98
Chase
It’s less than two weeks. Deal with it. This team has been my world for twelve years. I’m leaving it and everything I know for you.
Ty
I was going crazy from not going to the field, my nightly runs taking Titan and me through the ivy-covered elegance of our neighborhood. The run was boring, but safe, the field too risky, security increased, the chance of Chase there too great.
The other issue, one I didn’t want to face, was that he might not be at the field. I would spend two hours running, throwing, sweating … all in an empty stadium, my eyes scanning for a strong build I wouldn’t find. It would be a blow that I didn’t want to take, my psyche much more comfortable with the thought of him there, waiting. It was a fucked-up thought process, but one that still had me running down a cobblestone street, past private security gates and expensive lanterns, my fingers itching for a glove and ball.
One week, and I would leave my husband. Tonight, he had reached for me, his touch tender as he’d undone my dress, sliding it over my shoulders and down to the floor. I hadn’t known what to do, how to act, my kiss reluctant when he’d turned me to him. “I’ve got to go for a run,” I’d whispered. “Can we do this when I get back? Take a shower together then?”
He’d studied me, his fingers running down my arm, closing on my hands and bringing one up to his mouth, a kiss brushed over my knuckles. “Don’t take too long,” he’d said.
I was now on my sixth mile, my legs pounding up the hill, the night cold against hot muscles, my breath hard. I was far from home, the buildings unfamiliar, and I had a surge of exhilaration at the thought that I might be lost. Then Titan’s tail brushed against my legs, his ears up, and I remembered my traveling companion, the animal that could find his way home with his eyes covered.
I couldn’t avoid Tobey forever. Maybe stalling was stupid, my quest for a ring just an excuse to put off the inevitable. Maybe I should run home, right then, and tell him I was leaving. I didn’t even have to mention Chase. I could just tell him that I wasn’t in love with him anymore. That I was unhappy.
The problem was that I still loved Tobey. There was still affection there. History there. We had created and lost a life together.
But I wasn’t unhappy. I loved my life, my team. I had spent so much time in pinstripes that it felt like my skin. And leaving Tobey, shaving the Grant off the end of my name … I would be leaving the Yankees too. Forever. Tears pricked the edges of my eyes at just the thought of it.
Stupid to feel such attachment to an organization. But the Yankees weren’t just an organization. They were a life force, etched in tradition and history, fortunes, fates and days made on the backs of some of the greatest bats to ever swing in this country. I wasn’t just divorcing Tobey. I was cutting out half of my heart and giving the remainder to Chase.
99
Are you still fucking him?
Tobey was still awake when I climbed the stairs, my turn of our knob quiet, but my heart jumped at the sight of him, sitting by the fire, his shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the television. I thought it had been long enough, the hour late, his drinks at dinner heavy, but I was wrong. He clicked off the television and stood, the room suddenly darkened, the flicker of the fire painting his face red, his features half in shadow.
He said nothing, just pulled at my shirt, up and over my head. Then my sports bra. I was taken back to that hotel room, my back against the door, Chase’s breath heavy. I opened my eyes and willed it away, meeting Tobey’s eyes, his hands quick on their pull at my pants, and he gave me one long kiss before he stepped to the bathroom.
The shower started, a steady patter of drops against tile.
Steam floated off the spray, my hands helping him as he undressed.
The loosening of his tie—pulling the silk slowly through the knot.
The unbuttoning of his shirt—pushing it off, my eyes floating over the tattoo on his shoulder, the initials of our unborn son, the letters curling through an orchid bloom. I swallowed a lump of emotion and pulled at the thick leather of his belt, his hands brushing over my breasts, gentle and soft, as I undid the top of his dress pants and pushed them down.
In the shower, his hands ran over my hair, pulling out the elastic. The froth of bubbles, soap on his palms, slick against my skin. He stood behind me, the sting of water everywhere, our slick bodies constantly touching, brushing. We kissed under the spray, it dripping in my eyes, in our mouths, our touch growing stronger, frantic. I gripped him, and he bit at my lip. He turned me, tilting me forward, his hand brushing over me, fingers sliding in me, and I moaned when he pushed inside, half a cry of pleasure, half one of pain.
