Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Breslin POV
Couronne County Court Building
I stared at the grey tile floor and wondered, for not the first time, how my life had turned out like this. I wasn't a delinquent. I had followed the rules—for the most part. I'd tried to be a good leader on the baseball field and off. I did my best to be a good son. As far as anyone can be good at trying to grow up, be a man, and still be treated like a stupid kid who didn’t know his own mind.
Or have the sense to seek shelter in an Oklahoma rainstorm. If you’d asked my dad, that is.
I glanced at the deputy sheriff's desk. The still-empty chair. Air whooshed through the confined space and battled the dogged heat. I cast a look over my shoulder, but no sign of the deputy. Deputy, er . . . I found the guy's business card holder, and pulled one from the stack. Deputy Tom Reegan .
I let out a sigh and sat back in the plastic chair. It complained beneath the added muscle mass I'd put on over the summer. Tired of working out. Time to get back on the field.
The doorknob clacked behind me. I turned as I stood. Deputy Reegan lifted the cowboy hat from his head as he entered the room. “So, Mr. Cooper of Texas State Tech.” He sat with a huff in his chair and placed a manila folder on top of his desk. “Take a seat. Mind if I call you Coop?”
I shrugged and folded myself onto the whiny plastic thing, again. It groaned.
“Coach Eberhardt signed on to be your campus sponsor. He'll have to file a weekly report until the terms of your probation have been met.” The West Texas drawl was something else. Not that Oklahoma's was much better, but at least file didn't sound like the umpire calling a ball “foul.”
I nodded and tried to read the paperwork upside down. He lifted the folder and leaned back. I half-expected him to rest his bootheels on his desk. Pretty sure this place usually had sawdust on the floor out of habit.
“I have the latest from Doc Hamer. You've checked in and set up your sessions with her.”
“Yes, sir,” I said with a small sigh. Has the reports. Asks anyway.
“Keeping your nose clean. Doing what you've been asked to do.”
“Ordered to do.” Not asked.
“Sure, that, too.” He narrowed his eyes at me. Wasn't quite a glare, almost like he was squinting, in need of glasses. He held up the folder. “You've not kept up as well with your community service hours.”
I swallowed against a burning sensation in my throat. Fuck me. “It's hard to find time. But I'm committed to doing the work.”
“Welp, son. Hate to break this to you, but you've got yourself a deadline, or you could be ordered back to court.”
I closed my eyes and bit back a groan.
“Now, I get it.” He tilted his head and made a tsk sound out of the corner of his mouth.
“No, you don't. I'm required to take a full course load to qualify for my scholarship. I can't skip practice. I can't skip my mandatory anger management sessions. Then there's these fun-filled check-ins. Required team study sessions. And no one offers verifiable community service hours overnight.” Fuck fuck fuck!
The stone-faced deputy had one hell of a resting bitch face. Squinty eyes, balding head. Did they teach that somewhere? In sheriff school? I needed to work on mine.
“. . . a place like this . . . can't really argue. But I did some checking with some folks I know.”
I bit back a groan and fought the rising sense of panic. I needed to turn things around with this probation nightmare if I was going to have any chance at draft status next year. Just keep out of trouble. Play their stupid game.
“Are you listening to me, Mr. Cooper?”
I straightened. The chair creaked and scooted beneath me. “Yes, sir.”
“Your probation may be inconvenient, but it's nothing to joke about. The way I understand things, son, you're lucky to be in this here situation . . .”
His voice continued, but I really couldn't take another lecture. Yeah, lucky. I was aware that based on the sudden hairpin-turn my life took last year, I was beyond fortunate to be in “this here situation.” But it was hard to feel it when everything inside me screamed I belonged with the Silverbacks in Triple A. Playing my guts out. Praying for my chance to suit up in a Sabers uniform.
And I'd had a solid chance. Till a fuckin’ reporter got in my face. Soul-sucking bastard .
“. . . playing at Victory Tech's an exalted opportunity. Our university . . .” Deputy Reegan's voice faded away again.
I ran a hand over my forehead. Exalted? Sounds like a crazed booster.
“Mr. Cooper?”
“Yes sir. I did.” I looked up, tried to focus. “Really lucked out to be here.”
“I know the town don't look like much to city folk. But, with the student population, Couronne County's in the top fifty most populous in the state . . .”
Ugh, not another tour of this place. The great metropolis of Vanquer, Texas. I wasn't given a choice, but if I had to go to college at all, well. Compared to places like UCLA and Chicago Centennial, this dustbowl was a bizarre backdrop for an internationally-ranked sports powerhouse. But no one could argue their reputation was top notch with over a hundred national championships throughout the decades—from football to swimming. Walking through the trophy room during my rushed “recruitment visit”, had been nothing short of awe-inspiring. No doubt that's what sells the place to so many top athletes year after year. Definitely not the weather . . . or all this sand.
