Chapter 1
Chapter One
Olivia POV
MacKenzie State Park, Vanquer, TX
A baseball player in a blue Lion’s jersey jumped from second base, racing down the line toward third.
“Bad move.” I shook my head. “Catcher's got an arm. Lefty at the plate.” I stood on my tiptoes and gripped the stiff wires of the backstop. The catcher caught the pitch, stood, and gunned it to third. The blue-shirted Lions' player dove headfirst, sand spraying in all directions.
“You're out!” came the umpire's shout, even before the dust settled.
I tsk'ed. “And that's the inning.” Red and gold teenaged Pirates jogged off to their dugout as the Lions' players filtered out onto the field. “Under sixteen baseball. What a world of difference two years makes.” I shook my head and took a step back. Watched the blue-shirted pitcher throw a few. He had some velocity, but not enough command. He was about two innings away from being lit up like a Christmas tree. “Pirates will win this one.”
Although I had yet to convince my dad or brother, I believed I had a sense about players. Years of watching my brother’s games combined with eight summer months studying IML prospect footage, I could read game situations. And I could read when players weren't confident in their play.
Major leaguers could still surprise me. And then there was him : Breslin Michael Cooper. Coop. The number one high school prospect on every talent scout's roster for the past two years. Except those needing pitchers, of course.
“That's what made, makes Coop . . . special.” I took a deep breath and sighed. “He was surprising.”
I'd hoped to see him in a Carolina Sabers uniform next year. Dreamed of meeting him in person. Of looking into those deep blue eyes when I told him my name, shook his hand. Maybe got to see him out of that blue and silver uniform.
“I mean it, Olivia Aster Milline!”
I pressed my eyes shut as the broken record that was my dad's angry ultimatum yelled in my brain.
“They’re practically animals . . .”
Shouts and gasps erupted from the bleachers. I blinked and the ballfield came back into focus. The centerfielder backpedaled as fast as his feet could go. He neared the fence.
“Get out!” The lady beside me beat on the backstop. I shuffled a few steps out of her way.
Excited much? Hope that's her kid. Centerfield caught the ball, and the uproar waned. Some disappointed “ahs” battled audible sighs of relief.
Coach clapped the hitter on his shoulder. “You'll get 'em next time.” The kid pulled off his helmet, and, head down, returned to the dugout.
My heart could empathize. If the right wind had blasted through, if the centerfielder had been just a half step slower—this kid could've been rounding the bases like a champ. Poor guy.
Life can be critically, undeniably unfair.
“I swear to you, Olivia . . . that’ll be the last time you walk through the door of my house. The last time you say the words, ‘Furston Milline is my father.’”
I rubbed at my forehead trying to get the voice to relent. Fifteen hundred miles away and I still could hear and see his angry tirade.
This was a level-nine problem on the seismic scale because I’d never been interested in a guy who didn’t wear a jersey, take the field, and run bases like his life depended on it.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed back to my car.
Who knows? Maybe I'll find a criminally attractive, baseball-loving accountant with a penchant for sabermetrics. I'm sure he'll ride a unicorn, too. And slay dragons with spreadsheets and decimal points. I sighed.
Yep. My life was critically, undeniably . . . unfair.
Media & Communications Hall, Texas State Tech University
I found the door marked “Mrs. Poggio” on the nameplate and knocked.
“Just open it,” came the reply. I turned the knob and peeked inside. The office wasn't large—just wide enough to shove a desk and a chair into, with a single seat for a guest.
A tall woman wearing a blouse and slacks in the middle of a Texas heatwave motioned me in. I worried my lip between my teeth and gripped my backpack strap with both hands. I'd chosen a tank top and tennis skirt with sandals and was pretty sure everything was as rumpled and sweat-soaked as my hair. So gross.
“You must be Olivia.”
I winced. “Liv. Please. Only my dad calls me Olivia.” I perched on the edge of the guest seat and dumped my bag onto the floor beside her desk.
