Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Olivia POV
Strikers Baseball Administrative Office
I paced back and forth as I waited in the bare boring space someone called an administrative office. A tall sour-faced guy wearing a polo with a name tag that read “Ted” had left me for over fifteen minutes to “get approvals.” Whatever that meant. Who else would be here two weeks before school started except a legitimate school reporter?
Just in case, I called my backup plan: Curt.
“You could've told me I was attending school on the surface of the sun.” I grumbled through the phone.
He chuckled. “Settling in, then?”
“This place.” I placed one foot in the center of the maroon tile and leapt to the next red one two squares away. “I'm pretty sure the only reason this isn't considered a one horse town is 'cause they borrowed someone else's horse.” I huffed at a piece of hair that had come loose.
My new Rally baseball jersey was a bit tight, but, holy hell, the guy who gave it to me was hot. I'd been glancing through profiles, again, of the freshman class and best I could figure he was an upperclassman. Had to be. Or maybe he was a footballer? Both types of football started freshman camp this week, too. But those sunglasses were International Championship Series Oakleys. My brother and several of the scouts wore the exact same ones.
“Yeah? Fine, I'll be there in a minute.” A tapping sound followed by shuffling. “What? No, it's Liv. Eh, hold on a sec.”
“Sure, I'll be here.” I stared at the blank space behind the long, mahogany counter. This place was an odd mix of expensive and basic. Tan walls met maroon tile, edged with stacked baseboards, but flat and painted white. Real, stainless-steel fixtures hung over the administrative desk. “Just,” I said with a sigh, “waiting for Ted.”
I scrolled through the scouting report I'd PDF'd and emailed myself during the tail end of my summer internship. Height, height . . . I'd been living with a six-foot-three giant, and this guy was pretty close—at least six two. And built. Those shoulders? Mmmm. And then there were the bulging extensors in his forearms. So nice.
I shivered. When he'd grabbed me, my skin had tingled, everywhere—like it craved his. My entire body ached during those few seconds. He’d been so close. Ahem. Right.
Tanner Meyers was the closest at six-one, and he wore his sandy brown hair shoulder-length. There was an Antonio Jimenez from the Dominican Republic I'd never seen. He was a little over six foot, but I highly doubted that smirky sunglasses guy with the backwards baseball hat was Dominican.
He had the same jawline as the infamous and drool-worthy Breslin Cooper, but Coop was listed as five eleven, and had always kept his face scruff-free. Maybe this guy was a walk-on?
“Right, I'm back.” Curt’s voice buzzed in my ear. “Sorry. You were saying?”
“The burgeoning metropolis of Vanquer, this place is like going back in history. Will they make me trade in my car for a horse and buggy when I go to get my Texas license?”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Feels like it sometimes. The residents of the county were all about their Strikers sports teams—not just football. Baseball, too.” His voice softened. “We were practically legends on that campus.”
“Tough life.”
“Was surprised you chose it. Doesn't seem like you. No malls, no big tech stores. Probably bad for your complexion.”
“Ha ha.” I rolled my eyes. Jerk. “Trying to follow in big brother's footsteps. Minus the detour into pitching. Seriously. Who'd want to do something lame like that?” I held onto the giggle that bubbled in my chest.
“Someone damned good at it. And don't you forget it,” he said with a laugh.
“So humble. I will be investing in some serious sunscreen asap. Or the next time you see me, I'll be a leathery old lady.”
“Yeah, you're practically ancient at eighteen.”
“The sun is a murder machine! Anyway, you're the one who mentioned that five of the top twenty prospects are incoming freshmen this year.”
“Go Cattle Tech.”
“The name's fitting. Won't lie.”
“Still can't believe they brought the old guy outta retirement. Be exciting to see how he puts together this new team. We won two state championships while I was there.”
“Yeah! Can hardly wait. And guess who's got a tryout as the baseball beat reporter for the Van Weekly?” I returned to pacing the small waiting room. No sign of Ted the administrator dude responsible for doing . . . whatever for my reporter credentials.
“What's a van weekly?”
“Newspaper and sports journal?”
“Huh. They called it the Cattle Tech Headline when I was there.”
“It's now The Vanquished.” I couldn't help but say the name with a bit of pizazz. A hand gesture may have happened. “Someone must love the Dallas music scene. Or something. I liked a couple of their songs back when.”