Vanquer had tumbleweed sightings and live armadillos. Who’d ever seen a live armadillo? They looked like overgrown rats. I sighed and leaned forward in my chair. This was Texas. A state so large, it had a half dozen top tier universities, and wasn't afraid to build one in the middle of a desert. Could've been worse. It's not the one next to a prison.
I shot a glance at the still-lecturing probation officer. What a pain. I pinched my thigh and seethed to keep from rolling my eyes.
I scanned his office again. The clock on the wall hadn't ticked off much time. I needed to get out of here. Freshman baseball camp would start soon. Morning training sessions, afternoon camp. I didn't just need it, I craved it, thirsted for it. My body was tired of this cramped, always-on sense of tension and anxiety. Almost like I could feel my muscle fiber begin to atrophy. My quickness, agility, coordination slipping away.
All. Summer. Long.
I adjusted in my chair. A picture of Deputy Reegan’s kid caught my eye—on the far side of his desk. She grinned at the camera, hair tossed about. A half-melted popsicle in her grasp. Orange goo dripping down her chin.
A twinge of something I didn't have a name for—it pulled at me. Carved a hole out of my chest and filled it with lead.
That hadn’t been my life.
“You have four months left. Get your hours in. I don't care how. You just need to check it off this list.” He slid a slip of paper over the surface of his desk.
On it was penned a phone number and the words: Silverado Assisted Living Center . I took the paper and rose from my chair. Crushed my fists into my pockets. This special hour of court-mandated revelry was over.
“I've got season tickets. And I sure as hell would rather see you on that ballfield than locked up in this here jail.” His mouth crooked up into a smirk.
So funny. A regular laugh riot.
“You’re a helluva ballplayer. Don’t let that sad sack of shit with a camera keep you down.” The deputy drawled the word “shit” into two syllables. He opened the door. “Tell ya what, son. In this town, we might've reinstated public whippings insteada taking his side of things.” He placed his hand on my shoulder.
Yeah, yeah. Still just a kid to you people. In this case, though, I couldn't complain. It was in my favor, so I had to just bear it.
I pulled my ballcap from my back pocket and pulled it low over my forehead. I shook his hand, then made my way out of the county court building. W aste of a good hour. I stopped on the curb to fold the slip of paper into my wallet. I glanced at the number. Well, maybe not a total waste. Assisted living center? Great. Old people, sounds like a blast. Just need my hours.
I climbed into my pickup truck. Would the guy check up on me if I didn't call? I typed in the information into my MapApp and decided to drive by the place before heading to the field house. Couldn't hurt.
“I sure as hell would rather see you on the field than locked up in this here jail.”
Yeah, I was stuck with this comedy routine for the next year and ten months. But if I didn't screw up, again? That was about the same countdown till the IML draft.
Silverado Senior Living Center
An older woman in a lab coat with that powdery appearance to her face shook my hand. “Mr. Cooper. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Her mouth formed a stick-straight line. Embroidered above the pocket of her labcoat was: “Director R. Wilshire”
I removed my ballcap.
“Tom says you need to log some additional service hours. I guess I should've known you'd be an athlete of some sort. I assume baseball by the looks of you.” She lifted an eyebrow.
I shrugged.
“He holds season tickets, you know.” She scowled. “And doesn't let any of the rest of us forget it.”
“Yeah. He mentioned that.”
She crossed her arms. “It's probably the first darn thing outta that mouth of his whenever he meets someone new. You'd think the seasons themselves revolved around Strikers baseball with that man.”
I twisted my hat in my hands. This . . . I couldn't tell if she was annoyed at me or him? Maybe God himself? I kept my mouth shut.
“In the end it doesn't matter. I need a consistent person. Someone who shows up on time and according to the schedule I set out every week. Should be a familiar concept to an athlete: consistency.” She drew out the word and huffed.
“What’s the job?” I felt the top button of my hat with my fingers. It didn’t matter if it was taking out garbage or sweeping floors. Life on my dad's Oklahoma farm was infinitely worse.
“Sit at that front desk and make sure people sign in and sign out. You check their ID. And provide the visitors with some basic security. In later months, when it gets dark before nine, it'd be best to escort them to their vehicles. It helps to save on the liability claims.”
Didn’t sound too bad.
“How many hours are ya needin'?” She glanced at her watch, then over my shoulder.
“Five hundred.”
She grimaced. “And that's by when?”
I sucked in a breath. “December twentieth.”
