cover, her eyes warm, a baseball glove covering her mouth. He’d stopped in the middle of the hotel lobby, and stepped into the gift shop, his hands trembling as he’d pulled the magazine off the rack, flipping through pages upon pages of junk until he’d found the article. They’d called her the Blue & White Baby and had played the Cinderella aspect of the story—a ball girl marrying the billionaire’s son. It didn’t contain any helpful details, just that they had known each other for seven years and had dated for “some” time. Whatever the f*ck that meant. There had been a picture of her ring, an enormous diamond that she’d never be able to pull a glove over. And a photo of Tobey, the prick’s grin big enough to piss off Chase.

He still hadn’t believed it, expected her to pull out of the engagement, to show up, follow him to Baltimore, but she hadn’t. She’d walked, three weeks after the article, down an aisle dripping with flowers. He’d drank enough whiskey to black out. She’d changed her name, moved into her new husband’s house, and started a different life. One he’d known nothing about. He’d vowed to never speak her name again and turned all of his focus to the game.

It had hurt. More than just hurt. It had destroyed him. Almost as bad as Emily’s death had. This destruction hit a different part of his heart. It’d stabbed him there and stayed, a constant ache that never left, her scent imprinted on his soul, her voice in his ear. He ran until his chest ached and thought of her. He threw balls until midnight and wondered where she was, what she was doing. He had sex with a blonde, then a brunette, then swore off women all together, each experience only bringing her to mind.

It’d been almost four years since he’d touched alcohol, drugs, or women. Four years since he’d last seen her smile, heard her voice. Four years of being a saint and focusing only on baseball. His reputation had soared, as had his stats, and his finances. But his sanity was still in question. Four years later, and he couldn’t even bear to stay a night in the same city as her.

First loves were supposed to be flimsy and temperamental. They were supposed to burn bright and fade fast. They weren’t supposed to stick. They weren’t supposed to eat away at a man’s heart, his capacity for life. The car slowed, the jet beside them, and he reached for his sunglasses, pushing them on and stepping out.

It wasn’t until he was in the air, ten thousand feet above the city, that he could take his first clear breath. He had, at least physically, survived.





64



On the night I had told Tobey about my pregnancy, I had been both tearful and emboldened, stiff and defiant when I’d uttered the words and waited for rejection, every pore of my soul ready to fight to the death for my child.

He had been silent, then he had sworn, a stream of curses punctuated by his hands tearing through his hair, his fall into one of their chairs heavy, mood black. I had watched without words. In that moment, I hadn’t judged him. I had gone through a similar moment, everything in my world breaking apart, everything suddenly changed. I’d waited for him to come through it, to collect himself. To say the next thing, something that would tell me exactly what my baby’s father was made of.

“You’ll get married.” His father spoke for him, stepping out onto the porch, his voice allowing no discussion on the subject, my own dad behind him in the open doorway.

“Dad—” Tobey’s one word died, his head turned to his father, their eye contact held for a long moment before he turned away.

“You’ll finish this semester at Harvard, and you and Ty will live with us until you graduate. You can get married at Thanksgiving. Grad school will have to wait.”

Mr. Grant turned to me, his nod firm, the affection I’d always seen in his eyes still present, his excitement at the news almost worrisome in its glee. And with his declaration to Tobey, the decision was made. Tobey and my eyes met, and his face was that of a trapped man. I looked away, a fresh wave of nausea rising.

Maybe I should have protested. If I had, maybe the baby would have lived. Fate was funny that way; it had its own way of changing our lives.





AUGUST





“It was like the Curse of the Bambino, just bloodier. You see, the girls each died on whatever day the Yanks lost their chance at the World Series, be it the final game of the season or the playoffs. It was a brilliant strategy, if I can even say that. All of the attention, all of the pressure, went to the team winning it all. But every year, they fell short. And every year, another girl had to die.”

Dan Velacruz, New York Times





65



I propped a foot on the windowsill, all of Yankee Stadium stretched out before me. To my right, Tobey sat, his phone out, his finger moving. To my left, Dick Polit, the team GM and a world-class idiot.

“Shrimp cocktail?” the waitress offered, first to Dick, then to Tobey. She didn’t say anything to me, the staff accustomed to my tastes, the first rule of thumb being that I didn’t eat anything dignified during a game. Nachos, peanuts, and hot dogs were fair game. Beer was fine, soda preferred. I liked the massage girl if we were up by more than three runs, and could be downright hostile if we were down. My first days in the box, I adhered to the expected dress code, pairing a navy sheath with a white cardigan. As soon as I felt comfortable, I went native, ditching anything dry-cleanable for a jersey and jeans.