Page 45 of Moonshot

He wrapped her small hand in his and tightened his grip, wanting to squeeze some emotion out of her, a flash of anger in those eyes, a glare … something. But she only stepped back, withdrawing her hand, and then looked away.

“We’ve met before,” he tossed out, a challenge in his voice, his tone hard enough to stop her turn, her body freezing in its exit. “Don’t you remember?”

Finally, her head turned, and her eyes found his. An empty stare, with none of the warmth and fire he remembered. He had wanted to know how she felt about his return. But looking into her eyes, he suddenly didn’t want to know.

69

Did I remember? What a cruel question to ask. I stared into his eyes and held back every emotion I could, a hundred memories pushing at thin spider-webs of restraint. I smiled tightly, words finding their way out of my throat, properly smooth and cold. “Oh yes. My apologies, Mr. Stern. It’s been so long.” I tore my eyes from his, finding Tobey’s, strength in his easy smile, his innocence, my clueless husband unaware of the raging war. Giving him a small smile, I walked toward the SUV, taking comfort in the strong click of my heels on the pavement, the sound of escape, of a woman tougher than myself, just four steps away from safety, then three, then two.

Then I was in the truck, the firm shut of the door buffering the howl of the outside wind—everything muted, everything safe.

Alone, if only for a brief moment. I let out a shaky breath, one traitorous tear leaking down my cheek before I hurriedly wiped it away. The men turned, heading toward the vehicle, and I looked away, out the window, my mask of indifference settling back into place. Four years ago, I would have broken down. Reached for him, damn Tobey and anyone else. Four years ago I didn’t know how to hide my emotions. Four years ago, I let my heart dictate my mouth, and said what was on my mind.

“I hate him!” I screamed the words, pushing against my father’s chest, not even sure where I was fighting to go. Baltimore? What would I do there? Show up at Chase’s hotel room, another man’s baby inside of me, weak apologies on my lips? I’d called him six times since his trade and couldn’t even get a return call.

“It took two of you to do this, Ty.” Dad’s voice was dry and deep, a bit of his Texas upbringing coating the words. “You can’t hate Tobey for all of it. But we have to tell him. We have to tell them.”

Them. The Grants. Was it a blessing that Rose Grant had passed away before seeing her son knock me up? Maybe. On the other hand, with both of us motherless, I would be the only female presence in this baby’s life. A terrifying thought, the additional pressure unwelcome and I screamed from the sheer frustration of it all. There was a gentle knock on the door and Carla peeked inside, her face worried, eyes scanning over me. I clenched my hands into fists and straddled the thin line between another scream and bursting into tears.

I couldn’t tell the Grants. I couldn’t look at Mr. Grant’s face, or Tobey’s, and tell them that I was pregnant. The elder had so much respect for me, had pushed for us to date for so long, had bragged about what a good girl I was to everyone… I sank against my father’s chest, his arms wrapping around me, and bit back a sob. And Tobey. He’d all but run from me that day after our sex. Hadn’t so much as texted me since. Then, I’d been grateful, my heart belonging to Chase, no interest on my part for any more of that mistake. But now, I was furious. Maybe it was unjustified. I’d certainly had just as much part as him in the event. But my anger was there, hot and desperate, and it needed a target. And right then, in my bedroom, it was Tobey.

It had taken three days for me to get my emotions in check. For my heart to run the gamut from crying to screaming to crying to screaming. Dad had gone to his game, and I had stayed home with Carla, most of the day spent in bed, working through my hysteria. By the time he returned, I was calm. By the time we got in the truck and made the drive into the city, my mask was in place. Never once, in those first months with Tobey, did I let him see how I truly felt. I saved those outbursts for night, when I was alone in my room, our bedrooms not yet shared, and I had the privacy to cry.

It was one of those nights, when I was sobbing into a pillow, wishing for Chase, that Rachel Frepp died.

The first of the girls.

The beginning of the curse.

And I didn’t even know. None of us did.

70

Chase didn’t know what he did in life to deserve the punishment of sitting next to this woman. To hear the soft huff of her breath and not kiss it away. Smell the scent of her skin and not bury his face in her hair. Watch the hem of her skirt, its rise up her thighs, and not run his hand up her skin.

He shifted in the seat and tried to look away, tried to focus on whatever the general manager was saying. Saw her, in his peripheral vision, tuck a piece of hair back. It was short now, a fashionable bob that ended just past her ears. When he gripped it, it wouldn’t hang from his hand. When she rode him, it would fall into her face.

“We’re heading to the stadium, where we can swing by the locker room and player facilities. We’ve redesigned a lot of it, and I’m not sure how much you remember from before.” Tobey turned around, smiling at Chase.

“Everything,” he answered, settling back in his seat and holding the man’s gaze. “I won’t need any reminders. I remember everything.”

71

“I remember everything.”

I felt nauseated sitting next to him. The center console between us not wide enough, his elbow resting on the leather as if he owned it, his thighs spread on the seat, long legs stretched out. I hid behind sunglasses, sitting as close as I could to the door, feeling as if I was crawling up the glass. The desire to roll down the window and jump out was so strong that I squeezed my hand around the seatbelt strap to prevent the movement.

He smelled the same, the scent of him bringing a wave of unwanted emotions, my psyche instantly transported right back to the girl I used to be—that rebellious, stupid girl—one who wore her heart on her sleeve and drooled over such ridiculous things as batting averages and perfect bodies.

I was no longer that girl. I had grown up, found new priorities. I was chairwoman of the Boys and Girls Club for shit’s sake. The first lady of the damn New York Yankees. I was married to a man who adored me, who spoiled me rotten, who listened to my opinion and valued it.

And Chase … he wasn’t the same man who had left me all those years ago. Better or worse, it didn’t matter. We had moved down different paths, our fates parted, life possibilities killed.

He leaned forward, over the center console, and I stiffened, keeping my head turned to the window, willing him to stop whatever he was about to do, my composure too fragile for a poke.

“I like your hair.” He spoke softly, but I heard every syllable, the words shouted in my mind, almost as loud as his last sentence. I remember everything.

“Thank you,” I said stiffly, not looking his way, our earlier eye contact enough for a lifetime.