“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.
Yankee Stadium. It felt unreal. His tour had been short, the rep from the owner’s office concise, nothing much to show. Every club was the same: offices, facilities, locker rooms, and fields. Here, everything was just better; the owner’s money was spent well, the locker room one that put the Dodgers’ to shame.
When he’d seen his locker, his name already in brass up top, his uniform pressed and ready, size 13 cleats in place … that was when it’d really hit home. That was when he’d dismissed the short man with the wingtips and had a moment of reverence, of realization that this was it, he was here. In the big house, with pinstripes that bore his name.
He coughed, clearing his throat, and waved at the air, suddenly claustrophobic in the sauna, the steam so thick he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, sweat pooling behind his knees. He stood and wiped at his eyes, reaching for the handle.
15
“Hey Ty.”
“Hey Mark.” I smiled at the maintenance worker, jogging down the hall, the path one I’d taken a thousand times. Easier on days like this, when the place was deserted, no conversations to halt forward progress, no packs of bodies to squeeze around, no executives to avoid. Not that I ever had to hide. But the less I was seen, the better. Yankee management has been extremely understanding about my travel with the team, my role as ball girl, and my constant presence over the last seven years. Prior to the Yankees, we’d been with Pittsburgh, a ball club who hadn’t been nearly as understanding. Maybe the Yankees allowed me around because I was Mr. Grant’s favorite. Or maybe it was because Dad was the best closer in the business, and they liked to collect rings. Whatever the reason, I was grateful.
I rounded the corner and hit the player lobby, the front desk empty, Dad’s code getting me through the double doors and into the locker room. I slowed to a walk, moved past the club chairs and ping pong tables, grabbed an apple from the food bar and leaned on the door to the inner sanctum, a place I rarely went during peak times, the possibilities of a penis sighting too high; that was something I had no interest in seeing.
I took a bite of the apple and pushed off the door, letting it swing shut behind me. Then I stumbled to a halt, my world stopping dead at the man who stood naked before me.
16
I’d seen naked men before. The locker room was a freaking sideshow of male genitalia, and my presence there was sometimes unavoidable. I’d learned to keep my head down and walk quickly, a trip in and out typically knocked out within thirty seconds.
Not this trip. My head had been up, my teeth deep in the apple, my eyes widening as they encountered the utter beauty that was a naked Chase Stern.
Torso facing me, he had a white tow
el lifted to his neck, the action tensing every perfect ab, his shoulders wide and strong. His head was down, his mess of dirty blond hair showing as he rubbed his neck, the other hand loose on his hip—God, the cut of that hip, a hard line of definition that pulled my eyes down to the thing that hung between his legs, big and proud. His penis. I was staring at Chase Stern’s penis. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move; I just stared. It was darker than his legs, thicker than I had imagined that organ would be, and it swung slightly when he chuckled.
Chuckled. My brain registered the sound right before he spoke.
17
She was a fawn, caught in headlights. Long, bare legs leading to a baggy tee, a bright green apple lifted to her mouth, her eyes huge, focused on him. It was about time she reached his face; she’d certainly spent enough time examining the rest of his anatomy.
She moved the apple away, her mouth full, and chewed, her eyes darting away, her face deepening in color, bright red by the time she swallowed, her feet suddenly in motion. She crouched before a locker, her hands quick, rummaging through its contents. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, what are you doing?”
She ignored him, jerking open the drawer at the base of the locker, her hand shoved inside, and then she was full height, just a few inches shorter than him, something gripped tightly in her hand.
“You didn’t see me. I didn’t see…” She flushed. “You. In case someone asks.”
“You can’t steal that.” He reached out, grabbing her arm, his fingers closing easily around her tiny forearm. She jumped, yanking away, her eyes snapping to his.
“I’m not stealing.” She held the item against her chest. “It’s my dad’s.” She spun, and in a burst of legs and blonde hair, she was gone.
18
I ran as quickly as I could. The stupid apple was still in hand. Dad’s wallet in the other. This was bad. Dad would freak. All of his worries, everything I had dismissed, and this had happened.
Like what you see?
Oh my God. He had caught me staring. How long had I stood there, just examining him like some sort of pervert? And then he’d thought I was stealing? He probably didn’t believe me, was probably pulling on clothes and heading to the security office right now, would describe me, and they’d pull video, and of course Marty and Shaun would recognize me, and of course they would tell Dad, and ohmygodIthinkImgonnavomit. I stopped in the middle of the hall, breathing hard, my stomach heaving, the damn apple still in my hand, no trash can nearby. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, tried to calm my breathing, tried to sort through this in my head.
Dad would know something was wrong. My poker face was terrible. Once, when I was eleven, I cheated on a math test, a calculator stowed under my notebook. Dad had known something was up the minute I passed the Scantron over. But this wasn’t an elementary school test. This was a hundred times worse. I tried to think of something, a distraction for my father, a lie prepared in case he asked what was wrong.
I came up with nothing, God punishing me for my actions, my deceit given absolutely no backup. I pushed off the wall and took the final steps to the end of the hall, the sun shining brightly through the door’s windows, the world outside oblivious to my demise.
I pushed on the exit bar and stepped into the sunshine, chucking the apple in the trash. At the curb, Dad’s truck idled.
“Got it.” I held up the wallet and slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut and busying myself with the seat belt.
“Where was it?”
“The drawer.” I pulled up my foot, resting my tennis shoe on the seat and busied myself with the laces, tightening them and retying the knot.
“You okay?” He was staring at me; I could feel his eyes, the truck not put in gear, his head turned to me.
