Page 17 of Moonshot

I was suddenly angry with myself and pushed to my feet, my cheeks burning.

“You’re mad?” He looked up at me, the moonlight on his face, his expression wary. “Oh.” He barked out a laugh. “You wanted the bullshit response I gave the press? You want me to be remorseful and blame it on alcohol or drugs?” I moved to leave, and his hand grabbed my bicep, and then he was standing.

“I knew what I was doing,” he said, low and close to my ear. “I knew the risks. I didn’t care. And look.” He let go of me, holding his hands out from his body. “Look at what I got. A spot on the Yankee roster. Not bad.”

I smiled, and he didn’t understand, his cocky grin becoming wary. “You think you’re the first asshole I’ve met?” I shook my head. “I’ve lived in a man’s world for a long time, Chase. And I’ve watched men like you make mistakes like that over and over again.”

“I’m not an asshole,” he said quietly, stepping closer—and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be able to see the detail in his eyes when they softened. The way they begged. What was he wanting? “It was sex. Nothing more. For either of us.”

“Her husband was your teammate. It’s like … being a family. You don’t do that to family.” He shouldn’t need me to explain this to him. He should know.

“A team isn’t a family. If it were, that would make your father and I brothers. And if we were brothers, then I couldn’t do this.” He stepped forward, his fingers warm, tips of contact sliding under the hem of my shirt, around to the small of my back. His other hand touched my cheek, a soft brush as if testing to see if I was real. I didn’t move, my mind struggling to think, to process. Was he about to—then, his head lowered, his hand fell away, and he pressed his lips to mine.

I didn’t want to kiss him. My hand was suddenly on his chest, and I wanted to push away. I didn’t want my palm to mold to muscle, for my fingers to dig. I didn’t want my mouth to open wider, my tongue to give in. I certainly didn’t want for this kiss, with this man, to change everything I ever knew about chemistry.

Our kiss had energy, it was a battle—one fought with gentle teases, exploratory touches, and passion—need pulling me forward even as I tried my best to push him away…

And then it was done, my feet stumbling back, his hands releasing me, eye contact the only thing left between us. Hungry eyes. They held me in place as he all but licked his lips. They should have scared me, but they didn’t. They matched the staccato of my heart, the gasp of my breath, the tremble of my fingers. They were wild and young, and I saw—in the widen of them—a peek of vulnerability.

I took another step back and almost fell off the dock, my foot turning on the edge of the path, my arms swinging out as I regained my balance. I blushed, my visions of a smooth exit shattered, and glanced over my shoulder at the hotel, no one in sight to witness my stumble, or our kiss. “I’m going to bed.”

I could still feel his lips on me when I looked back, Chase saying nothing, his eyes darker now that I was farther away, their hold lessened, and I turned. I stepped down the dock, flip-flops flapping against the boards, and listened. But he didn’t call out, didn’t follow, silence the only sound behind me.

He let me go and that, more than anything, stabbed the hardest.

When I got back to my room, I turned off the lights and walked to the window. Pulling aside the curtain, I looked down at the marina. Chase was still there, his back to me, hands in his pocket, standing where we had kissed, his eyes on the water.

I leaned against the wall, my fingers absently touching my lips. The kiss should never have happened. If my father found out, if anyone did, it would be disastrous.

Together, we would only bring chaos.

29

He didn’t know what it was about her. How she managed to get under his skin. He’d sat next to her on that dock and wanted to wrap his arms around her. Sit there until morning and unwrap every layer, every story, every nuance of her soul.

That was a stranger talking, a Chase Stern who hadn’t been around in a long time. A stranger who needed to stay hidden, especially around a minor. If there was one thing worse than fucking a teammate’s wife, it was screwing one’s daughter. Even he realized that. He thought of her question about Davis’s wife, how she had gone to the jugular, his harsh response not scaring her away, the strength in her eyes only glowing brighter when she’d stepped to the plate and called him on his shit. That had done something to him, snapped some piece of his armor off.

He never should have talked to her. Not in that locker room, not in that tunnel, and definitely not buying her candy and luring her outside. Talk about creepy behavior.

The kiss … he couldn’t regret that. Wouldn’t. There would never be another moment in life worth more of a risk. The quiver of her mouth, like her heart was beating so hard it would jump out of her chest. The tentative press of her tongue against his. The hungry way she had clawed at his chest, wanting more. The taste, the connection, the energy. Men had been killed over kisses like that. Careers had been lost. Hearts had been stolen.

He needed to stay away from her. Focus on his game and forget everything else. He had gotten here, to the place of his dreams. Hell if he’d mess it up now. Hell if he’d survive another kiss like that.

JUNE

“It turns out that Rachel Frepp had attended a couple of Yankee home games that 2011 season. But it took years for them to know enough to even look for that connection. When she died, no one thought it was because of the Yankees. It’s a big city, with a lot of pretty blondes who die. No, it took a few years for NYPD to tie it all together.”

Dan Velacruz, New York Times

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New York

I nodded my head to the beat, Jeremih and 50 Cent pumping as loud as my Beats would allow. Wiping down bats, I sang along to the lyrics, my rhythm interrupted by Big Lou, who tugged on the cord of my headphones, speaking to me in a string of Spanish. I obeyed his request, pulling out the headphone jack, my phone blasting “Down On Me,” the beat hitting hard, the Dominicans laughing at my music before nodding their heads in time. I beat-boxed with Frank, dancing in place as he rapped out a line, his version ten times dirtier than my clean mix.

I spun, my hands raised, a laugh spilling out, and saw Chase. He stood in the doorway, a towel over one shoulder, his V-neck shirt dirty with clay stains. I looked away, before our eyes met. Laughing at Frank, I stepped back to the bats, focusing on the task, the beat continuing, everything continuing, but everything, as it always was when he came near, was different.

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