“Good night, that's, uh, what is it?” Her fingers moved and her head tilted back. “Thirty hours a week?” She held out her hands. “On top of classes and your practices?”
“Hadn't done the math.” Should've. Shit. Dammit. Fuck me .
“I hate to ask because it's not my business. But gracious, what'd you do, piss in the judge's Cheerios?”
“Not yet?” I flipped my hat inside out.
“It's no wonder Tom . . .” Her lips moved as she turned. A low-pitched shush filled the air and a wave of cool air fell around me. I closed my eyes and savored the feeling.
“If you’re here from six, let’s say six-thirty to ten-thirty on weeknights, that’s twenty hours. I'm sure we can slot in some weekend time for the rest.”
I opened my eyes, but she wasn't looking at me. She tapped and stared at her Apple watch.
“I’ll round up where I can and throw in some extra fluff over the next eight weeks. That way you don’t need as many hours when you get into midterms and such. I'm afraid, that's the best I can do.”
My heart picked up into a sprint. I swallowed. Lowered my gaze to the floor. “I’ll work the hours, ma’am.”
“What's that, now?”
“Whatever you put down on the report. That’s what I’ll work.” No charity. No lies.
A door opened and closed in the distance. The vague drone of chatter joined the contented hum of the industrial air conditioner.
“Nothing’s worth your integrity, Breslin. If you feel like you have to lie to get something, you should find a different way. Or have the strength to walk away.”
Mom’s voice still rang in my ears like she was in the same room.
“I wasn't. Now, son, that isn't what I meant. Shoot.” She exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. Shot a dark glance my direction then away. “I'll have the IT guy get you a login and we'll get everything set up for you to start.”
“Thanks.” I shifted my stance. “Do I need to bring anything? Wear a uniform, or, something?”
“I’ll get you a couple of pairs of scrubs, don't worry about none of that. I know college kids and their laundry battles. My sons. Lord help their wives.” She shook her head and glanced at the ceiling.
“They play baseball?”
“One played through college. He didn't always make the spring roster. He stuck with his studies, though. Found he liked computers. The older one only played through high school.”
I nodded.
“But, with the younger one, we found the games were so exciting. Better than the chaos at football games. Could sit and enjoy the company of friends and there were always events, too. Fell in with Tom and his wife. We ended up with a whole group and our spring social life became Strikers baseball for a time.”
I shifted to let the curtain of cool air hit my left side.
“Now we caravan to Amarillo to watch Sod Poodles. All of us except Tom .”
I shook my head. “Sod poodles?” The fuck is that?
“They're a Colorado feeder team.” She pointed at me. “You tell Schorr I'm helping out. Get him to bump my name on that waiting list. Or tell him to build a bigger stadium already. Jesus help me, that man is as stubborn as a battle axe.”
“If I get guest tickets, I'll let you know.”
Her stick straight mouth curved up on one side. “That'd be very kind of you. Now, chin up, Mr. Cooper. We have a saying here in Vanquer. ‘We can't predict which direction the winds of change will blow, or control when they come. All we can do is try to be prepared.’”
“I need to get to practice.”
“Of course. Good luck.” She held out her hand, again. I shook it and left.
I settled into the driver's seat and turned the ignition on my truck. Before I moved it into gear, my phone chimed.
Oh damn, it'd been on silent. I opened Messenger and scrolled through a half dozen missed texts from my dad. Still. Almost six months after Mom died, and he's not making it.
I hadn't told the deputy, but I'd gone home last weekend. Probably would, again on Friday—since we weren't scheduled to have afternoon practice. Likely the last time I could get there for awhile with my upcoming schedule. Was pretty sure I was supposed to keep the state-sponsored comedian informed as to my whereabouts—especially if and when I leave the state. But it'd been a last-minute decision. Should ask him. Hopefully I'd make the roster and need to follow protocol for away games.
Dad: How's practice going?
Dad: I deposited some money in your account. It'll have to last you the semester. Sorry.
I sighed and ran a hand over my face. He's my dad. I didn't always like or see eye-to-eye with the man. But he's the only family I had left.
Dad: I still can't get a hold of Declan. What do I tell him about Mom?
Fuck Declan. Useless miscreant . If a younger brother could disown a worthless Army Ranger, I’d strip the “Cooper” out of the strands of Declan’s DNA with my bare hands.
Dad: I just miss her.
Dad: And you too son.
I hung my head. A heavy fucking wave slammed through my system, weighting me, my body, like an anchor tied around my chest. I leaned my forehead on my steering wheel, gasping, panting. Hot, unbreathable air choked my lungs. I’d been keeping myself mostly together. But the load kept getting heavier. The water was rising.
And I was running out of time.