by
ALESSANDRA TORRE
Moonshot
Copyright © 2016 by Alessandra Torre.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Digital ISBN: 978-1-940941-77-6
Print ISBN: 978-1-940941-78-3
Editor: Madison Seidler
Proofreaders: Angie Owens, Perla Calas
Front Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Image: Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Model: McKinli Hatch
Formatting: Erik Gevers
contents
Title Page
dedication
prologue
ten years later, 2011 season
APRIL
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
MAY
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
JUNE
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
chapter 45
chapter 46
chapter 47
chapter 48
chapter 49
JULY
chapter 50
chapter 51
chapter 52
chapter 53
chapter 54
chapter 55
chapter 56
chapter 57
chapter 58
chapter 59
four years later, 2015 season
JUNE
chapter 60
chapter 61
JULY
chapter 62
chapter 63
chapter 64
AUGUST
chapter 65
chapter 66
chapter 67
chapter 68
chapter 69
chapter 70
chapter 71
chapter 72
chapter 73
chapter 74
SEPTEMBER
chapter 75
chapter 76
chapter 77
chapter 78
chapter 79
chapter 80
chapter 81
chapter 82
chapter 83
chapter 84
chapter 85
chapter 86
chapter 87
chapter 88
chapter 89
chapter 90
chapter 91
chapter 92
chapter 93
chapter 94
chapter 95
chapter 96
OCTOBER
chapter 97
chapter 98
chapter 99
chapter 100
chapter 101
chapter 102
chapter 103
chapter 104
chapter 105
chapter 106
chapter 107
chapter 108
chapter 109
chapter 110
chapter 111
chapter 112
chapter 113
chapter 114
chapter 115
thank you
note from author
about the author
other books
for girls with dirty hands and pure hearts
prologue
Pittsburgh
When my foot first stepped up, high and hesitantly, onto a team bus, I was seven. I liked My Little Ponies and Hanson. A brand-new coloring book was tucked under my skinny arm, a Lisa Frank backpack high on my back, full of my Most Important Items.
He stood at the top of the steps, one hand on the rail, the other on his hip. His jeans were stiff and dark, the bright yellow T-shirt tucked into the top of them. I raised my eyes from the neck of the shirt, past his scruffy jaw, his mouth, and landed on eyes that I had rarely seen.
“Hi Tyler.” His mouth lifted in a smile, and I tried to match the gesture.
“Hi Daddy.”
His smile broke a little, his mouth tightening, and he took the steps between us quickly, awkwardly sticking out a hand. “Let me take your backpack,” he said, his voice gruff.
I moved obedient arms through the straps, and carefully lifted one pink plastic shoe up another dirty step, then a second, depending heavily on his hand, my small palm gripping it tightly, our progression up the short flight an awkward dance of strangers.
When I got to the top, I stopped, a long aisle stretching before me, a chorus of male faces, strangers’ faces, staring at me, an uncomfortable hush settling over the big bus.
“Go ahead, Tyler. Find us a seat.” My father pushed gently on my back, and I took my first step down that aisle.
It was April of 2001, and six days after Mom died.
TEN YEARS LATER
2011 Season
APRIL
“At the start of that season, the curse of Chase Stern was nothing—none of it had even begun. And back then, there wasn’t a person on that team who knew what they were getting into. Back then, there was nobody dying. It was just another season starting, another year of baseball.”
Dan Velacruz, New York Times
1
New York
I hung on the edge of the fence, my cleats digging into the wood, my eyes glued to the field, on Danny Kiloti’s face, an ump who should, given that last call, hang up his whistle.
“Come on, Ump!” I yelled. “Quit squeezing the plate!”
He ignored me, his hand on Hank’s shoulder, their own discussion of sorts unfolding on home plate. I glanced at my dad, who leaned right and spat, his shoe stubbing at the pitcher’s mound.
We were down by three, top of the ninth. Fucked, in nice lady terms. Especially with the bats we were swinging tonight. I rested my chin on the ledge, closing my eyes briefly, sucking in the sounds, the atmosphere … even on a losing night, it was magic. Especially here, in Yankee Stadium. The greatest place in the world. It wasn’t the old stadium, didn’t have the history of the greats, but it was still incredible. Even more so, in ways. Our life, inside the dugout, had certainly improved in the new digs.