“Got it. Everyone calls me Mrs. P.” She glanced around, placed her hand flat on her desk. Shuffled some papers. Grey strands of hair threaded with honey brown into a messy bun on top of her head. “Too many mispronunciations. Makes me nuts.” She sunk into her high backed office chair and rolled her eyes.
I giggled. A faint brush of cool air touched my cheek and fell over my shoulder. Beautiful A/C. I hadn’t been on campus twenty-four hours, but I already knew that air conditioning would be my bff for the next few weeks.
Mrs. P settled a pair of red-rimmed glasses on her nose. “So, remind me?” She scribbled something in her notebook.
“Ah. Baseball?” I stared at the top of her head. What could she be writing down?
“Oh, that's right. The family business, I believe you called it.” She flipped pages in her notebook. “Your dad works for the IML and your brother's a scout.”
“Curt used to pitch for the team. Go Strikers.” I held up a fist like the enthusiastic fan I was.
“Nice. Good.” She nodded. “So your family has ties to the university.”
“And baseball.”
She paused and glanced up at me. “Right. So, what, you want to be a sports reporter after college?” She moved her hand in a circle.
Oh. I knitted my hands together in my lap. Did I need to say yes to get the job? Probably. I'm sure that makes more sense than: I want to be a baseball scout. Although it's not like there's a formal education requirement to be a scout. Why wouldn't sports-focused journalism be?—
“You're hesitating.” She tapped her pen against her bottom lip.
“Sorry.” I laced my hands together. “I'm not really into other sports, just baseball. I'd be glad to write other news articles, though.” I arranged my face into a smile. I remembered the email exchange where Mrs. P mentioned that sports reporters still had to write the occasional article for the university paper.
She frowned. “I don't usually give a sports beat to one person. For various reasons.”
“Like what?” I pressed my lips together. Not too pushy. Don't seem overeager.
“One person can't be flexible. Have a weekend off.” She stretched for the oversized plastic cup with the university logo from the far edge of her desk. “On the flip side, they're also more likely to play favorites or present the same perspective week after week. And then there's the interest factor.” She took a sip of her mystery drink.
“Interest factor?” I found the end of my ponytail in my palm. I dropped it and refolded my hands into my lap. “Like people get bored just reporting on the same sport or something?” I frowned. “I promise you, Mrs. P, there’s no way I'd lose interest. Not in baseball. Can you imagine? Probably have to change my name.” I laughed. She didn't.
Mrs. P raised an eyebrow. “Several sports have a number of students ready to give their right arm for the team beat assignments. Shouldn't surprise you that, at a Texas university, football is king. Then basketball. It might interest you to know that our track 'n field team comes in third. And we have some emerging interest in our esports program.” She ticked off the list on her fingers.
“Esports? Wow. What a—” I swallowed the rest of the words. Let's see, people holding game controllers? Or guys in tight baseball pants? “I mean that wouldn't have occurred to me. But what about baseball?”
She glanced over the top of her glasses. Hazel eyes absorbed the light in the room, and appeared completely blank. Bored. Irritated? Not good .
“Can't have different policies for different sports.”
“I see.” I gritted my teeth behind closed lips. Dammit.
She gave me a long, hard look. She let out a breath as she sat back in her chair. “I'm happy to give you a tryout. I like the idea of a female perspective from someone who grew up in a baseball family.”
Relief unknotted my stomach, lightening the heavy pit of anxiety churning inside. I nodded, but didn’t dare smile. Game face.
“But it's not baseball season until next semester.”
What? But there's baseball practice, now. Well, not now-now, but late this afternoon, a few hours from now. First day of freshman baseball camp . Gotta be there.
“So, there's no reason to assign you to the beat right away. Every fall starts off the same way. The journalism department offers signups on a series of projects, and all these interested students wanting to be reporters volunteer. And yet somehow . . .”
