“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—”
“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.