Moonshot(68)

“When are you telling him?” Dad spoke low, leaning into me, his eyes on the game.

“Tomorrow. Maybe tonight … if,” I spit into the cup, “you know.”

“That’ll kill the buzz of a win.”

“I know.” He was right. No way I could ruin the biggest moment of our marriage, of our life so far, with the news of me leaving. I’d have to at least wait until the next morning. Really should wait a few days after. Especially if, God forbid, we lost. But I couldn’t wait. Not when every minute with him felt like infidelity, and Chase’s patience was already stretched thin.

I watched Cinns try to bunt, his short legs not fast enough, and I cursed, rising in my seat, just high enough to watch him get tagged out, the scoreboard changing, boos erupting from fans as our outs increased to two.

“You can’t win them all, Ty. You know that, right?” Chase spoke quietly, the words barely heard as he bent over the water cooler, filling his cup. I slouched on the bench next to it, the end of my ponytail in my mouth, nerves fried as the freaking Marlins handed us our asses.

I snorted, spitting out my ponytail. “You see that on a motivational poster? That’s bullshit. We can win them all. We’re—”

“The Yankees,” he finished with a smile, tipping back his cup. “Yeah, I heard you were a little fanatical.”

“It’s called loyalty,” I retorted, my eyes back on the field.

“I like it.” He tossed his cup into the trash. “It’s cute.”

I didn’t look up, instead stared at the field, but knew the moment he looked away, the moment he walked away, saying something to the first base coach, our conversation over.

Ball three. I watched in interest, gnawing through another seed, as the pitcher spoke with his coach. I glanced at Dad. “Think they’ll walk him?”

“They’d be stupid to.” He watched the conversation on the mound. “Not with Chase up next. He needs to throw him out.”

“Only one strike on the board.” Unnecessary words, spoken only to fill the conversation, to distract.

“Curveball,” he muttered, reaching over and grabbing a handful of my seeds. “That’s what I’d do.”

It was a curveball, Dad’s prophesy coming true, but it was too wide, too high, and Franks watched it go by, the energy in the stadium amping up as he took the free base, two runners on, our star—my star—now stepped up to the plate.

I rose in my seat, my cup left behind. Chase carried the bat by its end and flipped it, his head turning in my direction, his chin lifting until our eyes met. Just a second, a moment of connection, then he looked away, his cleats digging into place, the pants tight on his thighs, his ass. His forearms clenched as he wrapped his fingers around the bat’s handle, and then it swung slowly back, everything in him tensing as he waited, his eyes on the pitcher. I held my breath, watching him, the first pitch wild, his body never moving, the catcher behind him lunging for the ball. I caught my breath, eyes darting to first and second, where we had runners. Both taking leads, the second runner’s a little too generous for my taste. I looked back to Chase, his lead foot moving slightly in the dirt, then he stilled. Everything in our stadium stilled with him, fans on their feet, breaths held, hearts in throats.

An inside pitch, but he swung, his face tight, a blur of beautiful movement, the connection loud and crisp, the ball soaring, high and fast, disappearing into the lights of the stadium, then gone, to the moon. A moonshot. I was yanked sideways, Tobey’s arms around me, his body jumping up and down, our box filled with cheers, my body shook from others’ arms, my gaze staying on Chase, who slowly tossed his bat to the side, his face turning up to our box, his arms spread out from his body as he looked up to us.

“Yes!” Tobey shouted, pounding the glass. “Yes, you son-of-a-bitch! Run!”

Chase wasn’t looking at him. He held my gaze, then spun slowly, raising a fist to the crowd, and then jogged toward first, slapping hands with Rich at first base, my eyes on him the entire lap, his gaze reconnecting with me in the moment before he crossed home, the entire team there to greet him. Around him, around me, the stadium exploded.

Three runs. One enough to take the lead. One enough to end the series.

It was over. We had won the World Series. On a moonshot of all things. A moonshot off the most beautiful bat, from the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Somewhere behind me, champagne sprayed. And before us, the sky exploded in fireworks. I watched the brilliant display, lighting thousands of faces, the faces of Yankee nation, all of my boys in a pile of exuberance on the field, and felt a piece of me, the last tie of my childhood, break away. I choked back tears, smiling bigger than I ever had, and pressed my hands to the glass, devouring the scene, my last from this life.

It was a beautiful final moment.

It was a beautiful goodbye.





106



I left in the middle of the celebration, our security distracted, like everyone else, by the win. I yanked off my heels and sprinted down the private stairwell, passing through secret halls until I was underground, on field level, by the equipment bays, the muffled sounds of the stadium everywhere, celebrations in full force. I grabbed the ball boy when he ran by, stuffing a hundred-dollar-bill in his hand and told him to get Chase. He recognized me, the teenager old enough to understand the problems with the owner’s wife wanting a private meeting with a player. But he took the money, disappearing onto the field, and a few moments later, Chase was there, my hands pulling off his hat, his shirt damp with sweat, his clay-streaked baseball pants pushing against my hips, our mouths frantic as we kissed. With boxes of balls at my back, his hands cupped my face, my hands raked through his hair, and we kissed as if it was our breath, necessary for the beating of our hearts, the flow of blood through our veins.