“I am,” I said quickly, releasing my death grip on the doorframe. “I just wasn’t sure Stern was the best choice. Who else is there?”
Tobey looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. “Who else? Ty, it’s Chase Stern. The picketers can finally go home. Maybe the press will stop their shit. And most importantly, maybe that psychopath who’s killing these women will finally stop.” He let out a hard exhale, his hands flexing around a bottle of water as he unscrewed the cap. “What’s the problem?”
I stiffened, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Last time he was here, he clashed with the team.”
“That was almost a decade ago,” Dick argued, glancing at Tobey.
“Half that,” I shot back.
“Were you balling when he was here?” Tobey turned to me, his brow furrowing, a look I knew well. He was trying to remember.
“Yes,” I spoke quickly. “And he didn’t fit in.”
“Half those guys are gone.” Dick shrugged. “And the trade is done, so you can stop analyzing it. You guys wanted the best, you got it. You can thank me in World Series bonuses.” He grinned wide, and I wanted to crawl over his desk and punch the smile right off his face. This was not a smiling matter. This was a crisis.
“Ty?”
“What?” I blinked, realizing I had missed something—something Tobey had said—both of them looking at me expectantly.
“We’re going down to the airport to meet Stern’s plane. Give him the red carpet welcome and prep him before tonight’s game. You coming?”
“No.” I shook my head quickly. “I was going to visit Margreta and Caleb.” For the first time, I was grateful for her high maintenance breasts and their lengthy recovery period, one which seemed unending.
Tobey glanced at his watch. “You’re good. I’ll call her on the way. Come on.” He headed to the door, and paused, his eyes studying me.
I turned quickly, before he could formulate any thoughts, and grabbed my bag off the floor, my steps heavy as I walked through the door, Tobey’s hand invasive as it settled onto the small of my back.
This. This would be a disaster.
68
The jet landed into gray, a fog covering the city, thunderclouds in the distance, a setting fit for his entry into hell. Chase watched the ground approach, his eyes closing in preparation, his hands gripping the armrests until the bumpy landing was over. They taxied down the long runway, the travel assistant speaking as soon as the engines had quieted. “Mr. Stern, I’ve booked you a room at the Royalton until you get an apartment. We have a driver who will be on call this week, and I’ve texted you his number. Once we land, Mr. Grant and Mr. Polit are taking you straight to the stadium; they want to show you around before batting practice.”
“Show me around?” he barked out a laugh. “I’m familiar with the stadium.”
Her in the cramped equipment office, alone in the stuffy room; her head bent over a thick textbook; her foot resting on the bat cart, all long legs and concentration. Her eyes, looking up and catching his. Her cheeks flushing, a slow smile spreading before her gaze darted back down.
The woman fidgeted. “They’d like to show you around.”
Chase made a face, looking back out the window as she rattled off a list of details that didn’t matter. He watched the approach to the Yankee hangar, twin SUVs parked in front. As the jet approached, the vehicle doors opened, and two men stepped out. Then, the rear door opened, and the owner of his heart stepped out.
She was there to pick him up.
The view was terrible, the fog heavy in the air, her figure shrouded, but there was no denying it was her. She didn’t move like the teenage girl he remembered, her steps strong and confident, the move of a grown woman used to heels. But the cross of her arms across her chest was familiar, a tell of nerves, and he leaned forward, trying to see her face. If he could see her face, he would know what she was thinking, and how she felt about this.
The plane came to a slow stop, and he stood, grabbing his bag, then moved down the aisle, suddenly anxious to get off the plane.
When the door opened, the stairs lowered, and he forced himself to move slowly, his hand coming out and shaking Dick Polit’s, then Tobey Grant’s. He looked each man in the face, offering a curt smile, suddenly terrified of the next moment. Tobey turned, waving Ty forward. “This is my wife, Tyler.”
His wife. A reminder that would never be needed, the words clawing a fresh hole in his tender heart.
