Moonshot(7)

“I’ve got to go back,” I said, breaking away, Tobey’s hands sluggish in their drop from my waist. “My dad—he’ll be looking for me.”

“Okay.” He smiled shyly, and it was Tampa all over again. The meek boy with the pushy tongue. The one who slipped notes under my hotel room door and then dirty-danced with girls down by the pool. I didn’t know why I’d followed him over here. I’d seen him standing in the shadows, his phone out, a beer hidden down by his leg, and had veered off course. And then … somehow … my hello had turned into this.

There was a shout from the house, one picked up and carried by the wind, almost lost. But a few people heard it and turned. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and took a step away from Tobey, to the edge of the deck, where I could hear better. And there, in the float of conversation carried, I heard his name.

I didn’t glance back at Tobey, my feet launched me down the steps and toward the house. I ran, the wind whipping my hair, and couldn’t help but smile.

I knew it would happen. He was born to wear our pinstripes.





12



“Dad!” I ran after him, my hand catching his elbow, his turn sudden, and I came to a stop, my breath hard. “We got Chase?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’d we lose?” The only negative of new blood, the sacrifice of our weakest lambs.

“Just Collende, and a Minor guy. Probably some draft picks and cash.”

“Damn. Anyone talk to him?” I wanted to be sad. But we’d all known Collende would leave at some point. I’d spent the last two days analyzing our roster and had already prepared for the emotional break. Not that the loss was anything to cry over. Collende was a prick. A prick with one hell of a bat, but a prick regardless.

“No. You gonna be able to handle this, Ty?”

“What?” I looked up into his face and tried to understand the question. “Collende leaving?”

“No. Stern.” He lowered his voice and put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want your hero worship of him to affect…”

I didn’t help the man out. I let him dangle in the Atlantic wind, one struggling father on a limb that was shaky at best.

He swallowed before continuing, “…to affect your judgment. He’s gonna go straight for you, Ty. I know he is.”

I didn’t know what to say, my father’s opinion biased, the likelihood of Chase Stern even noticing my existence was slim. And that was fine. He was a baseball god. My excitement was at having him on our field, his glove and bat our new asset. “Dad. It’s Chase Stern.” He could change everything for us. He could take us back to the World Series, put us on the record books. One day his name would be mentioned in the same circles as Ruth and Gehrig, and we would have shared a field with him. “He’s not gonna mess with me,” I protested. “Don’t worry about that.”

He pulled me to him, a rare hug between us. “Oh, Ty. So smart and still so dumb.”

I leaned into his arms and said nothing. He was wrong, a rarity for my father. But still, my blood hummed with excitement.





13



Two Days Later

Bronx

Our original stadium was built in the twenties. Two years ago, due to an aging infrastructure, excess cash, and the need to one-up everyone else, our new home was built. We now had fifty thousand seats. Fifty-two skyboxes. A press box that caused erections. And a locker room that trumped every MLB club out there. A locker room that, fingers crossed, held Dad’s wallet.

“It’s not gonna be there. You check, you always check.”

“It might be in the drawer. Sometimes you stick it there.” I grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the glove box and pushed them on. I pulled at the seat belt to try to get some breathing room. “Just let me run in and check. Otherwise we’re dealing with…” I rummaged through the center console, snagging a wad of spare bills and counting them out. “Nineteen dollars.”

It was an old conversation, one we’d had a dozen times. After games, both of us tired, things got left behind. My backpack. His medicine. His keys, though we never got too far without those. His wallet was a constant source of stress, never where it should be; typically in Alpine when we needed it in the Bronx. Once he left it in a Cleveland hotel room, the team jet at thirty-five thousand feet before Dad reached for his back pocket, a curse leaving his lips.

He looked at the dash and cursed. “And … I’m low on gas.”

“It’ll be there,” I repeated, passing him the gate card, the players’ lot empty, today an off day. Everyone was at home, neglected families getting attention, jealous spouses getting updates, muscles worked by masseuses. Sometime today, Chase Stern would take off from LA, his stuff packed up by movers, everything in motion so that he could play tomorrow.

“Be quick.” Dad came to a stop by the gate, and I grabbed the door handle, my feet already out, the truck door slammed shut as I jogged down the walkway and to the door, my fingers quick on the keypad, his personal code entered, and then I was inside.





14



Chase Stern sat naked on wood planks, his back against warm stone, his arms loose at his side, eyes closed. There was a knot in his right shoulder blade that needed to be worked out. He rolled his neck to the side and inhaled deeply, the steam thick and hot, his skin pinpricking with the heat.