Moonshot - Alessandra Torre Page 0,50

can—”

“No,” Chase said shortly. “There’s a jet waiting at JFK.”

The man studied him for a minute, then nodded, holding out his hand. “Thanks for making the trip. It was important for Nike to have the face-to-face.”

Chase stood, and they shook hands, his exit through the agency done quickly, a car waiting for him up front. He ducked into the backseat without a word.

“JFK, sir?” the driver asked.

“Yes. Hurry.” He put on headphones and unwrapped a piece of gum, his jaw working overtime as he closed his eyes and tried to, during the drive, ignore the city around him. The city she lived in, towered over, the air filled with her scent, her presence. She lived on Fifth Avenue, just blocks away. Probably ran on these streets, ate at the restaurants they were driving past. Four years, and he hadn’t seen her once. Not at Yankee Stadium, not on the Orioles’ field. After his trade, he’d searched. Every seat, every inch of the dugouts, he’d expected to see her slim body encased in pinstripes, a hat pulled low on her head. But she’d been gone.

He should have answered her early calls. The ones right after the night he’d been charged with assault, and then promptly traded to the Orioles. In New York one moment, and gone the next, arriving in Baltimore just in time to suit up and play. His phone had rang several times that night, during the game, the phone buzzing in his locker, the missed calls not seen until later. He’d been too pissed to return her calls, or to even listen to her voicemails. He hadn’t wanted to hear her excuses, or her apologies. She had ruined everything, including his trust, his spot on the team, his spot in her life. He’d ignored the calls, wanting a chance to cool off, wanting her to truly realize her mistake.

Only she had stopped calling. Just a week after his trade, his phone had gone silent. And when he’d finally broken down and tried her cell, it had been disconnected.

Then, the rumors had started, whispers about an engagement. He’d refused to believe it, had cut off Floyd’s casual question when it’d came. It was impossible. They were in love. For Ty to run to Tobey … it just didn’t make sense.

The final nail in his coffin was a damn People Magazine. Her smile had shone from the glossy cover, her eyes warm, a baseball glove covering her mouth. He’d stopped in the middle of the hotel lobby, and stepped into the gift shop, his hands trembling as he’d pulled the magazine off the rack, flipping through pages upon pages of junk until he’d found the article. They’d called her the Blue & White Baby and had played the Cinderella aspect of the story—a ball girl marrying the billionaire’s son. It didn’t contain any helpful details, just that they had known each other for seven years and had dated for “some” time. Whatever the fuck that meant. There had been a picture of her ring, an enormous diamond that she’d never be able to pull a glove over. And a photo of Tobey, the prick’s grin big enough to piss off Chase.

He still hadn’t believed it, expected her to pull out of the engagement, to show up, follow him to Baltimore, but she hadn’t. She’d walked, three weeks after the article, down an aisle dripping with flowers. He’d drank enough whiskey to black out. She’d changed her name, moved into her new husband’s house, and started a different life. One he’d known nothing about. He’d vowed to never speak her name again and turned all of his focus to the game.

It had hurt. More than just hurt. It had destroyed him. Almost as bad as Emily’s death had. This destruction hit a different part of his heart. It’d stabbed him there and stayed, a constant ache that never left, her scent imprinted on his soul, her voice in his ear. He ran until his chest ached and thought of her. He threw balls until midnight and wondered where she was, what she was doing. He had sex with a blonde, then a brunette, then swore off women all together, each experience only bringing her to mind.

It’d been almost four years since he’d touched alcohol, drugs, or women. Four years since he’d last seen her smile, heard her voice. Four years of being a saint and focusing only on baseball. His reputation had soared, as had his stats, and his finances. But