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)
I avoid New York entirely. Haven’t set foot in Yankee Stadium since that last game. I don’t think I ever will. Partially out of respect for Tobey, and partially out of respect for my heart. I think it would be too hard for me. I’d rather my last memory of that field be that championship moment. I will always, secretly, be a Yankee, no matter whose colors I’m wearing.
My divorce with Tobey was quiet and quick, no child to fight over, no assets contested. I got Titan and my car. He offered more, a bulk settlement with alimony, but I refused. We had taken four years out of each other’s lives. Anything else was ridiculous.
He’s dating a supermodel now, one of those Victoria’s Secret Angels who wears million-dollar bras and blows kisses into cameras. She looks good in pinstripes, and in every photo I’ve seen of them, he looks happy.
Chase steps up to bat, and I stand, my daughter peeking up at me, her pink Converses sparkling as they jut out from her seat, not long enough to hang over the side. “Daddy up?” she asks.
“Yep.” I lean forward, watching, her attention returning to the coloring book before her, a big chubby marker awkwardly gripped in her hand, purple colored over half of the page.
“Come on…” I breathe, wrapping my hands around the railing and watch him, the strong line of his back, the cock of his head, the slow roll of his bat before he settles into place.
“Mom.”
I ignore the command, my eyes darting from the pitcher to Chase.
“Mom,” she insists.
“Wait.” Pitch. Swing. High and left. Foul. I sigh and glance back at her. “Yes?”
“Need new marker.” Laura holds out the grape-scented stick. We named her after my mom, all other ideas abandoned once Chase made that suggestion.
“Daddy is at bat, don’t you want to see?” I bend down and pick her up, holding her against my chest until her soles rest on the railing.
“New marker.” She waves it in the air, her eyes away from the game, still stuck on her coloring book.
“She’s two,” Dad calls, from his seat next to us. “You think you cared anything about baseball at two?”
“I was young and dumb,” I remark, watching as the pitcher throws to first, trying to catch Cortez as he dives back to the bag.
“Give her time, she’ll come around,” Carla coos to Laura and lifts her away, my hand-off quick, eyes back on the field, and there is a moment of hushed silence before the pitcher curls, Chase tenses, and then…
Action.
Contact.
High and up…
Moonshot.