He let out a loud breath. “OK, well. Glad you’re settling in OK.”
“Yeah. I've got some article pitches I've already been assigned: a Founders’ Day special edition thing and I'm currently hanging out in the fieldhouse administration office waiting on my reporter creds. I have a story to do on some of my new classmates.”
He grunted. “Of the baseball variety, I’m guessing? Jesus, you have a one-track mind.”
“Life of a beat reporter,” I sing-songed at him. “Can't beat it.”
“So bad,” he groaned. “That’s why you went for journalism? Should've known.”
“Best I could do to keep on track. My skills as a reporter should keep me sharp for my scouting internship next summer. And vice versa. It's perfect, right?” I couldn't help but grin.
A long exhale. “Liv, I love you, but you are the single most difficult, stubborn, er, tenacious person I know. And there are pieces of granite that seem soft compared to you.”
“What? Granite? Ha ha.” I rolled my eyes. “What can I say, I learned from the best.”
“I'm serious right now. You've asked me before about what it takes to be a scout. I'm trying to tell you.” He stopped.
My heart felt like it stopped, too. I swallowed, and finally managed: “Tell me what?”
“You just.” He paused. A second ticked by, then, finally, he said, “you don't always think things through.”
“What?” I sunk down onto the bench seat. “I thought I was planning and looking ahead. Trying to learn on my own. Not relying on you for everything . . .” I pressed my face into my palm. My stomach churned and ached.
“Livvie, you're completely set on what you want to do. And Lord help anyone who doesn't think you should do that particular thing, and actually has the wherewithal to say so. But here goes: you being a baseball scout is a terrible idea.”
My heart contracted out of turn and dropped to the floor. I hit the mute button as I gasped painful breaths.
“Hear me out. Liv?”
I sucked in air, defying the tight, burning sensation in my chest.
“Liv? Come on, just listen.”
After a moment, when I had control back in place, I unmuted. “Why?” Why would you say that? Why would you let me intern with you if you felt that way? Working with you all summer was like . . . I put myself back on mute before I said something out loud.
“Just listen for a second.”
No. I scowled at the phone. Hot acid burned in my stomach. “Not when you have an attitude, I won't. What is this, anyway, your idea of?—”
“You're horribly biased,” he said in a clipped tone.
I blinked. “Wow, because I said you have an attitude?”
“No, that's why you being a baseball scout is a bad idea: you're horribly biased. You have your favorite players, and it's not that they don't have talent. But you need to be able to evaluate the whole player—not just what you see on the field.”
I opened my mouth to protest. Glanced at the check-in counter. Dammit, Ted.
“Or what fills out his baseball pants.” Curt grumbled. I could picture him giving me the human version of “grumpy cat” face.
“If the IML paid more attention to how their players looked in tight pants, maybe even regulated tighter pants, ticket sales would spike. Some marketing genius will come up with it someday, and you’ll realize I was a visionary ahead of my time.” What could I say? Baseball pants were kinda my favorite thing.
I glanced down at my Rally shirt. Second favorite? Maybe.
“Visionary? The sun really is baking your brain out there. You may need some brain sunscreen.”
“Just a hat.”
He huffed. “Look, when I'm not being your brother, and just being objective, I don't believe you could scout a player you, for whatever reason, disliked. You do a great job with the stats work I give you. Motivated. Thorough. But when it comes to moving into solo evals, like what we want to see with our apprenticeships. You couldn't pass on a player you like, even if they didn't meet the club's criteria. You get crushes. Or whatever you want to call them.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I really need your teenaged years to be over.”
The hot acid simmering in my stomach hit boiling and began to churn. “My so-called crushes pass. What you're talking about is fan loyalty. Why should I apologize for it? Even the IML Major League scouts have their favorites, I've seen it. Coaches have favorites, too.”
“Yeah, but. It's different. When it comes to their paycheck, they don't bet with their feelings. They bet on the stats on the page, and experience when it comes to player performance.” He cleared his throat. “That's not you, Liv. And that's OK.”
I pressed my fingertips against my forehead and shut my eyes. Yeah. Sure. Clearly it was fine. I was just a stubborn, over-emotional child. So what else was new?