Oh no. No no no. I needed to be at baseball practices. This was prime scouting time, getting a sense of the team, who would make the roster. Coach Schorr was notoriously focused, didn't tolerate distractions.
And ignored my emails all summer long.
“. . . schedule drops, the not-so-glamourous life of the real work of reporting?—”
“Whatever you need. I'm here to help. Just, well, there is an exhibition game this semester.” I tapped my palms together and held them up to my chin.
“In November.” Her tone dropped.
Yeah, this wasn't going well.
“Tell you what? That game can be your tryout. If it'll keep you happy and around.” She grabbed her cup and sipped. “But I want the same quality in your non-baseball work. Founders’ Day is a big thing around here. I'd like you to come up with a pitch for our special publication. Comes out in November.”
“Sounds perfect.” I nodded my full agreement. OK, not full agreement, but hopefully she couldn't tell. Still need an official assignment. Today, lady.
“Great. Sounds like we have an arrangement that works. Any other questions or concerns, Liv?” She tilted her head and her glasses caught the light. This was my opening, my opportunity to make my case.
“I've spent the past two summers interning with the Carolina Sabers' scouting program. And this year, you have some really talented players joining the ranks as freshmen.”
A slow nod, another sip and then a sigh. “All right. Go get a sound byte from each of them. Take their picture and we'll run a series of 'get to know them' articles with their hometown and boy band Teen Beat info like, what's their favorite food, jersey number, toothpaste, whatever. It’s softball shit, but?—”
“Softball’s not exactly easy,” I grumbled, then pressed my lips shut. Said it out loud, again. I swallowed. “I think there are some bigger stories.”
Mrs. P crossed her arms over the edge of her desk. “It's the offseason . Football is on season. So is men's soccer. We don't have to report on baseball year-round.”
“But this is year two of a full program rebuild. The administration brought Coach Schorr out of retirement last season. He won the college six national championships during his initial tenure. He's the reason we have the nickname Victory Tech .”
“It's a play on . . .” She waved a hand. “You know your Strikers baseball history. Very impressive.”
“Thank you. I'll be the best baseball reporter you've ever had, I swear.”
She closed her eyes and drew in a breath. “If I had any doubts, I assure you they're assuaged. Very, very assuaged. But I'll say it again: we have other projects and limited resources. You don't have to come up with?—”
“We got Breslin Cooper.” The words tumbled out in a rush. Interrupted her again. I winced, but held my breath.
Waited for the response. A spark of recognition. A reaction of any sort?
She peeled off her glasses and straightened.
I cleared my throat. “Breslin Cooper.” I drew out his name this time. “It was quite the last minute steal, took a crazy amount of coordination right at the deadline. But he'll be in a Strikers uniform this season.” I gripped the edges of the chair to keep myself from floating away.
“Who's Breslin Cooper? And don't you dare say: a baseball player.” She pointed at me with her folded up glasses. “I got that part.”
I froze. Don't look upset. Game face . But what? Seriously? Who's Breslin Cooper? Only the hottest baseball property that was on the scouting market, until ? —
“I'm still waiting.”
“Ah, he was number one last year. Last two years, actually.” My fingers drummed into her desk. “In the national high school baseball rankings? You know, that Breslin Cooper?”
“I have enough to manage with college sports in Texas. I can’t keep up with, what is it, North Carolina?” She muttered something that sounded like: “. . . not a Texas accent.”
I didn’t dare look at her. I was afraid my game face would fail me. I ducked my head and crossed my ankles. “He played for Oklahoma.” I kept my voice soft, trying not to sound argumentative. “But his mom passed, I believe it was cancer—just before the playoff series. There was a whole mess that happened after. Like right after, at the hospital. A reporter with a camera and some—” I lifted my gaze. Mrs. P pursed her lips together. I was not winning her over. “He punched the guy. Was arrested. Made national news.”
Cameras flashed on the television screen. Coop held up a hand. His blue eyes dazed. Lost.
