Moonshot
Page 10

I zipped up the suitcase and yanked it off the bed. Pulled it down the hall and into the dark great room. I rolled through the kitchen, past the commercial appliances, white granite countertops, the photos of Dad and me stuck to the fridge. I opened the door to the garage, and heard the hum of Dad’s truck, the early morning breeze crisp.
“About time,” he griped, holding out a juice.
“Bite me,” I countered, shaking the container before taking a sip. “We’re five minutes ahead of schedule.”
“Your schedule. We should be leaving by four-thirty.”
I rolled my eyes and buckled my belt, his truck making the turn onto the main Alpine street, everything empty and still. “We’ll be the first ones there. Like always.”
He flipped on the radio, and I shifted lower in my seat, resting my sneakers on the dash. And, as always, I was asleep before we even hit the highway.
Our games were played in series—three in a city, then we’d move to the next, our play coordinated to reduce travel time and expenses. This trip would last eight days and hit Detroit and Dallas.
I adjusted the shade on the window and smiled at the flight attendant, taking the blanket she offered. The jet was full, with the exception of one notable member. Chase Stern. A man who could bat .340 but couldn’t seem to get to an airport on time. I heard the travel secretary on her phone, trying to get ahold of his driver. When he jogged toward the plane, a leather bag in one hand, Dad leaned over. “We should have left him. Let him fly commercial to Detroit. That would have taught him.”
He was right. We’d left players before. Hell, it was a regular occurrence, happening two or three times a season. When you tried to get thirty guys to show up at a certain time, shit happened. So they got left. Except him, apparently.
When he walked down the aisle, stepping over outstretched feet, murmuring apologies to anyone who’d meet his eyes, I looked away, out the window. I had managed, for his first two games, to avoid him completely, a difficult feat. Now, in the tight confines of the airplane, his presence felt huge and unavoidable. Especially when he paused just past our row, and I felt the push of my seat, his tall frame moving into the spot just behind me, his voice low and right there as he leaned forward, his hand gripping my headrest, brushing the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I managed, not looking up, busying myself with my headphones, pulling the big Bose headset over my head. I relaxed slightly when the pressure against my seat relaxed, his body in place, and started my playlist, trying to drown out the sound of his voice, the low apology, the way the vowels had hooked into me and held on.
“Like what you see?”
I could feel Dad’s glance and curled away, toward the window, tucking my knees to my chest and pulling the blanket up to my chin. There, I tried to not smell the fresh scent of his soap. I tried not to notice the occasional bump of my seat. I tried to pretend like Chase Stern didn’t exist.
She smelled like pears. When he bent down, gripping the top of her seat, he smelled her hair. It wasn’t intentional; he wasn’t burying his face in her blonde strands, he just got a whiff. A whiff strong enough to stick, to give him another puzzle piece to add to the Tyler Rollins enigma. When she leaned over to say something to her father, he watched her profile through the crack in their chairs. When her seat reclined, he imagined those long legs stretching out. Too bad she was in jeans; he’d noticed that on his walk down the aisle, his glance just brief enough to avoid suspicion, but long enough to see that she was in a Yankee jersey and jeans. A bag on her lap, open, headphones half out, her face turned away, looking out the window. Her hair down, tucked behind her ear. Young. She looked so young. So innocent.
“Like what you see?”
Such a stupid thing to say. To a seventeen-year-old girl, of all people. But he hadn’t known that, hadn’t even considered that. Still, it was done. And now, those words wouldn’t stop taunting him.
25
Detroit
We all had our favorite cities. Detroit wasn’t mine. Especially on days like this, when the rain pelted the field, the tarp doing little to keep the clay dry. I huddled under the west overhang, my uniform cold and clingy, an itchy skin that I couldn’t shed, not for a while. The kid beside me, some Michigan local who’d won his place in some radio station giveaway, looked miserable. I was sure his visions of the day hadn’t included sprinting across a soggy field, sneakers wet and squishy, toes frozen, picking up forgotten balls. Now, with a break in the downpour, I nudged the kid. “Make a run for the dugout.” I nodded right, and he ran—short, chubby legs darting across the grass.
I pulled my cap down low and crossed my hands over my chest, too mature to run, my steps nonetheless quick as I crossed to the far end, taking the back gate and walking down the ramp and toward our visitor locker rooms. I could hear the hum of voices, the men pent up inside, everyone itchy, ready for the game to either be called off or played, the inactivity excruciating.
It’d be an extra late night, the two-hour rain delay pushing back our bedtimes. I shivered in the empty hall and walked faster, rounding the final corner toward the locker room and running smack into someone.
Someone with a hard body.
Tall, the bill of my hat hitting his chest, my hands instinctively coming up and pushing against his stomach, nothing but hard abs felt through dry uniform.
Uniform. My throat went dry; I stumbled back, my wet cleat slipping against the painted concrete, out from under me, and my hand tightened against his uniform, holding on, his body reacting, and suddenly I had his hands on my hips.
His hands were on my hips. I tried to process that thought, the feel of his fingers tightening, his body bent forward, over me, as I tilted back. I frantically moved my feet, my shoes sliding, legs spreading, and I finally came to a halt, one shoe stopped by the wall, his grip tight on me.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, both of us in danger of falling if I continued my leg windmill. My face was tucked into his chest, an intentional move I had made milliseconds earlier because keeping my chin up would have put us in a Hollywood dip of sorts, and that was quite possibly the only thing that would have made this more embarrassing.
His uniform smelled good. Some sort of cologne, unless he rolled out of bed smelling like a medley of forest and ocean. Dad wore Old Spice, which was the most unsexy, spicy scent on the planet. This … I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to yank off his shirt and wrap it around my head, surgically affix it to my face, and smell just that, forever, even if it made me an elephant man freak in the process.