She stiffly stepped forward, a polite smile crossing her face, and held out her hand, her eyes slow to move upward, their gaze settling somewhere in the vicinity of his chin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Stern.”
He wrapped her small hand in his and tightened his grip, wanting to squeeze some emotion out of her, a flash of anger in those eyes, a glare … something. But she only stepped back, withdrawing her hand, and then looked away.
“We’ve met before,” he tossed out, a challenge in his voice, his tone hard enough to stop her turn, her body freezing in its exit. “Don’t you remember?”
Finally, her head turned, and her eyes found his. An empty stare, with none of the warmth and fire he remembered. He had wanted to know how she felt about his return. But looking into her eyes, he suddenly didn’t want to know.
69
Did I remember? What a cruel question to ask. I stared into his eyes and held back every emotion I could, a hundred memories pushing at thin spider-webs of restraint. I smiled tightly, words finding their way out of my throat, properly smooth and cold. “Oh yes. My apologies, Mr. Stern. It’s been so long.” I tore my eyes from his, finding Tobey’s, strength in his easy smile, his innocence, my clueless husband unaware of the raging war. Giving him a small smile, I walked toward the SUV, taking comfort in the strong click of my heels on the pavement, the sound of escape, of a woman tougher than myself, just four steps away from safety, then three, then two.
Then I was in the truck, the firm shut of the door buffering the howl of the outside wind—everything muted, everything safe.
Alone, if only for a brief moment. I let out a shaky breath, one traitorous tear leaking down my cheek before I hurriedly wiped it away. The men turned, heading toward the vehicle, and I looked away, out the window, my mask of indifference settling back into place. Four years ago, I would have broken down. Reached for him, damn Tobey and anyone else. Four years ago I didn’t know how to hide my emotions. Four years ago, I let my heart dictate my mouth, and said what was on my mind.
“I hate him!” I screamed the words, pushing against my father’s chest, not even sure where I was fighting to go. Baltimore? What would I do there? Show up at Chase’s hotel room, another man’s baby inside of me, weak apologies on my lips? I’d called him six times since his trade and couldn’t even get a return call.
“It took two of you to do this, Ty.” Dad’s voice was dry and deep, a bit of his Texas upbringing coating the words. “You can’t hate Tobey for all of it. But we have to tell him. We have to tell them.”
Them. The Grants. Was it a blessing that Rose Grant had passed away before seeing her son knock me up? Maybe. On the other hand, with both of us motherless, I would be the only female presence in this baby’s life. A terrifying thought, the additional pressure unwelcome and I screamed from the sheer frustration of it all. There was a gentle knock on the door and Carla peeked inside, her face worried, eyes scanning over me. I clenched my hands into fists and straddled the thin line between another scream and bursting into tears.
I couldn’t tell the Grants. I couldn’t look at Mr. Grant’s face, or Tobey’s, and tell them that I was pregnant. The elder had so much respect for me, had pushed for us to date for so long, had bragged about what a good girl I was to everyone… I sank against my father’s chest, his arms wrapping around me, and bit back a sob. And Tobey. He’d all but run from me that day after our sex. Hadn’t so much as texted me since. Then, I’d been grateful, my heart belonging to Chase, no interest on
my part for any more of that mistake. But now, I was furious. Maybe it was unjustified. I’d certainly had just as much part as him in the event. But my anger was there, hot and desperate, and it needed a target. And right then, in my bedroom, it was Tobey.
It had taken three days for me to get my emotions in check. For my heart to run the gamut from crying to screaming to crying to screaming. Dad had gone to his game, and I had stayed home with Carla, most of the day spent in bed, working through my hysteria. By the time he returned, I was calm. By the time we got in the truck and made the drive into the city, my mask was in place. Never once, in those first months with Tobey, did I let him see how I truly felt. I saved those outbursts for night, when I was alone in my room, our bedrooms not yet shared, and I had the privacy to cry.
