Page 7 of Moonshot

“Ready, boss?” the pilot stopped before him, and he glanced up.

“Yeah.” He looked back at the car. “Got everything?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s roll.” He stepped toward the plane, his long legs eating up the space, and he was up the steps and into a seat too quickly, his head still playing catch-up with the fact that this was it; he was leaving Los Angeles and headed to New York, to the place he’d dreamed about since he was a kid, to wear a jersey that had, for so long, seemed unattainable. This would be his future, where he would stay, his jersey hung next to the greats, his number retired, records forever broken and kept in his name. He glanced out the window, the driver already back in the car, no crowds recording this moment, not a single soul showing up for his exit. Not that he’d broadcasted the news, but it was in that moment, the airport rolling by, that he realized how few connections he had made in Los Angeles. Maybe it had been intentional—the push away from others, a part of him knowing it wasn’t a permanent situation, stopping the dig of emotional roots.

Still, as the plane gained speed, the engines roaring beside him, it would have been nice to have someone there to see him off. He had a brief thought of Emily, and his heart tightened. Not that she’d have been holding a sign. No, she’d have been in the seat next to him, catching his eye with a smile and toasting his future before they even lifted off.

11

He tasted like peppermints. I opened my mouth wider, and his tongue moved faster, an excited dart of flesh pushing against my gums, the clash of teeth brief, then he pulled back a little. We were on the side of his house, a palm tree beside us, my back against the brick. In the dark, only the moon lit his face, pale highlights on his lashes, the tip of his nose, and bruised lines of his lips.

“I’ve got to go back,” I said, breaking away, Tobey’s hands sluggish in their drop from my waist. “My dad—he’ll be looking for me.”

“Okay.” He smiled shyly, and it was Tampa all over again. The meek boy with the pushy tongue. The one who slipped notes under my hotel room door and then dirty-danced with girls down by the pool. I didn’t know why I’d followed him over here. I’d seen him standing in the shadows, his phone out, a beer hidden down by his leg, and had veered off course. And then … somehow … my hello had turned into this.

There was a shout from the house, one picked up and carried by the wind, almost lost. But a few people heard it and turned. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and took a step away from Tobey, to the edge of the deck, where I could hear better. And there, in the float of conversation carried, I heard his name.

I didn’t glance back at Tobey, my feet launched me down the steps and toward the house. I ran, the wind whipping my hair, and couldn’t help but smile.

I knew it would happen. He was born to wear our pinstripes.

12

“Dad!” I ran after him, my hand catching his elbow, his turn sudden, and I came to a stop, my breath hard. “We got Chase?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’d we lose?” The only negative of new blood, the sacrifice of our weakest lambs.

“Just Collende, and a Minor guy. Probably some draft picks and cash.”

“Damn. Anyone talk to him?” I wanted to be sad. But we’d all known Collende would leave at some point. I’d spent the last two days analyzing our roster and had already prepared for the emotional break. Not that the loss was anything to cry over. Collende was a prick. A prick with one hell of a bat, but a prick regardless.

“No. You gonna be able to handle this, Ty?”

“What?” I looked up into his face and tried to understand the question. “Collende leaving?”

“No. Stern.” He lowered his voice and put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want your hero worship of him to affect…”

I didn’t help the man out. I let him dangle in the Atlantic wind, one struggling father on a limb that was shaky at best.

He swallowed before continuing, “…to affect your judgment. He’s gonna go straight for you, Ty. I know he is.”

I didn’t know what to say, my father’s opinion biased, the likelihood of Chase Stern even noticing my existence was slim. And that was fine. He was a baseball god. My excitement was at having him on our field, his glove and bat our new asset. “Dad. It’s Chase Stern.” He could change everything for us. He could take us back to the World Series, put us on the record books. One day his name would be mentioned in the same circles as Ruth and Gehrig, and we would have shared a field with him. “He’s not gonna mess with me,” I protested. “Don’t worry about that.”

He pulled me to him, a rare hug between us. “Oh, Ty. So smart and still so dumb.”

I leaned into his arms and said nothing. He was wrong, a rarity for my father. But still, my blood hummed with excitement.

13

Two Days Later

Bronx

Our original stadium was built in the twenties. Two years ago, due to an aging infrastructure, excess cash, and the need to one-up everyone else, our new home was built. We now had fifty thousand seats. Fifty-two skyboxes. A press box that caused erections. And a locker room that trumped every MLB club out there. A locker room that, fingers crossed, held Dad’s wallet.