I cried in that shower. I held on to the stone wall, his hands settling on my waist, gripping me there, my face turned sideways, cheek pressed against the rough cut of granite, and silently sobbed, every thrust an invasion, not just of my body, but of my heart. He fucked me, and I remembered so much. So many times he was wonderful. So many times he was sweet. So many minute moments that made me love him. I didn’t fall, but I grew in love with this man. This man who fucked me in his shower and mistook my cries for pleasure. The one who turned me around, lifting me up, his kiss missing the salt of my tears, the pour of water from overhead erasing all evidence, his cock pushing back in, my legs around his waist, his hands holding me up, our movement slow and beautiful.
Slow and beautiful.
Heart breaking. Of mine as much as his.
And he never knew. He bit out a cry as he finished, thrusting deep inside of me, my nails tightening against his skin, my hands shaking as he lowered my feet to the ground, his final kiss soft and sweet, his thank you almost lost in the sound of the water.
I didn’t look at him as I dried off. I didn’t speak as I crawled into bed. I waited until the sound of his snores drifted across the room, and then I let myself cry.
I emailed Chase back in the middle of the night, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, my butt on the bare floor, my back against the foot of the bed, the flames of our fire flickering before me, the phone heavy in my hand as I pressed SEND and dropped it to the floor beside me.
No. not anymore.
100
World Series: Game 1
It was us against the Cubs, the Series starting in New York, and would finish here, in our stadium. My last games in pinstripes.
“Tell me what’s going on.” My father’s voice scraped through the receiver, sounds of the airport behind him. He and Carla were coming home, their flight getting them in with only a couple of hours to spare. They would watch the game from our box, fully clad in team apparel, Dad’s number retired and already in the Yankees’ Hall of Fame.
“I’m waiting until after the series.” I eyed Tobey through the window, by the pool, a phone to his ear, his hands gesturing, face upset. Probably on the phone with his sister. Margreta wasn’t coming to the game, a development that had infuriated Tobey and given me a tiny bit of pleasure. The woman liked to chat, and I was the most frequent recipient. I couldn’t be polite with her anymore, not today. Not when we were in the World Series, and I was days away from leaving her brother. Not when I had Tobey beside me, and Chase before me, my dad watching the entire thing. It’d be hard enough as it was, without her asking questions, her eyes critical, seeing everything, the woman a damn vulture without a bone.
“This is a big decision, Ty. Are you sure about it?”
“I am.” It felt like the first decision I had ever made for myself. Funny that it would be the biggest of my life.
“If he hurts you, I will kill him.” My father’s threat made me smile, the vigor behind it warming my heart.
“I don’t think he’ll hurt me. I think he’s more worried about me hurting him.”
“Good.”
I watched Tobey sit down in one of our patio chairs, his legs stretching out. I considered my words carefully before speaking. “I know it was
embarrassing, Dad, when I got pregnant.”
“You’ve never been an embarrassment.”
“This will be embarrassing. Tobey will—” my words broke off. I didn’t know what Tobey would do. “He might try to punish you. The tickets, the box … all of that will be gone.”
“You think I care about sitting in an air-conditioned box next to them?” Dad swore, and I heard the shush of Carla next to him. “I care about you. I want you to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Don’t worry about me.”
I smiled despite myself. “Thanks.”
“See you tonight. Take care of yourself ’til then.”
“Always do.”
He hung up, and I locked my phone, taking one last look at Tobey before stepping away from the window.
The game was six hours out.
Third inning. Neither team had scored. I stood from my seat and stretched. Walked to the window. Stared down at the dugout. Walked back.
“You don’t like baseball?” the idiot of a woman before me tittered, her straw swirling in a drink that looked like piss.