“Yeah. Just pissed that I didn’t check—” My sentence was cut off by the ring of his phone, coming loud through the speakers, and I let out a sigh of relief, followed by a moment of panic. Maybe it was the security office.
“Hello?”
The voice that responded was brash and feminine, and I relaxed against the seat, letting our housekeeper’s voice carry my father into distraction, my chance at getting caught dissipating with each of her raised vowels.
Chase Stern. Naked. Staring at me. The deep laugh in his voice when he’d asked if I’d liked what I’d seen.
I dropped my head against the seat, replaying the interaction. Our misunderstanding over Dad’s wallet. My sprint out the doors. I hadn’t even introduced myself. Though … what would I have done? Shook his hand? I couldn’t have, not with all his nakedness right there. No, it was probably for the best, me leaving when I did. Before someone else came in. Before he said something else. I groaned as quietly as I could and turned away, resting my forehead on the glass window.
Talk about ruining me for life.
19
Chase stood, for a long moment, his towel still in hand, and stared at the swinging door, almost expecting her to reappear. It’s my dad’s. He glanced back at the locker, ROLLINS printed on a brass nameplate across its top. Frank Rollins. A name that needed no introduction, the closer’s place in the Hall of Fame already guaranteed, his rookie card one that Chase had behind glass somewhere. He’d heard that Rollins had a daughter—the sort of lewd comments always tossed around a locker room. He hadn’t paid much attention. Now, he wished he’d listened harder, his mind blank on anything but her father’s accomplishments.
He gave her one last chance at a return, then wiped at his face and headed for the shower.
Jesus Christ. Talk about the last thing he needed.
20
Moonshot. They say the term comes from Wally Moon, a player from the fifties, who hit bombers that the local press dubbed ‘moonshots.’ Dad had taught me the term when I was twelve, and desperate to hit my first home run. An impossible feat for a scrawny blonde in a Major League stadium, but Dad hadn’t told me that. He’d just kept me swinging, his pitches easy, my breath huffing smoke in the cold night air, my hits short after short after short.
He stood behind me, his hands over mine, and we swung. A practice stroke, over and over, my sore muscles learning the motion. “Look to the moon when you swing,” he instructed. “That’s what you want. A ball that disappears into it. One that goes to the moon and past. A moonshot.”
“Sounds stupid,” I grumbled, my eyes on the dirt, my swing down.
“Everything’s stupid if you look at it a certain way. Some people think it’s stupid for a girl to be named Ty.”
I looked up with a smile. “That was stupid. Ty Cobb? You couldn’t have picked a Yankee?”
“Would Thurmon have been better? Or Red? Or Whitey? Yogi? Lou? Mickey?”
“Mickey isn’t bad. Or Babe.” I grinned at him, tapping the end of the bat against my cleats.
He scowled. “Let’s focus on the moon. I’ll worry about stripper nicknames later.”
A moonshot had been impossible for me. I woke up the next day with a task almost as improbable: avoid Chase at all costs. Eye contact would be dangerous, any conversation disastrous.
21
I knotted my hair into a low bun. Skipped makeup. Pulled on a baseball cap, low over my eyes. Wore jeans instead of shorts, and a long-sleeved T-shirt, the biggest one I owned.
I stared at myself in the full-length mirror and hoped that I looked different. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me from the girl who had stood, limp-jawed, in the middle of the locker room.
“He’s my dad.”
God, why had I said that? Talk about sticking a giant kiddie nametag to my chest.
I heard the rattle of metal on metal, our garage door opening, and turned at the sound. Striding down the hall, I grabbed my bag off the hook and headed for the door.
Our night games had a schedule, like clockwork, and hadn’t changed in the last decade. Got to the park around two. The team ate together around five. Hit the field around six. National Ant
hem at seven. Showtime.
Everything was the same, yet everything was different, the change palpable in the air. Chase Stern’s arrival at the Yankees hit like an atomic bomb—so loud it was silent, the cloud of effect rippling out from his person in a giant wave that touched all of us. Muttered conversations, bits of gossip jumping amid the staff, a subtle shift of change in the air, everything moving aside for greatness, then settling back into place around him.
Despite myself, despite the dread I had at seeing him, the energy was addictive. My own personal drama aside, we needed his glove, his bat, his fans. With him here, we could do anything.
Avoid Chase at all costs. Dad must have heard my inner mantra. He dragged me with him to the bullpen, way out at the end of the field, strict instructions barked at me to finish my history project. A project that could wait for the weekend, but I didn’t argue. Arguing would have raised red flags, and he was more on edge than I’d ever seen him. So I pulled out my laptop and sat on the ground, leaned against the wall, and worked.
It took two hours to knock out my report—an analysis on Civil War motivations and the consequences of the war. My back tight, I stretched, closed the laptop, and pushed it into my bag. Dad sat at the end of the bullpen with two relievers, his hat off, elbows resting on his knees, his chin lifted at me in acknowledgement. As the closer, he was the best arm on the team, and brought in only when we were trying to preserve a close lead. The majority of the game, he was out in the bullpen, far enough to be out of my hair, close enough to be part of the game. I smiled at him. For an old guy, he was handsome, in a wiry kind of way, even with his hair sweaty and rough, his skin lined by too many years of squinting into the sun. In another life, he might have remarried, but I’d never even seen him consider dating. Maybe that was my fault. I’d never asked for another mom, wasn’t really interested in anything to interrupt our bond. I looked away and stepped to the fence, peering through and across the field. The dugout was empty, no players in sight. I glanced at the stands, a few fans already moving down stadium steps, drinks in hand, smiles in place. The gates must be open, go time near. It was time for the boys to get their asses on the field, time for me to get down front. Close to the action, close to Chase. My palms sweated.