Authors: Alessandra Torre
Moonshot (4 page)
“Love has its own timeline, Tyler. Remember that.”
He told me that in the moment before he took the field, the crowd roaring to their feet, swallowing my response. I was upset over Tobey, my frustration hidden behind fifteen-year-old attitude, my sunglasses masking any flash of irritation his occasional presence sparked. He’d walked into the stands, moving sideways down the row in Section 17 with a girl. Some tart in cut-off shorts and a tight tank top, her hair straightened, enough makeup on that I could see her eyelashes from my spot by the first baseline. Dad must have caught my look, my quick glance away. He stayed silent for two damn hours before slapping my back on his way out to the mound, his advice tossed out gruff and concise, no opportunity for discussion, the game needing to be played, strikes needing to be thrown, teenage feelings muffled.
It hadn’t been the greatest advice in the world. And for me, a confused teenager who wasn’t even sure I liked Tobey, it was useless. I asked Dad about it later that night, in a booth at Whataburger, the restaurant empty, one employee mopping the floor.
“You said that love had its own timeline. Was that the problem with you and Mom?”
He wiped his mouth, setting down his burger, his brow furrowed in his glance at me. “Problem? Why would you ask that?”
“You just weren’t around a lot.”
“You know this life, Ty. It’s not one for a baby.”
“So … before me, she came on the road with you?”
He nodded, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “She did.”
“I’m sorry.” I busied myself with the edge of my burger’s wrapper. “For messing that up.”
“Don’t be. She came with me because we couldn’t really afford anything else. Once I moved to the Majors, she would have stayed home anyway. Even without you.”
“And missed all this?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, Ty. And missed all this.”
He thought I was joking, our 2 AM fast-food dinner not exactly high-living, despite what we had in the bank. But I wasn’t. For me, everything about our life, from the long hours, to the hell of a schedule, to the sweat and smells of the locker room … it was all magic. I couldn’t imagine ever walking away from it.
I felt a nudge against my foot and looked up from the fire, Dad’s eyes on mine. He tilted his head to the house. “They’re putting dessert out.”
I stretched, pushing to my feet and grabbed my empty Sunkist bottle. “Want anything?”
“Nah.”
I headed to the house, my flip-flops loud against the deck, and I tossed my bottle toward the trashcan, movement in the side-yard catching my eye.
At the private airport, the setting sun glinted off the tail of the Citation jet. Chase Stern stood by the back of the car, waiting as men loaded his bags into the plane, his phone out, fingers busy.
“Ready, boss?” the pilot stopped before him, and he glanced up.
“Yeah.” He looked back at the car. “Got everything?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s roll.” He stepped toward the plane, his long legs eating up the space, and he was up the steps and into a seat too quickly, his head still playing catch-up with the fact that this was
it
; he was leaving Los Angeles and headed to New York, to the place he’d dreamed about since he was a kid, to wear a jersey that had, for so long, seemed unattainable. This would be his future, where he would stay, his jersey hung next to the greats, his number retired, records forever broken and kept in his name. He glanced out the window, the driver already back in the car, no crowds recording this moment, not a single soul showing up for his exit. Not that he’d broadcasted the news, but it was in that moment, the airport rolling by, that he realized how few connections he had made in Los Angeles. Maybe it had been intentional—the push away from others, a part of him knowing it wasn’t a permanent situation, stopping the dig of emotional roots.
Still, as the plane gained speed, the engines roaring beside him, it would have been nice to have
someone
there to see him off. He had a brief thought of Emily, and his heart tightened. Not that she’d have been holding a sign. No, she’d have been in the seat next to him, catching his eye with a smile and toasting his future before they even lifted off.
He tasted like peppermints. I opened my mouth wider, and his tongue moved faster, an excited dart of flesh pushing against my gums, the clash of teeth brief, then he pulled back a little. We were on the side of his house, a palm tree beside us, my back against the brick. In the dark, only the moon lit his face, pale highlights on his lashes, the tip of his nose, and bruised lines of his lips.
“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.
“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.
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.