Moonshot (24 page)

“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.

“No,” I bit out, in between hot kisses, continuing the jack of his cock, his hands pulling the shirt from my skirt, the other squeezing my ass. “I can’t.” I quickened the speed of my hand and he all but shuddered, his grip on me tightening.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “Shit, get me a towel.”

I almost didn’t. I almost dropped to my knees on that Egyptian tile and took him in my mouth. Thank God I didn’t. It was bad enough that I reached over, pulling a stack of white custom hand towels, the team logo finely imprinted on their paper front.

I watched him come, his voice gasping my name, his hand pulling me to him and kissing me on the mouth, hard and desperate, his head dropping back when I shoved at his chest and walked to the sink, damp paper towels tossed in the trash, my hands furious in their wash, over and over, underneath water so hot I flinched.

“Stop thinking.” His voice, broken and quiet, came from behind me. I looked up into his reflection, into his face. An impossible directive, my thoughts frantic in my mind.
I just cheated on Tobey
. I wasn’t that woman, I couldn’t be that woman and … especially not with this man. This wasn’t a one-time, dirty affair kind of guy. This was the man who owned my soul. This was the man who, despite the miles of separation, and the years, and the gold ring on my finger, I still loved.
Fiercely
loved.

“That was a mistake,” I said quietly, fixing my blouse, straightening my skirt, my hands shaking in their attempt to right all of this wrong. “A mistake.” I repeated the words because everything I was feeling … the shame, the regret—it wasn’t over my marriage. It wasn’t over my husband, sitting at a table just rooms away. It was the shame of leaving Chase without explanation, of marrying Tobey and not driving to fucking Baltimore instead. It was the regret that I wasn’t, right now, five steps closer, back in his arms, pulling off our clothes until we were skin to skin, heart to heart, future to future.

“It wasn’t a mistake.” He pushed off the wall and stepped toward me.

“Stop.” There was enough strength in the word that he listened. “I can’t think straight when you’re near me. Please. Just … just stay over there.”

“I didn’t want to come here, Ty.
Your
side is responsible for this. I was happy in Baltimore.”

I shook my head, turning to him with a sad smile. “You hate Baltimore.” He told me that once, back in 2011, over midnight milkshakes on a Baltimore street corner. A story of a terrible childhood visit, a discussion of our youth and how memories can taint cities. He hated Baltimore. I hated Pittsburgh.

“It feels wrong, hating the city where I lived with my mom.” I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder, watching traffic roll by, the downtown street busy, even in the middle of the night. Occasionally, there was a horn, a shout, a fan who recognized him, their arms waving in excitement.

“But that’s not why you hate it, is it?”

“It’s just that … all I can remember from that time was being sad. All of it, the house, the park where I played, everything made me miss her more.” I had been glad when we left. Glad to start fresh in New York, in a house that didn’t have her furniture, in a truck that didn’t carry old tubes of her lipstick in its glove box. It felt like when we moved, we left her behind. And now, every time we returned, the city felt dim, draped in sadness. Thank God the Pirates were in the National League, our paths rarely crossing, my memories in Pittsburgh fading away.

“There’s nothing wrong with missing her. Or with being sad. You’re sad because you loved her, and because you had great memories to miss.”