It was one of those nights, when I was sobbing into a pillow, wishing for Chase, that Rachel Frepp died.
The first of the girls.
The beginning of the curse.
And I didn’t even know. None of us did.
70
Chase didn’t know what he did in life to deserve the punishment of sitting next to this woman. To hear the soft huff of her breath and not kiss it away. Smell the scent of her skin and not bury his face in her hair. Watch the hem of her skirt, its rise up her thighs, and not run his hand up her skin.
He shifted in the seat and tried to look away, tried to focus on whatever the general manager was saying. Saw her, in his peripheral vision, tuck a piece of hair back. It was short now, a fashionable bob that ended just past her ears. When he gripped it, it wouldn’t hang from his hand. When she rode him, it would fall into her face.
“We’re heading to the stadium, where we can swing by the locker room and player facilities. We’ve redesigned a lot of it, and I’m not sure how much you remember from before.” Tobey turned around, smiling at Chase.
“Everything,” he answered, settling back in his seat and holding the man’s gaze. “I won’t need any reminders. I remember everything.”
71
“I remember everything.”
I felt nauseated sitting next to him. The center console between us not wide enough, his elbow resting on the leather as if he owned it, his thighs spread on the seat, long legs stretched out. I hid behind sunglasses, sitting as close as I could to the door, feeling as if I was crawling up the glass. The desire to roll down the window and jump out was so strong that I squeezed my hand around the seatbelt strap to prevent the movement.
He smelled the same, the scent of him bringing a wave of unwanted emotions, my psyche instantly transported right back to the girl I used to be—that rebellious, stupid girl—one who wore her heart on her sleeve and drooled over such ridiculous things as batting averages and perfect bodies.
I was no longer that girl. I had grown up, found new priorities. I was chairwoman of the Boys and Girls Club for shit’s sake. The first lady of the damn New York Yankees. I was married to a man who adored me, who spoiled me rotten, who listened to my opinion and valued it.
And Chase … he wasn’t the same man who had left me all those years ago. Better or worse, it didn’t matter. We had moved down different paths, our fates parted, life possibilities killed.
He leaned forward, over the center console, and I stiffened, keeping my head turned to the window, willing him to stop whatever he was about to do, my composure too fragile for a poke.
“I like your hair.” He spoke softly, but I heard every syllable, the words shouted in my mind, almost as loud as his last sentence. I remember everything.
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, not looking his way, our earlier eye contact enough for a lifetime.
“Very ice princess. It matches your whole … look.”
I flexed my hand around the belt. “Thank you. Tobey seems to enjoy it.”
He moved away, settling back into his seat, and I let out my held breath as subtly as I could.
I could do this. Play the correct part. Survive this hitch. Lock up my heart and protect it.
72
It took me years to walk down the hallowed halls of our stadium and not think of Chase. It seemed unfair, with that scab finally healed, my ball club restored, for him to step through the double doors and ruin it all over again.
I walked next to Dick, Tobey, and Chase, the journey soon joined by our manager, John O’Connell. Their threesome stretched over the wide hall, both men speaking excitedly to Chase, their words floating back to Dick and me. Dick typed as he moved, his head down, phone out, no interest in their conversation. I walked in heels too high for this trek, my exit strategy planned as soon as we made our first stop.
Painfully enough, that first stop was the locker room. I held back, protesting, but John waved me in. “It’s empty. No one’s gotten in yet.”
I reluctantly stepped through, lifting my watch as I checked the time. “Babe, I need to go,” I said to Tobey. “Margreta—”
“She’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “We’re having lunch up in the club, and I want you there.” He turned to Chase, who dropped his bag in front of a locker already bearing his name. “Did you know that Ty was a ball girl for us for eight years?”
“Seven,” I corrected.
“Wow,” Chase drawled, turning slowly toward me. I looked away, focusing on a piece of something on my skirt, delicately picking at it. He stepped closer, and my heart cried for him. “You must have a lot of memories in this place.”
