Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“Got to run, Dad. Drink something with an umbrella in it, and give Carla a hug for me.”
“Done and done.”
I ended the call, stuffing the rest of the muffin in the bag, and stepped out of the car and into the brisk wind, my walk into the school quick. Dad had retired two years ago, three weeks after summoning the courage to ask Carla to dinner. They’d married last year and bought a place in Key West, dividing their time between that home, and our old place in Alpine. It was strange, after so many years, the two of us against the world, that we were now separate, each with a spouse, each with our own lives. Part of me had been happy when he’d retired, the man deserving of a vacation, of a life outside of the strike zone. Another part of me had hated it. His job had been the last tie I’d had to the field. After he left, my relationship with the team as an old ball girl, as a teammate’s daughter… all that had died and I had moved fully into the role of Mrs. Grant. Mrs. Grant, who sat in the skybox. Mrs. Grant, who did “stuff” in the main office and wore suits and heels and was a stranger to everyone but the oldest uniforms on the team. The new guys were stiff, smiling politely and shaking my hand after games. They didn’t know me, and they didn’t care to. In the game of baseball, owners were the high maintenance afterthoughts, something I knew well, even if Tobey didn’t.
I stepped into the sophisticated interior of the prep school and saw Caleb, sitting miserably in a seat, his feet swinging dully, his eyes on the ground. I cleared my throat, and he looked up, his eyes lighting, sick legs working just fine in their sprint across the room, his small body colliding into my arms. “Aunt Ty!” he cheered.
“Hey buddy.” I squeezed him tightly and enjoyed, for one heart-breaking moment, the smell of little boy.
61
I lost the baby at five months. After four years, I still couldn’t talk about it without crying. Funny how something I hadn’t wanted, became the only thing I’d lived for.
I wouldn’t depress you with the details. One day I was pregnant, our nursery ready, plans and possibilities in place, the next I wasn’t.
I’d given up so much for that baby. And he never came.
JULY
“Ty practically bled Yankee blood already. She should have been ecstatic, marrying into the Grant family. But that first year of marriage, she wasn’t. She seemed shell-shocked. Almost like a trauma victim. She smiled, she said all of the right things, but there just wasn’t any light behind her eyes.”
Dan Velacruz, New York Times
62
“Tell me what I can do to make you happy.”
I rolled over onto his chest, and looked up at him. “Trade Perkins,” I said, without hesitation.
Tobey laughed. “That’s it? Your key to lifelong happiness?”
Lifelong happiness? A concept given up years ago. “He’s dead weight. His knee is shot,” I pointed out. “And he smokes. If he doesn’t care enough to quit, he doesn’t care enough about his job.”
“Some things can’t be quit, Ty.” His eyes darkened, and his hand, the one wrapped around my waist, slid lower.
“Like chocolate?” I teased, laughing when he moved on top of me, kissing my neck, his hand tightening on my butt and pulling me into place.
“Sure,” he mumbled, pushing my legs apart, wrapping them around his waist. “Go with chocolate.”
Then he yanked at my panties, pulling them aside, and I stopped thinking about Perkins and chocolate. I wrapped my arms around his neck, I opened my mouth to his greedy kiss, and I gasped out a sigh when he thrust inside of me.
He loved me. Fiercely. Unselfishly. For most women, it was all they needed in life.
But me, I needed the curse to stop.
I needed a year to pass without blood marring our pinstripes.
I needed a World Series win.
63
“We’re looking at nineteen million, paid out within the first eighteen months. A three-year term with the rights to the sneaker for perpetuity. You’ll get a five-percent royalty on the shoe, and you’re giving Nike an exclusive on footwear, but nothing that will affect your Under Armour sponsorship.” His agent tapped the table with each point, an incredibly annoying habit.
Chase flipped over the page, reading the words carefully, the contract boilerplate, the fifth signed in the last three years. When he was finished, he initialed each page and scrawled his name across the bottom, sliding the papers across the polished wood table toward Floyd. “Here. Anything else?”
“You could hold back your mountain of gratitude.”
Chase shrugged, tossing down the pen. “It’s money. At some point, I’m going to run out of time to spend it.”
“That’s what kids are for.” The man cracked a smile that went unreturned. “Sorry.” He stood up, leaving the contract on the table and buttoned his suit jacket. “Want to hit Scores while you are in town? We can—”