“. . . feel about you playing the same week she died?” A man shouted. More flashes.
“Charges were filed. He was a minor, so a lot of it got hushed up from there. One thing was clear, though.” I stared at the top of her desk, but all I saw was that news coverage from my memory. I didn't know him, but I'd studied him in my scouting internship, along with, admittedly, a few hundred other players. He stood out, though. Had been my secret baseball crush for two years.
But that day . . .
“Leave us alone!” Coop's voice broke. The image of his face froze on screen. A news reporter droned in the background.
My throat squeezed. “He was heading for the IML draft right out of high school. The first position player in almost twenty years. Now, he's on a full ride to Texas State Tech.”
Mrs. P folded her hands on top of her knee. One eyebrow lifted. “What's your angle?”
“That's, um.” I willed my brain to surface from the memory. He’d not been seen on camera since the national championship game five months ago. Disappeared from all our scouting reports. He would have anyway if he'd been drafted. But this felt like he'd just been . . . erased. “That's a good question.”
“Minors’ records are legally restricted and he deserves the benefit of that.”
I blinked. What? “Oh no. I really wanted a positive angle. Overcoming adversity? Or a fresh start, maybe?”
“Sounds like a puff piece.” She frowned as she tapped her glasses against her bottom lip. My stomach twisted.
“Oh.” Ugh. What else was there that was positive? Wait, is she? She's considering it. Need something. Think! “What about . . . maybe, you know, um, rivals turned teammates?”
She stared at me. Mouth tight, eyebrows pinched. I found the words just tumbling out of my mouth. “The pitcher Coop faced off against in the championship? Bitter rivals on the national stage, Tanner Meyers. He's here. And-and those national ranking stats are all those guys live and breathe through high school. We have five of last year's top twenty, and now they're competing in close quarters for some number of roster spots. Doesn't that seem, I dunno, drama-filled? Newsworthy? Lots of human interest kinda stuff?” My hands shook. I folded them together again and held on for dear life.
“Actually . . . it's not bad.”
“Really?”
She took a deep breath and let out an extended sigh. “Find a way to relate it to freshmen adjusting to life on campus, tie in the sports rivalries as a unique aspect athletes have to deal with. Bring me a pitch. I'll give you three weeks since school doesn't start for another two.”
“Yes, ma'am.” I bit my lip so hard to keep myself from shouting.
“But I need you to do your research on Founders’ Day at the same time. Because your proposal for that story, believe me when I tell you: you're not going to hit gold the first time. Expect me to send you back to the drawing board three or four times.”
I nodded like one of those bobblehead dolls. “Of course, Mrs. P. I promise, I'll do my best.”
“Great.” She stood from her chair. “So, you're happy? You have work to do?”
“Plenty,” I said as I rose from my seat. I pulled my backpack over one arm and gave her a smile.
“Perfect. My job is done.” She opened the door to her office. “Lovely meeting you, Liv. I look forward to getting to know you this semester.”
I stared. Was she joking?
“Something wrong?”
“I just want to make sure I understand. I am being considered for the baseball beat?”
She gripped her glasses with both hands. “For the moment, you're assigned to the paper. In the offseason , you will work any baseball-related stories we agree on. And you will be the sole reporter assigned to the exhibition game.”
Relief bubbled through my veins like ice cold water on my lips. “That's fair. Totally fair. But I can start on those profiles like today. Get a head start?”
“Yes, but Liv, I shouldn't have to explain this.” She sighed. “Just, understand that . . . I look forward to receiving those pitches.”
“Yes, ma'am.” I looked at her. Hug? Handshake?
The woman tapped the edge of her door and lifted one eyebrow.
Guess not. I turned on my heel and escaped from Mrs. P's office before she could change her mind.
“Thank you!” I called out over my shoulder. Not sure if she heard me but it didn't matter. I'd scored my ticket to freshman baseball camp.