“Nothing noteworthy.” I raised my chin and met his eyes. “I preferred to be on the field.” Those eyes. “You ever think you could love someone too much?” They were the same, just as beautiful, yet different. Colder. Sadder. They looked like I felt. How I’d felt every day for the last four years.
“She’s got an arm on her,” Tobey said proudly. “Gets it from her dad. She’s—”
“Frank Rollins’s daughter,” Chase finished quietly. “I know.” His eyes didn’t leave mine.
I turned away, my arm looping through Tobey’s, my eyes ripping from Chase’s to look up into his face. “I’m starving. Did you mention lunch?”
Lunch was hell. A constant exercise in avoiding the one thing I wanted most in life. He cleared his throat and my eyes pulled to him. He answered a question and my breath caught, movement stopped, everything tensed to hear the way his words wrapped around syllables. His voice was different. Deeper. Older. From 23 to 27, and so much had changed. His shoulders were broader. His build was stronger. His hands, when he gripped the glass and lifted it to his mouth, those of a man. Every glance that I stole, he caught, each brush of eye contact another pin in the weak cushion of my heart.
Halfway through my lobster risotto, my cell rang. Finishing my bite, I set down my fork, bending and pulling my phone from my bag. Frowning at the screen, I excused myself, stepping away from the table to take the call.
I didn’t answer it. Instead, I silenced the ring and held the cell to my ear, speaking lines of greeting to the empty phone. I walked through the empty lounge, away from our table, gave a polite smile to the waitress, and escaped into the hall.
Silence.
Air.
Space.
I continued, walking down the hall to safety, and stopped by the bathrooms. Leaning against the wall, I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind, dropping my cell into my bag. I couldn’t be around that man. Not next to him in the car, not sitting across from him at that table. Just being in the same stadium with him felt wrong. I had ended that part of my life. And now, after just an hour in his presence, I felt like I was holding the past with both hands, trying to keep it closed.
A hand locked on my arm, and I opened my eyes, everything moving, Chase a blur before me as he shoved open the bathroom door and pushed me inside. I didn’t struggle; I sagged against the wall where he left me, watching him flip the lock, and then he was in front of me, his hand against the wall by my head, his eyes in line with mine, breathing hard.
“What are you doing?” he gritted
out. “Bringing me here? Playing this game?”
“I can’t be here with you,” I said frantically. “My—”
“Husband?” he growled. “I know. You’ve mentioned him enough.” He lowered his head, and then his lips were against mine, and my bag fell from my hand.
Almost half a decade since I’d kissed this man, and he still owned my mouth. Explored it with more skill, more need, more passion, than anyone ever could.
I let him do it, let him ruin my future, his hand hard on my waist, pulling me off the wall and hard against his body. I sank in his grip, clutching at his shirt, kissing him back, the bathroom quiet as we dove into hell.
I felt him, his workout pants giving away everything, his hands on my ass, pulling up my skirt, against the hard length of his cock, a small whimper escaping me as my soaked panties dragged across his stiff ridge.
“Nothing noteworthy?” he rasped against my mouth, breaking from our kiss, my mouth hungry for more. “Is that what you said?” He dove back onto my lips, his kiss punishing, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, pushing my hand down, inside the waist of his pants, the fight leaving my fingers when he wrapped them around his cock. “Feel that?” he asked, thrusting against my hand, his voice angry. “You wanna look me in my face and tell me that’s forgettable?”
I squeezed, unable to help myself. It was so thick. So hard. I should have dropped it, should have stepped away, should have smacked the confidence right off his face. But I didn’t. I slid my grip up and down his shaft, my mouth greedy on his, my free hand digging into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, the groan that slipped from him urging me on.
“Fuck me, Ty,” he whispered. “Right now. Please.” He pulled at my panties, and I almost moaned.