Moonshot
Page 54
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“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 open 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.
“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 open 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.
