He smelled the same, the scent of him bringing a wave of unwanted emotions, my psyche instantly transported right back to the girl I used to be—that rebellious, stupid girl—one who wore her heart on her sleeve and drooled over such ridiculous things as batting averages and perfect bodies.
I was no longer that girl. I had grown up, found new priorities. I was chairwoman of the Boys and Girls Club for shit’s sake. The first lady of the damn New York Yankees. I was married to a man who adored me, who spoiled me rotten, who listened to my opinion and valued it.
And Chase … he wasn’t the same man who had left me all those years ago. Better or worse, it didn’t matter. We had moved down different paths, our fates parted, life possibilities killed.
He leaned forward, over the center console, and I stiffened, keeping my head turned to the window, willing him to stop whatever he was about to do, my composure too fragile for a poke.
“I like your hair.” He spoke softly, but I heard every syllable, the words shouted in my mind, almost as loud as his last sentence. I remember everything.
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, not looking his way, our earlier eye contact enough for a lifetime.
“Very ice princess. It matches your whole … look.”
I flexed my hand around the belt. “Thank you. Tobey seems to enjoy it.”
He moved away, settling back into his seat, and I let out my held breath as subtly as I could.
I could do this. Play the correct part. Survive this hitch. Lock up my heart and protect it.
72
It took me years to walk down the hallowed halls of our stadium and not think of Chase. It seemed unfair, with that scab finally healed, my ball club restored, for him to step through the double doors and ruin it all over again.
I walked next to Dick, Tobey, and Chase, the journey soon joined by our manager, John O’Connell. Their threesome stretched over the wide hall, both men speaking excitedly to Chase, their words floating back to Dick and me. Dick typed as he moved, his head down, phone out, no interest in their conversation. I walked in heels too high for this trek, my exit strategy planned as soon as we made our first stop.
Painfully enough, that first stop was the locker room. I held back, protesting, but John waved me in. “It’s empty. No one’s gotten in yet.”
I reluctantly stepped through, lifting my watch as I checked the time. “Babe, I need to go,” I said to Tobey. “Margreta—”
“She’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “We’re having lunch up in the club, and I want you there.” He turned to Chase, who dropped his bag in front of a locker already bearing his name. “Did you know that Ty was a ball girl for us for eight years?”
“Seven,” I corrected.
“Wow,” Chase drawled, turning slowly toward me. I looked away, focusing on a piece of something on my skirt, delicately picking at it. He stepped closer, and my heart cried for him. “You must have a lot of memories in this place.”
“Nothing noteworthy.” I raised my chin and met his eyes. “I preferred to be on the field.” Those eyes. “You ever think you could love someone too much?” They were the same, just as beautiful, yet different. Colder. Sadder. They looked like I felt. How I’d felt every day for the last four years.
“She’s got an arm on her,” Tobey said proudly. “Gets it from her dad. She’s—”
“Frank Rollins’s daughter,” Chase finished quietly. “I know.” His eyes didn’t leave mine.
I turned away, my arm looping through Tobey’s, my eyes ripping from Chase’s to look up into his face. “I’m starving. Did you mention lunch?”
Lunch was hell. A constant exercise in avoiding the one thing I wanted most in life. He cleared his throat and my eyes pulled to him. He answered a question and my breath caught, movement stopped, everything tensed to hear the way his words wrapped around syllables. His voice was different. Deeper. Older. From 23 to 27, and so much had changed. His shoulders were broader. His build was stronger. His hands, when he gripped the glass and lifted it to his mouth, those of a man. Every glance that I stole, he caught, each brush of eye contact another pin in the weak cushion of my heart.
Halfway through my lobster risotto, my cell rang. Finishing my bite, I set down my fork, bending and pulling my phone from my bag. Frowning at the screen, I excused myself, stepping away from the table to take the call.
I didn’t answer it. Instead, I silenced the ring and held the cell to my ear, speaking lines of greeting to the empty phone. I walked through the empty lounge, away from our table, gave a polite smile to the waitress, and escaped into the hall.
Silence.
Air.
Space.