The parking garage was quiet, my Range Rover the only car present, the sound of the door echoing through the empty space. I stepped to the back of it, opening the hatch, Titan jumping to the ground beside me, his nails clicking along the concrete. When I shut the hatch, I set the alarm, dropping my keys in my bag. It might be a fortress, but this was still New York, still the Bronx. I hit the button for the elevator, glancing at Titan as he sat, facing out, at full alert. We got him from Germany, completely trained, his journey to the US accompanied by a handler, a short man who lived with us for two weeks and yelled at me a lot. Apparently I had needed a lot more training than Titan. But now, three years later, Titan and I worked together just fine. He protected me, and I snuck him table scraps when Tobey wasn’t looking.
The elevator opened, and I stepped on, pressing the button for the ground level. As it descended, I picked up the elevator’s phone, listening to the automatic ring. Somewhere, making rounds, were more security guards, four of them. When my miss of the field had become too great, when I decided to move my midnight workouts here, Tobey had worried. Not worried enough to accompany me, his early mornings putting him on a different sleep schedule than me. Initially, he’d had one of the house team escort me. But in the quiet of the night, the extra person had seemed invasive, as if I were being caged more than protected. So we had made an agreement. I’d bring Titan, and I’d check in with security when I arrived and departed. The arrangement allowed Tobey to sleep well at night, and I didn’t feel smothered. Didn’t feel as smothered. At some point in my life, I’d find the ability to live a life without pressure. At some point, I wanted a lack of expectations, and appearances, and decisions that affected lives.
Security answered and I cleared my throat, speaking into the phone. “It’s Ty.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Grant. How long will you be with us this evening?”
“About an hour. On the field and in the stands.”
“Wonderful. Will you need us to open the locker facilities?”
“No, not tonight.” The elevator shuddered, the doors opening on the ground level. “Thank you.”
“Certainly.”
I hung up the phone and stepped out, Titan beside me. All was dim, emergency lights bathing the halls in a soft, red light, and I flipped switches as we walked, bringing the hallway to life, my steps quickening as I got closer to the place where I was happiest.
I’d heard that cutters enjoyed the pain of their activity because it caused them to feel. I’d never understood that until the first night I’d stepped back out on this field, almost two years after Chase left. I didn’t know why I first did it. Part of it was because I had ordered myself to stop mourning his loss, and was ready to take the first step. Part of it was because I’d thought I was ready, ready to reenter the world which my pregnancy, which my dad’s retirement, which my marriage—had all taken away. The nights afforded me privacy, the late hours insuring no party to my pain. Each visit, the scent of the grass, the dig of cleats into the dirt … each sensation brought back a flood of memories. Sometimes I cried, most nights I didn’t. But I always felt.
At some point, I’d be able to replace his memories with new ones of my own—my midnight workouts with Titan an attempt to paint over the past. An attempt that hadn’t happened yet. And now that he was back … that goal stretched even further into improbability.
I grabbed a bucket of balls and pushed through the double doors, stepping from the hall and out into the night. I was climbing the steps to the field when Titan’s body knocked against me, his body jumping the final two steps and planting, four feet in the dirt, his hair raised, a loud snarl spitting out.
76
“Achtung.”
The foreign command rolled off her tongue like silk, no hesitancy in the word, and Chase hoped to God it meant something other than attack.
“Easy.” He stepped off first base, hoping some light from the stands would light his features, the dark field no help. That’s what he got for lurking here, the last two hours of jogging, stretching, throwing—all an excuse to wait, to hope, for this.
“Ty never comes to the field?” Chase watched the skybox suite, the interior illuminated in the darkening night. Inside it, Ty gave a strange woman a hug.
“Mrs. Grant?” The second baseman spit on the dirt. “Not really. I heard she comes out here late sometimes, to run.”
“Late?” Chase looked away from the skybox. Mrs. Grant. The name turned his stomach.
“Yeah. Security mentioned it once.” He shrugged. “They say she used to help out on the field, but I’ve never seen her pick up a ball. Probably just rumors.”
Chase said nothing, stepping back into place and leaning forward, his eyes watching the batter, poised for action.