Page 8 of Moonshot

“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.

14

Chase Stern sat naked on wood planks, his back against warm stone, his arms loose at his side, eyes closed. There was a knot in his right shoulder blade that needed to be worked out. He rolled his neck to the side and inhaled deeply, the steam thick and hot, his skin pinpricking with the heat.

Yankee Stadium. It felt unreal. His tour had been short, the rep from the owner’s office concise, nothing much to show. Every club was the same: offices, facilities, locker rooms, and fields. Here, everything was just better; the owner’s money was spent well, the locker room one that put the Dodgers’ to shame.

When he’d seen his locker, his name already in brass up top, his uniform pressed and ready, size 13 cleats in place … that was when it’d really hit home. That was when he’d dismissed the short man with the wingtips and had a moment of reverence, of realization that this was it, he was here. In the big house, with pinstripes that bore his name.

He coughed, clearing his throat, and waved at the air, suddenly claustrophobic in the sauna, the steam so thick he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, sweat pooling behind his knees. He stood and wiped at his eyes, reaching for the handle.

15

“Hey Ty.”

“Hey Mark.” I smiled at the maintenance worker, jogging down the hall, the path one I’d taken a thousand times. Easier on days like this, when the place was deserted, no conversations to halt forward progress, no packs of bodies to squeeze around, no executives to avoid. Not that I ever had to hide. But the less I was seen, the better. Yankee management has been extremely understanding about my travel with the team, my role as ball girl, and my constant presence over the last seven years. Prior to the Yankees, we’d been with Pittsburgh, a ball club who hadn’t been nearly as understanding. Maybe the Yankees allowed me around because I was Mr. Grant’s favorite. Or maybe it was because Dad was the best closer in the business, and they liked to collect rings. Whatever the reason, I was grateful.

I rounded the corner and hit the player lobby, the front desk empty, Dad’s code getting me through the double doors and into the locker room. I slowed to a walk, moved past the club chairs and ping pong tables, grabbed an apple from the food bar and leaned on the door to the inner sanctum, a place I rarely went during peak times, the possibilities of a penis sighting too high; that was something I had no interest in seeing.

I took a bite of the apple and pushed off the door, letting it swing shut behind me. Then I stumbled to a halt, my world stopping dead at the man who stood naked before me.

16

I’d seen naked men before. The locker room was a freaking sideshow of male genitalia, and my presence there was sometimes unavoidable. I’d learned to keep my head down and walk quickly, a trip in and out typically knocked out within thirty seconds.

Not this trip. My head had been up, my teeth deep in the apple, my eyes widening as they encountered the utter beauty that was a naked Chase Stern.

Torso facing me, he had a white towel lifted to his neck, the action tensing every perfect ab, his shoulders wide and strong. His head was down, his mess of dirty blond hair showing as he rubbed his neck, the other hand loose on his hip—God, the cut of that hip, a hard line of definition that pulled my eyes down to the thing that hung between his legs, big and proud. His penis. I was staring at Chase Stern’s penis. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move; I just stared. It was darker than his legs, thicker than I had imagined that organ would be, and it swung slightly when he chuckled.

Chuckled. My brain registered the sound right before he spoke.

17

She was a fawn, caught in headlights. Long, bare legs leading to a baggy tee, a bright green apple lifted to her mouth, her eyes huge, focused on him. It was about time she reached his face; she’d certainly spent enough time examining the rest of his anatomy.

She moved the apple away, her mouth full, and chewed, her eyes darting away, her face deepening in color, bright red by the time she swallowed, her feet suddenly in motion. She crouched before a locker, her hands quick, rummaging through its contents. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, what are you doing?”

She ignored him, jerking open the drawer at the base of the locker, her hand shoved inside, and then she was full height, just a few inches shorter than him, something gripped tightly in her hand.

“You didn’t see me. I didn’t see…” She flushed. “You. In case someone asks.”

“You can’t steal that.” He reached out, grabbing her arm, his fingers closing easily around her tiny forearm. She jumped, yanking away, her eyes snapping to his.

“I’m not stealing.” She held the item against her chest. “It’s my dad’s.” She spun, and in a burst of legs and blonde hair, she was gone.

18

I ran as quickly as I could. The stupid apple was still in hand. Dad’s wallet in the other. This was bad. Dad would freak. All of his worries, everything I had dismissed, and this had happened.