But on this April night, ten games into the season, a cool breeze blowing, the scent of grass and dirt competing with peanuts and beer, music thumping in tune with the stomp of fans, and the entire stadium on its feet, defending our play … there was nothing like it. Especially not from this spot—eye-level with the field, the shift of the world’s finest players behind me, the greatest stage in the nation before
me. I opened my eyes and found Dad’s on me. He winked, and I smiled. Rubbed underneath my nose, and he did the same. Our sign, solemnly decided upon one night, a decade ago. To a seven-year-old girl, it had meant everything. To me, now, it was just another piece of our connection, one strand of a thousand.
“Hey Ty!”
I didn’t turn my head, Franklin’s voice coming from the bench. “What?”
“Grab my inhaler?”
“On it.” I pushed away from the rail, my eyes on the mound, the game back in play, my dad winding up. I turned, knowing before I even heard the smack, that it was a strike. Two-seam fastball, and there wasn’t a better executioner in the game.
I left the stage and pushed through the swinging door, my sneakers slapping against the floor, my fingers trailing along the wall until I picked up enough speed and jogged, my fists swinging at my side, my chin nodding to a manager who passed, the entrance to the locker room ahead. I pushed through the door without hesitation, bee-lining for Franklin’s locker, my hands quick as I reached into his bin and found his inhaler.
Franklin’s inhaler.
Mount’s dip.
Henderson’s knee brace.
Someone always needed something. In the game that must go on, the players’ minor needs are often crucial to our success. I heard the cheer of the crowd and quickened my return, my push on the dugout door in tandem with my toss of the inhaler, caught easily by the man.
“Struck out. Ramirez is up,” Franklin updated without my asking, my glance at the scoreboard confirming. The opponent’s first base coach looked my way and smirked, his eyes skating down my front. I smiled, giving him a front-row view of my middle finger, the crack of a bat distracting us both, and I watched the ball soar high and left—a foul.
I stared at Dad and willed another out to happen. One out, then we just needed the big man upstairs to hand out a four-run miracle.
2
Baltimore
“We need help.” Pre-calculus got covered up by a meaty hand with a long career of cleat scars. I looked up into Shawn Tripp’s face and pulled the pencil from my mouth.
“Fernandez is having a breakdown over his wife. We tried.” He shrugged, and I was pretty sure that had been the full extent of any trying done.
“I’ve got…” I pushed his meat cleaver to the side. “Three more problems.”
“Come on, Ty.”
I glanced across the room at Fernandez, who tipped back a beer. “What idiot gave him alcohol?”
“It’s Fernandez.”
I snorted. “Fair enough.” I stretched, pushing back the textbook, and stood. Fernandez’s wife was on her third or fourth affair, but the first he had found out about. It hadn’t been pretty. We’d all dealt with the aftermath, through Boston, then Toronto, and now here.
I pulled at the chair next to Fernandez and sat. Reached over and stole a scallop off his plate. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“Want to talk?”
He shrugged. “Nope.”
I hitched my chair closer to the table. “You finished eating?”
He lifted his chin in a nod, and I grabbed a fork. Went to work on the remainder of his plate and met his eyes. He watched me warily, a good five minutes of silence between us before he let out a loud sigh. “You think I should leave her?”
I chewed his final scallop, musing over the question; my advice on affairs limited to midnight reruns of Dr. Phil. “Are you going to change?”
“Me?” He lifted his eyebrows.
“Yeah. Bring her on the road with you. If I was stuck at home for nine months a year, I’d cheat too.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” His thick accent was so adamant, I laughed.
“I might.” I reached for his beer, and he held it out of reach. “You don’t know me, Fernandez.”
He snorted. “Please, pepito. You wouldn’t.”
I leaned forward. “You would. You do.”
He avoided my stare. “I’m…”
“A guy? A future Hall-of-Famer?” I scoffed. “Don’t give me that shit. It’s the same. You don’t get a free pass because you have a bat of gold.”
“So what?” He looked me in the eye. “Two cheaters. What does that mean? We’re meant for each other?”
I stand up, my wisdom fountain almost dry. “Think about whether you’re ready to stop. If you’re ready to behave. That’s what you need to think about.”
He said nothing, just slouched in his seat and worked at the label of his beer. I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Love you, F.”
“You too, Ty.”
I did. I loved them all. I would do anything for those forty guys. And they would fight to their end for me. This team was my family, my soul. And I think that was what made everything that happened so damn complicated.
3
Chase Stern leaned forward, sliding the mane of red hair over the shoulder of the woman, tapping a line of white powder down her spine, a dot between each vertebra. She giggled, squirming beneath him, and he put a hand on her ass, squeezing hard, holding her still. “Don’t move.”
