“I’m missing the place where Dick is right,” Tobey said slowly, his eyes on mine.
“We’d finish the season in a better place than now,” I repeated, “but it’s still a waste of a season. We’ll make the playoffs, but we won’t win. And that’s why we’re here—to win. You’ve got three hundred million invested in this season for that reason—to win. And,” I pointed to the field, “you can’t do it with him. And you can’t do it—not this year—with Vornisk. We need to stop fucking around and fix this. And an experienced shortstop, one with a strong bat, would do that. It’d put us where we’d need to be. It’d put the World Series in reach.” I didn’t need to mention the girls, the curse. It was there, unsaid, in the corner of every room, haunting all of our lives, especially since Tiffany Wharton. I blinked away the memory, her lifeless eyes, and focused on Tobey’s face.
“How much?” he asked, the question directed at me.
“I think we could get—”
“Ty,” Tobey interrupted. “How much?”
“Fifty,” I said without hesitation. I could have said more. I could have said a hundred. But a hundred million put us in Chase Stern territory and—damn the curse—I couldn’t stomach that possibility. Fifty million would give us a solid player. Fifty million would be enough to fix everything
“And you’d be happy?”
The corner of my mouth lifted, and I hid my smile behind another sip of my drink. “For now.”
He leaned forward, pulling the drink away from me and kissed my mouth, the contact quick and hard. When he sat back, he nodded at Dick. “Fifty million. Get us the best bat and glove you can. But I want a promise, from both of you, that we’ll be in the World Series.”
“We will.” I nodded, Dick less than enthusiastic in his guarantee. He shook the hand Tobey held out, and I settled back in my seat, my eyes leaving Perkins, my outlook considerably improved.
“You guys are the weirdest couple on the planet,” Dick muttered. I laughed, Tobey’s hand sliding over mine, our fingers intertwining.
He knew what I needed, how to make me happy. And in that moment, I was.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know that I had just signed our relationship’s death warrant.
66
“Good news,” the voice rang through Chase’s headphones, and he paused the treadmill, slowing to a walk, his heart beating hard.
“What?”
“Yankees want you back.”
“What?” His hand jabbed the emergency stop, and he stepped off the end, ripping the earbuds from his head and lifting the phone to his ear. “Are you fucking with me?”
There was a long pause. “I thought you’d be happy,” Floyd said cautiously.
“I’m not. You told me four years ago, very clearly, that I was—and this is a direct quote—‘dead to them.’”
“I thought you were.”
“I don’t want to go to the Yankees.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, controlled breath.
“Are you serious? Stop holding a grudge and get excited about this. Remember when you were in LA, and obsessed with playing for them?”
He closed his eyes tightly. “Tell me it’s not fucking done. Tell me that, Floyd.”
Another long pause. “You don’t have a no-trades clause. You knew that. Back then, when we signed the contract, you were so fucked up, Chase. We were lucky to get you any kind of contract.”
“Tell. Me,” he gritted out. “That. It’s. Not. Done.” He crouched, the hotel gym too small, the room closing in on him. He couldn’t do it. He could barely survive four hours in that city, much less move back there. Put on her husband’s uniform. Walk back into the world where they fell in love. What would happen when he saw her? Every emotion that he’d tried to bury, every piece that he’d tried to forget … it would all come back.
“It’s done. They want you there tomorrow for the Red Sox game.” All the excitement was out of his agent’s voice, the words dead in their delivery.
“I can’t,” he said. “You gotta get me out of this, Floyd. You have to.”
“There’s nothing I can do.” The man sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Chase ended the call and sank to the floor, leaning against the gym’s rubber wall, his mind trying to work through its knots.
New York. Tomorrow. He needed more time to prepare. But a lifetime wouldn’t be enough. He’d never be ready to face her again. Not without pulling her into his arms. Not without refusing to ever let her go.
67
“Chase Stern?” Two words I had promised myself, on the floor of a bathroom so long ago, to never utter again. “That’s who you got?” My knees wobbled, and I gripped the edge of the doorframe, my eyes moving to my hand, watching in detached horror as my knuckles turned white.
“Go ahead,” Dick mocked, from behind his desk. “Find fault with that.”
I thought of Thomas Grant’s funeral. Thousands of roses as white as my knuckles. The same blooms, identical in every way, to the ones that had blanketed our marriage chapel. I remembered hating that tie of his death with our union. I remembered thinking, if I ever wed again, that—I had stopped that thought right there, not allowing my brain to finish the thought. There would be no other weddings. I had my husband. And there, at that funeral, his father lowered slowly into the ground, my husband inherited my team. Our team, one which suddenly included Chase Stern on its list of assets. Again. Last time it had made me nearly scream with joy. This time, a scream once again threatened my throat, one birthed in an entirely different place.
I swallowed. “He’s a leftie.”
Dick laughed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He was right; it was a stupid thing to point out. Getting a left-handed batter with Stern’s fielding was like finding a unicorn.
“He doesn’t fit our standards.” A better argument. We were the only team in the league with appearance and ethics standards. It was part of our pedigree, our history.
He snorted. “Since when? Five years ago? He was a kid then. He’s been squeaky clean ever since. A freaking priest.”
Not five years. Barely four. Three years, ten months, four days since I last saw him. An obsessive statistic to know.