Moonshot - Alessandra Torre Page 0,25

baby.” I watched him jog off, the crowd on their feet, stomping and cheering.

Swallowing a groan, I moved to my bag and grabbed a pen and pad of paper.

I like the forbidden.

A Reds fan. Talk about terrible taste. I took whatever warm and fuzzy feelings I had about Chase Stern and let them flutter out, caught by the wind, into the night sky.

38

“Really? Chase Stern?” Any chance the mystery girl wouldn’t be interested drowned in her giant stadium cup that I’d bet twenty bucks was spiked with liquor. She bounced up and down in excitement, letting out an unladylike squeal.

I tried to smile. “He’d like your number,” I repeated, this time a little slower, but she was too busy freaking out to listen.

“Your number.” Her friend poked her, stopping the mess of brown curls from bouncing any higher. “Give the girl your number.”

“Can I get a picture with him really quick?” the girl whined, holding out her phone as if I might inspect it. “Just right now, super fast?”

“They’re in the outfield,” I said dryly. “So, no.”

“I can wait. Just right down there, by the rail thingy.”

I smiled again and contemplated knocking the drink out of her hand. “If you could just give me your number, you can take all the pictures you want with him after the game.” Chase was an idiot. Meeting fans during the middle of a series. He should spend tonight focused on the next game, not doing God-knows-what with this giant-breasted Barbie doll.

When I walked back down the steps, her phone number tight in my hand, I looked out to the field, my eyes finding Chase. He lifted a chin, I lifted her number, and our gaze held for a minute.

Then there was the crack of the bat, and our eye contact broke. I jumped the dugout railing and contemplated throwing the number in the trash. I didn’t. Instead, I was a good little ball girl, putting it in Chase’s helmet, right where he wouldn’t miss it, a location that eliminated any need for follow-up conversation.

Maybe I was getting too old for this job.

Maybe I should call Tobey.

39

Our traveling secretary liked to put the team all together on one floor. And whenever possible, she put me in a room adjacent to Dad, a proximity that allowed him to sleep better at night. I didn’t used to have my own room, that change coming the summer I turned fourteen. I’d gotten my period for the first time, Dad suddenly got uncomfortable, and when we’d landed in Seattle, I’d unexpectedly had my own room key. That first night, I stayed up until four in the morning watching reality TV. The next night, two. Three years later, I was a boring old woman typically in bed by midnight.

Typically. But tonight I was squashed against my door, a book in hand, waiting for Chase to come home. We’d passed him in the hall earlier, Dad and I coming back from Moe’s, takeout containers in hand. Chase had stepped aside to let us pass, he and Dad exchanging a curt greeting. I’d looked away, but I’d noticed everything.

The smell of him. Different than before—cologne.

He’d been dressed up, a stiff button-down tucked into slacks.

His phone stuffed into one pocket as he’d moved past, toward the elevators.

He had been going to see her—a possibility I’d stewed over since we’d left the field. It’d been an afternoon game, putting us out early—early enough to allow for a date, should one asshole of a player feel up to it.

Dad and I had eaten our dinner in his room, watching the Devil Rays play, little said until the fifth inning, when he’d turned his chair toward me.

“Stern ever hit on you?”

“What?” I coughed, his timing right during a sip of soda, the liquid confused when I jerked, catching in the wrong pipe. Dad just sat there as I struggled between life and death, my eyes watering by the time my esophagus figured out the issue.

“Has he?” He muted the TV, and it was suddenly a serious conversation, the telltale signs beginning to emerge. Awkward silences. A stare you couldn’t avoid. The chasing of a subject until it died a slow and painful death. The Sex Talk, executed one year earlier, had been just like this. I didn’t know who Dad thought I was going to have sex with, but he’d seen some TV special about teenage pregnancies and had stumbled through a forty-five-minute lecture about STDs and pregnancy and condoms. I’d interrupted him around the