But I knew where his hurt and anger lay. In the lost opportunity. I knew because I felt the same way, I hated myself for not giving that moment to him, to us. I hated that I’d lost my virginity through anger and resentment and not in a night of love and passion. I hated that it had been Tobey pushing into me, and not Chase. I hated the look I had seen in Chase’s eyes. The loss of some bit of reverence that he had had for me.
I turned on the TV as a distraction, something to keep my mind off him. Instead, with a somber Scott Van Pelt speaking into the camera, I watched our fairy-tale summer shatter.
58
The facts known were little, a few sentences that the newscasters discussed on repeat, each flip of the channel bringing the same maddening three sentences.
Chase Stern was involved in a physical altercation with a member of the Yankee organization.
He was not arrested.
The Yankees have not issued a statement at this time.
We have no further information.
I’d been in the walls of that stadium long enough to know what would happen if this information was true. A member of the Yankee organization? Was it a coach? Another player? A member of the crew? Who it had been wasn’t really crucial to the outcome. This wasn’t Los Angeles, where it took punching a fellow teammate after fucking his wife to get a rise out of management. This was New York, where every person on the NYY payroll was family, and we protected our family. We loved our family. We fought for our family. And we fought against any discord in our locker room, in our stadium, in our family.
My fear was confirmed at 2:17 AM. I was bleary eyed, my fingers numb from pushing buttons on the remote, from redialing his cell and getting voicemail. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically, my psyche raw and brittle, when an update finally happened, one thin line of text scrolling across the bottom of the screen, mid-commercial.
UPDATE: Chase Stern traded to the Baltimore Orioles.
Seven simple words that brought down everything we had.
The phone dropped from my limp hand, and I fell back on the bed, my eyes closing in defeat.
59
I couldn’t stop crying. At first it was small leaks coming out at inappropriate times, my hands wiping at my cheeks while stirring Carla’s spaghetti sauce. Then it was giant, gushing sobs, impossible to hide, Dad’s wide-eyed confusion not helping. I locked myself in my room, not eating, not working, not talking to anyone. The week ended, and then the next, and then the Yankees were back on the road, Dad leaving for Chicago, his knocks on my door unanswered, his calls to my cell ignored. I was in bed when he kicked in my door, the frame splintering, my head turn too slow to suit him, my quiet study of his flushed face one that seemed to make him more upset.
“Talk to me, Ty. I’m not leaving until you do.”
I rolled away, pulling the comforter over my head. “There was a key to my door in the kitchen junk drawer,” I mumbled. “You didn’t have to break it down.”
The comforter was ripped from my grip, the aggressive move bending my fingers, and I yelped, bringing my injured hand to my chest. “Ow!” I yelled. “That hurt!”
He bent over the bed, his fists biting into the sheet, his glare matching mine, twin sets of Rollins-bred anger. “What’s this about? What happened?”
I rolled back, my knees curling against my chest, needing the cover of a blanket, something to hide me. “Nothing.”
He walked around and knelt beside my bed, his face there, in the narrow view of my peek. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
“You’ll miss the flight,” I mumbled.
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll get in trouble.”
“You’ve never missed a trip before.” I knew it would cause a red flag. Even more than my fits of tears. I didn’t miss games, this last week an oddity in itself, an argument every time Dad left for the field. I had blamed a stomach bug, then the flu, and Dad had called bullshit on both. He’d yelled, I’d cried more, and he’d stared at me, bewildered. Rollins didn’t cry. We cursed, we fought, we punched walls and said hateful things. He didn’t understand a teenage girl whose face became hot and whose voice broke. Hell, I didn’t understand that girl. I had become a walking mess of emotions at a time when I should be making plans, calling Chase, fighting for our relationship, our future life.
I love you.
He’d meant it, hadn’t he? Even if I had fucked up, even if I wasn’t the virgin he’d assumed me to be, he had loved me.
I’m going to marry you one day, Ty Rollins.
True Love didn’t give up because of a hiccup. Or a trade. True Love stood together and fought. But I wasn’t fighting. I was being, in the worst way imaginable, like every emotional girl I had always ridiculed. And I couldn’t seem to find a way to stop. I couldn’t find the energy to call him again. I couldn’t find the strength to meet my father’s eyes and tell him the truth.
“I’m old enough to stay here.”
“You’ve never wanted to stay here. That’s the problem. Is it the Stern trade?”
Fresh tears leaked weakness. “Why would you say that?” He knew. He had to know. Or maybe he didn’t.
“It’s convenient timing with this breakdown.”
“It’s not a breakdown.” I sat up and sniffed, a glob of mucus thick down my throat.
“Then toughen up. Whatever it is. Either talk to me about it, or stop crying and get the hell over it.”
I twisted my mouth, holding back a burst of angry words. I was mad at him, and for no good reason. We had always talked, often no one else around to bounce things off of, and his treatment of me as an adult was one I valued, my attitude and silence for the last week uncharacteristic. I didn’t blame him for being confused, or for being sharp. He wasn’t at fault in all of this. Chase was. Who punched a security guard over a slow key machine? Who told a girl he loved her, and then moved to Baltimore without saying goodbye?