“Of course she likes baseball,” another woman chimed in, reaching over the kitchen’s island to pluck a carrot from the tray, dragging it through the artichoke dip. “She’s Tobey’s wife.”
The front door was only twenty or third steps behind me. If I took off, I could hit a full sprint in enough time to blast through it, these three-inch heels be damned. “I’m a Yankee fan.” I spoke up before these women discussed my whole life right here before me. “Don’t have a stake in this game.” Only a half-truth. I’d love to be in the other room with the guys, gathered around the giant screen, watching the play and discussing the game. It was the World Series for God’s sake. Seven games that the world stopped spinning for. Except that the Orioles had made it. Chase had made it. Which put me here, in this kitchen, staring at these women and trying not to strangle any of them.
“Well, I understand that.” One of them grinned, leaning on the counter, her ginormous breasts resting on the granite. “But with Chase Stern playing, I’d watch just for some bedroom inspiration, if you know what I mean.” She winked, and I didn’t know how anyone could not know what that meant.
“Oh Cayce, stop.” An older brunette to my left shushed her.
“Who’s Chase Stern?” That question came from the teenage girl, one who looked up from her phone for the first time since the starting pitch. That was how long I’d been in this Godforsaken kitchen. Since the pitch. Now, in the third inning, I was full on finger food and beyond ready to leave.
That question brought a new swell of conversation, all focused on the man who I was hiding from in the kitchen. Only they didn’t care about his batting average or wOBA. They cared about things like an Instagram account and a nude spread he had done for Sports Illustrated, two things I knew nothing about but wanted to see instantly, the pull of my phone almost impossible to resist. The teenager looked him up, and there was a new round of swooning, the iPhone passed from hand to hand, but I stepped back from the action before it was offered to me. I moved to the entrance of the media room, glancing in on the men in hopes of distraction.
And there he was. In high definition, his jaw tight, eyes looking down the line, his hat pulled low, a day’s worth of growth on that face. The camera held him there, held me in place, until the pitch, one low and outside. My hand tightened on the doorframe, willing him to wait, but he didn’t. He swung, one hand leaving the bat, the crack loud and crisp, his eyes on the ball until it was gone, the crowd surging to their feet, his eyes moving to the camera and giving it one, cocky wink. I turned from the TV, but was too late to miss it.
I walked through the kitchen and out the front door, the cool fall night a shock to my senses. My butt hit their front steps, and I wrapped my arms around my knees, his face, that wink, stuck in my mind. And there, on a stranger’s empty front porch, for a long breath of time, I mourned a life lost.
A life I had now found. It was there, in my grasp, that man down there one who had waited for me. Four years he had waited. I suddenly wanted to run out of the box, like I had fled that party, taking the halls, elevator, and ramp down to the field. I wanted to burst into that dugout and wrap my arms around his neck. Jump into his arms and kiss his lips, inhaling the scent of sweat and clay and leather.
I didn’t. I stared down, watching him from above as he leaned against the dugout fence, one foot resting on the ledge, his eyes on the game, on the action. Then I turned back to the room, and found my seat next to Tobey.
101
World Series: Game 2
I didn’t know what happened when lives split. Couldn’t imagine sitting in this bedroom and packing up my things. I didn’t have much, not that was just mine and not ours. Some memorabilia from my ball girl days that Tobey had framed and mounted. A few things in the baby’s room … the shrine that still sat, two rooms away, neither of us able to bear the task of returning it to a study. After I left, I was sure he would. I was sure he’d take my library and turn it into a cigar room. Would probably have the gardeners tear out my orchids and replace them with something else. Something without memories. I would do all of that, if I were him. I would burn this place to the ground without a moment’s guilt.
I had less than a week left in this house. Not enough, yet hundreds of hours too long. I walked through the library, my hand drifting over the spines, thousands of hardcovers—some read, some not. I spent most evenings in this room, Tobey off with the guys, me with my plots and heroines. Fell into other worlds, Chase seen in every hero, his build in every description, his touch in every sexual scene. He had rescued me from burning buildings, solved murders, and seduced me a hundred ways. I smiled, thinking of all of the times I had pictured actual sex with Chase and expected it would fall short, my expectations that of the bestselling erotica variety.