“Hurry.” She bounced back on his cock, the wet slide reawakening him, and he chuckled, leaning forward and taking the line, momentary spots of black in his vision before everything became blindingly, perfectly, clear. The squeeze of her around his shaft. The bounce of her breasts as he rolled her onto her back. The slow blink of eyelashes as she groaned, taking him fully in, the push of his thrust deep. The dig of her heels into his lower back, the gasp of her mouth, the taste of her skin as he lowered his mouth to her.
“Oh my God, Chase.” Nails scraping across his back. A sharp tug of his hair. Slick skin rubbing, his stomach against hers, her breasts hard against his chest. Her teeth dug into his shoulder. She contracted around him and screamed his name, shrill and sharp, over and over, a record on terrible repeat.
He was close, his balls tightening, his grip on her harder, his thrusts quicker, when the hotel door slammed open, bright light in the dark space. He lifted his head, a curse on his lips, his body unprepared when hit with two hundred pounds of muscle.
Everything so clear. The fall of his body, away and out of her, his dick still hard, still ready, still close. The huff of male breath, the smell of onion. Pain in his shoulder, a hand on his chest, a fist coming down. He ducked his head easily, pushing off, a bare hand against a T-shirt, the face hitting the light of the hall, a burst of recognition blaring. Davis. Of course. He laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all and pushed harder. Another punch. Another easy miss. Everything so slow in this world of mortals. He snapped up his elbow and watched the connection. The widening of eyes, the crack of teeth, the connect of elbow and jaw, Davis’s head going back, hands limp, the edge of the dresser right there and finishing the job. Davis out. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and stood, noticing the figure in the door—a woman from the hotel. A manager. Cheap shoes. Mouth half open. Face pale. Eyes darting, a ping-pong game of nervousness. To his dick. To his chest. Back down again. He twitched his cock and chuckled at her flinch, her eyes returning to his face.
He grinned, eye contact made, and winked. “Come on in, honey.”
The woman on the bed picked that moment to scream, a shock of red hair scrambling across the bed and to her husband’s side, a stream of Puerto Rican curses pouring out and directed at Chase. He smirked and glanced back to the door, his grin dropping when he saw the new face in the opening.
John Stockard. His and Davis’s manager. The head of the Dodgers’ MLB coaching staff. And he looked pissed.
4
I propped a foot on the desk and blew on my toes. Second coat: perfect. I shook the bottle of clear and leaned back in the chair.
On the TV, SportsCenter ran. I rested my head against the chair and watched, an occasional push of my foot keeping my chair in movement. Nothing exciting. The NBA lawsuit, an NHL coach who needed to be fired, a steroids idiot who got caught at USC. I
was starting to doze when Chris Berman straightened in his seat, something catching his attention.
I listened to his first few words, my own back coming off the chair, my hand reaching forward and grabbing the remote, turning up the volume. “Dad!” I called, my eyes on Berman’s face, the screen changing to a highlight reel of sorts, showing clips I’d seen a hundred times, the man in them the current dominator of our world.
Chase Stern. The best bat to hit our game since Barry Bonds. A shortstop who made Ripken look like a rookie. A body built for baseball, a face that made GQ editors swoon, and enough swagger to fill Dodger stands with females. Chase Stern had played for Stanford for two years before blowing through the Minors and landing on the big stage. That was four years ago. Around the time I traded in my training bra for a real one. I wasn’t immune to a little hero worship. The boys in the dugout had given me more than a little hell for my blush when he walked out on our field. I once caught a ball he tossed on his way to the dugout, and he’d winked at me. I’d been fourteen, and did everything but trip over myself in response.
But it wasn’t his looks that had sucked me in. It was his play. His effortless grip of a game that we all struggled with. His swing, his throw, the dip of his body when he scooped up a ball, the stretch of his six-foot body when he leapt in the air … it was my porn. I would die a happy woman for one slow-mo clip of his swing, the bite of his bottom lip, the squint of his eyes, his fingers sliding over his bat’s handle, the slow release, the easy swing of his body he jogged around the bases, oblivious to the crowd, to the cheers, to the madness.
He was beautiful.
He was perfection.
And he had, according to the news report title, been a very bad boy.
CHASE STERN: AFFAIR WITH TEAMMATE’S WIFE, THEN FIGHT.
“Dad!” I yelled loudly and reached forward, banging my fist against his hotel room wall.
MAY
“When Stern did that, it broke the cardinal rule of sports. You don’t mess with your teammate’s wife. And you certainly don’t punch the guy after messing with his wife. That put Stern on everyone’s radar. No one expected him to go to New York. But we expected someone to snatch him up. Nobody who bats four hundred is going to go unclaimed. And that summer, he was the hottest name in the game.”