“Pack up. Get on the plane. Let’s get to Chicago and you’ll feel better. The game has helped me through a lot of hard moments. Pull on cleats, smell your glove, run on the field … it’ll help with whatever you’re going through.”
It was tempting. For the first time, I considered leaving the house. Moving on. Returning to life. But how could I walk on a field and not think of his jog across it? Sit on a dugout bench and not remember his slouch against it, his eyes on me? Walk down a tunnel and not think of our collision? Every memory, every piece of my life was now tainted with him. I couldn’t turn on ESPN without hearing his name. Couldn’t go through our schedule with every Orioles game looming, eight more games left this year. Eight times we would share the field. Eight times he would stand on the dirt, just steps away.
I just wasn’t ready to smell the leather of a glove or to walk into an empty hotel room. I couldn’t handle any memories of Chase right now. But eating … maybe that I could do. I swung my feet off the side of the bed. “I’ll stop moping. I’ll try.” I gave him the best smile I could muster.
“And you’ll pack? Come with me to Illinois?”
I shook my head. “Next week,” I promised.
That was enough, and he held out his hand, pulling me to my feet and wrapping me in a hug. “You stink,” he murmured into my hair, and I laughed.
“I’ll shower too.”
“And eat something. Carla just made your favorite: chicken pot pie.”
I nodded, the smell of her cooking coming through the open door. My stomach woke up, churning to life, and I pulled out of his hug, his arm keeping me close, and he bent down to press a kiss on the top of my head. I suddenly felt hot, the scent of food overwhelming, my shove against him harder than I intended, my sprint to the bathroom barely in time, the door slamming against the wall, my knees hitting the tile, hands on the seat, my stomach heaving.
I wheezed, the action painful, each lurch of my stomach bringing up little, my forehead dotted with sweat by the time I collapsed against the
wall of the bathroom, my legs weakly falling open, my eyes traveling up my father’s body and to his face. He watched me, concerned, then paled, turning ashen. Seeing it cemented all of my fears, his hand dragging over his face in the moment before he pointed a shaky finger toward me.
“You’re not … not…”
I swallowed hard, more tears threatening, barely held at bay, my mind counting over the last few weeks, trying to remember when I’d last had my period. “I think so,” I whispered. “I’m pregnant.”
I didn’t end up going back on the road.
I didn’t go to another game that year.
The next time I walked into Yankee Stadium, it was through the owner’s entrance, my journey by private elevator and surrounded by security, until I was seated in the skybox, my dinner order taken by a tuxedoed waiter, my ring shining in all the glory that seven carats brought. I sat up there, ate crab cakes, sipped hot tea, listened to my fiancé talk, and watched my boys play.
With every single play, I thought of him.
With every single play, I died a little more.
FOUR YEARS LATER
2015 Season
JUNE
“Rachel Frepp was the first. She died on September 28th, the last day of the 2011 season, when the Yanks lost to the Rays. A jogger found her, stabbed, early that next morning, in the alley behind her apartment. That’s how all the girls died, and they were practically carbon copies of each other. Single blondes on the Upper East Side, all in their twenties. All in love with the Yankees. I guess those were his favorites.”
Dan Velacruz, New York Times
60
When I woke in the morning, the sun barely peeking over the park, I thought of the dead girls. Rachel. April. Julie. Tiffany. Their names had almost blended together in my mind, one long word that ran on repeat. RachelAprilJulieTiffany. RachelAprilJulieTiffany.
I used to wake up and think of Chase. I’d roll over in this bed and want to cry, the need for him was so strong. As the years had passed, my memory of his smile had faded, the sound of his voice grown weaker, the taste of his kiss almost completely gone. I almost missed those painful mornings. Thinking of him would be better than crime scene photos and guilt.
RachelAprilJulieTiffany. With each day deeper into the season, their names got louder, the pressure grew stronger. I couldn’t take another name. We couldn’t shoulder another death.
I closed my eyes and willed sleep to take me back.
“Mrs. Grant.”
I didn’t move, the blanket warm and smooth against my skin, layered with two sets of the best sheets money could buy. Sleep was still close, my mind not fully awake, the sink back into nothingness—
“Mrs. Grant.”
I gave up and cracked open an eye, the room coming slowly into focus, warm light streaming in the windows and onto the bookshelves, the fireplace, the leather rug. From the angle of the sun, it was late. “Yes?”
“Mr. Grant is on the phone.” One of the house attendants, Paula, primly held out the phone, her free hand cupping her stomach, a pose I hated.
“Thank you.” I took the phone and sank back into the bed, before rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling. RachelAprilJulieTiffany. “Hey.”
“I’m sorry to wake you, but Caleb’s school called me. He’s in the nurse’s office, got a bug of some sort.” Tobey’s voice was strong, one that spoke of hours of productivity. To the outside world he was charismatic and patriotic—the perfect man to lead the Yankees. No one knew of his inner struggles. No one knew of the brittle layer beneath his façade of strength. He was a good man, one who loved me. I avoided the girls by sleeping late. He avoided them with coffee and work, both of us sprinting uselessly down a treadmill of avoidance.