But he hadn’t fallen short. He had been a hundred thousand times better. As a teenager, he had corrupted me. As a woman, he had ruined me.
I heard steps behind me and turned, Tobey in the doorway, smiling at me. “One win down.”
“Yeah.” I smiled as widely as I could manage. We had barely eked out a win the night before, the Cubs leading up until the last inning.
He glanced at his watch. “You ready? We should leave soon.”
I nodded. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
He glanced around the room. “Need more bookshelves? I can have that wall blown out, if you don’t mind sawdust and construction for a few months.”
A few months. The guilt was climbing up my chest, clawing into my heart with long nails. “I’m fine,” I said faintly.
“You feeling okay?” He looked at me closely. “You’ve been quiet.”
“Just nerves,” I said quickly. “We’re so close.”
“I know.” He smiled. “I’m ready to bring that trophy home. Already had them prepare a spot in the cabinet for it.”
“Great!” The response came out too loud, too forced, and he studied me for a moment before nodding.
“I’ll be downstairs. Let’s try to leave in the next ten minutes, okay?”
“Yeah.” I turned away from him and straightened a bookend. When I heard him leave, I jogged upstairs, wanting to check my email before we left.
102
World Series: Game 3
This is driving me crazy. Every time I see you with him, I feel a piece of me break.
Tension was in the air, the bodies that passed our seats subdued, everyone on edge, short greetings tossed our way. Game 2 had been bad, a loss by four runs, the team’s cohesion off, everyone batting shit, errors right and left. I had stayed at the skybox’s glass, tension building with each inning, the drinks Tobey kept passing me not helping, nothing helping. I almost went down there. Just wanted to see his face, to hear his voice. I needed it, each of these days without him were torture.
Now, Tobey and I sat in the first seats of the jet, each new body in the o
pen door causing my heart to skip, my eyes frantic in their game of avoidance and need. I tried not to look, but I failed. Then, there was the moment of glance and stick—his head ducking through the opening, a hat on his head, his eyes finding mine, the edge of his mouth barely lifting, his chin nodding, his eyes going from me to Tobey, and his mouth flattened. “Mr. Grant,” he drawled. “Mrs. Grant.” He nodded and moved past, down the aisle. It took every muscle in my neck to keep my head trained forward, to not turn my head and watch his exit. I wondered if he turned around. If he glanced up at us when he sat. I hated sitting next to Tobey. Being on this jet with both of them. I tried to get Tobey to fly out separately, but he refused.
If he wasn’t here, I’d have your seat leaned back and my face between your thighs.
I saw the email twenty minutes after we took off, the jostle of turbulence covering up my small reactionary gasp, the uncomfortable cross of my legs. I tilted the phone away from Tobey, rereading the email, committing it to memory before I pushed the delete button.
There. Gone. I shifted in my seat, needing some relief from the sudden ache between my legs. Tobey leaned over, kissing my neck, and the familiar stab of guilt returned. It’d been haunting me, getting stronger by the day, gaining momentum with every touch of my husband’s hand, every whisper in my ear. I wished I could hate him. I wished I didn’t feel pity for him. He was too good for pity. He was too good for any of this.
Three more games.
Five more days.
Then, the lies and the deaths would all be over.
103
World Series: Game 4
We had won Game 3. A short-lived victory since we were now down by four runs. Chase swung, the ball ripping from his bat, going high, high, high … gone. I watched fans in the upper decks scramble for the ball, bodies jumping off seats, a claw of arms and elbows until one lone figure cheered, his arm stretched high in the air, the ball clenched in his fist. It didn’t matter. No one was on base. One run in, three more needed just to tie up the game. And in the sixth inning, our prospects looked bleak.