“I’ll pick him up.” I craned my neck, glancing at the silver clock on our bedside table. “What time did you leave?”
“Five. I know you told me to wake you, but you were sleeping so hard.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” I glanced toward the door, where Paula was making a quiet exit. “Paula? I’m leaving in ten.”
She nodded, shutting the door behind her, and I sat fully up, pulling back the covers. “How long are you staying?”
“I’m not going with them to Kansas City. I’ll be back Friday. Trust me, I need a vacation more than you right now.”
“I believe that.” I reached over to the bedside table, grabbing my ring and sliding it on. “Have you gotten tonight’s lineup?”
“I texted it to you. Doc says Gautte’s shoulder still isn’t ready.”
“Damn.” I smiled. “You’re on top of it.”
“Trying to be. I got big shoes to fill.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll drag your sister out of the hospital myself if she stretches this into next week.”
He laughed. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Keep me posted.”
“I will.”
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed. Five minutes later, jeans and a henley on, I laced up my boots, grabbed a leather jacket, and jogged down the staircase, smiling at Paula, who held out my coffee and a bag with breakfast. “Thanks.”
Our elevator was waiting, and I had, in the quiet of the ride down, a moment to collect myself.
Margreta Grant—Tobey’s sister. A bottle blonde in the hospital for a procedure I strongly suspected to be another breast augmentation, but she was insisting otherwise. I should be in Tampa with the team, one of her socialite friends holding her hand through this harrowing experience, but it turned out fake friends sucked at real obligations, and sisters-in-law were expected to step up in their stead. I stepped out of the elevator, into the garage lobby, and nodded at the driver, taking a long pull of my coffee.
“Good morning, Mrs. Grant.”
“Morning, Frank. We’re picking up Caleb from school, then swinging by the hospital.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He opened my door, and I stepped into the warm car, tossing my bag onto the floorboard, my phone out and against my ear by the time we pulled onto the street.
Dad answered on the third ring, “Hey Ty.”
“Hey Dad. How’s Florida?”
“Terrible. Nothing but sunshine and bikinis.”
I laughed. “Stay there. New York hasn’t gotten the memo that summer is coming.”
“Surprised you guys haven’t flown south.”
“We’ll be in Aruba this weekend. I can defrost then.”
I opened the bag from Paula, pulling out a muffin, my phone put on speaker and set aside, conversation between us easy as I ate breakfast and tuned out the outside world. It wasn’t until Frank coughed that I realized we were at the school.
“Got to run, Dad. Drink something with an umbrella in it, and give Carla a hug for me.”
“Done and done.”
I ended the call, stuffing the rest of the muffin in the bag, and stepped out of the car and into the brisk wind, my walk into the school quick. Dad had retired two years ago, three weeks after summoning the courage to ask Carla to dinner. They’d married last year and bought a place in Key West, dividing their time between that home, and our old place in Alpine. It was strange, after so many years, the two of us against the world, that we were now separate, each with a spouse, each with our own lives. Part of me had been happy when he’d retired, the man deserving of a vacation, of a life outside of the strike zone. Another part of me had hated it. His job had been the last tie I’d had to the field. After he left, my relationship with the team as an old ball girl, as a teammate’s daughter… all that had died and I had moved fully into the role of Mrs. Grant. Mrs. Grant, who sat in the skybox. Mrs. Grant, who did “stuff” in the main office and wore suits and heels and was a stranger to everyone but the oldest uniforms on the team. The new guys were stiff, smiling politely and shaking my hand after games. They didn’t know me, and they didn’t care to. In the game of baseball, owners were the high maintenance afterthoughts, s
omething I knew well, even if Tobey didn’t.
I stepped into the sophisticated interior of the prep school and saw Caleb, sitting miserably in a seat, his feet swinging dully, his eyes on the ground. I cleared my throat, and he looked up, his eyes lighting, sick legs working just fine in their sprint across the room, his small body colliding into my arms. “Aunt Ty!” he cheered.
“Hey buddy.” I squeezed him tightly and enjoyed, for one heart-breaking moment, the smell of little boy.
61
I lost the baby at five months. After four years, I still couldn’t talk about it without crying. Funny how something I hadn’t wanted, became the only thing I’d lived for.
I wouldn’t depress you with the details. One day I was pregnant, our nursery ready, plans and possibilities in place, the next I wasn’t.
I’d given up so much for that baby. And he never came.
JULY
“Ty practically bled Yankee blood already. She should have been ecstatic, marrying into the Grant family. But that first year of marriage, she wasn’t. She seemed shell-shocked. Almost like a trauma victim. She smiled, she said all of the right things, but there just wasn’t any light behind her eyes.”
Dan Velacruz, New York Times
62
“Tell me what I can do to make you happy.”
I rolled over onto his chest, and looked up at him. “Trade Perkins,” I said, without hesitation.
Tobey laughed. “That’s it? Your key to lifelong happiness?”
Lifelong happiness? A concept given up years ago. “He’s dead weight. His knee is shot,” I pointed out. “And he smokes. If he doesn’t care enough to quit, he doesn’t care enough about his job.”