“The reporter gig, it could really suit you. Or, you know, if you wanted to be like a sports agent, I'd have a moment of silence for all the team managers who'll never have another moment's peace. But you'd probably be damn good at that, too.”
“Sure. Top sports agents all have law degrees. Would Dad pay for that? He hates lawyers.”
“Livvie . . .”
“Don't “Livvie” me, Curtis. I'm sick of this. No one believes in me. And you don't listen. Not really. You say words like you will this time or like you already do. But no matter what I say, or no matter how I try . . .” I shook my head and scowled against the warmth in my eyes. “You don't even hear me. Or you don't care that scouting is what I've dreamed of doing for years. Why doesn't that matter?”
“I'm not saying you can't.” His voice rumbled. “Just trying to get you to be a bit more open-minded. You have four years to try other things. Almost anything you want besides scouting. Maybe give something non-baseball-y a shot?”
My lungs squeezed until my insides burned. “No.”
“Well, I tried. When you see Schorr tell him I said hello. And that I apologize in advance for my kid sister.”
I put myself on mute as I sniffed and grabbed for a tissue from the countertop box. Caught movement in the corner of my eye. Ted had returned. Deep breath. Game face. “I'll let him know,” I said and hung up.
“Olivia Milline?” Ted held up a card and looked around like there was a waiting room filled with people. The plastic thing had faded blue letters that read “Temporary” across it lengthwise.
I waved a hand.
“Coach Eberhardt says to come on back. You'll have to talk to him about your access credentials.” He shrugged and threaded the card onto a maroon lanyard that said: Strikers Baseball. “Kinda different from the usual process.”
I nodded and reached for the badge. But he moved the other direction. Come back?
“I'll escort you.” He stepped through the half door separating the office from the waiting area. “Only way in is through the locker room. Just had a fresh coat of paint and new carpet installed.”
“That's it? That's all that's changed in ten years?” Wait, did he say locker room? Oh no .
“Hmm? Ah, not sure really. Said he'd won six championships in that office, and seven was his lucky number. Superstitious old man.” He held out a clipboard. I glanced down at the sign-in sheet, picked up the attached pen.
“Whatever works.” I shrugged and signed the form.
“That's what the season ticket holders said, too. Some of them are as crazy as the football boosters.” He handed me the lanyard and card.
“Thanks.”
A thin-lipped smile. His eyes drifted down to my chest before rising again. Great. Fantastic. He deposited the clipboard onto the counter, then turned and headed for a door in the opposite corner of the waiting room. “This way.”
He made it almost to the exit before I managed to un-stick my feet from the floor. I stifled a groan.
It'd been several years since I'd faced a men's locker room. They typically smelled musty and old with the stench of days-old piss. It was a place where men turned into childish pig-faced morons with towel snapping and male-bonding rituals such as insults, your mama jokes, general one-upmanship, and viscerally crude blather and behavior.
When I was Curt's little sister or Furston's daughter, they were all perfect gentlemen. But I'd snuck in a time or two . . . OK, twenty-two. Literally twenty-two times over the years. It's where I saw a penis for the first time in the flesh. Really, I'd seen at least one every time I'd been. Different sizes, colors and states of erection. The bare ass cheeks were more fun. Some were pure muscle, others had a pillowy-like softness to them. The urge to reach out and just . . . touch. Ahem. Right. Baseball pants looked good coming and going.
So did no baseball pants.
I followed Ted through the door to the hallway. He pointed to offices and said words. But my brain was still remembering my locker room escapades from years' past.
My hiding place was so good, I'd snoop and hear all the trash-talking, in multiple languages . . . First time I heard the word “cocksucker”.
The multi-lingual trash talk prompted me to beg my best friend Hilda to teach me what I referred to as “colorful Spanish”. This added another level of amusement to my visits.
I caught a guy DIY-ing his urges, once. A fascinating thing to watch. His face when he was done was not attractive, but he wasn't my favorite player to begin with.
There had been a time, way back when, that several female reporters had gotten together and filed a complaint against the Sabers' organization. I was too young to understand what was happening, but that's the beauty of news archives and the internet. Apparently, the reason my stuffy NBfO father took me to the very testosterone-laden locker room was some publicity stunt to demonstrate that the complaints were unfounded. Such a wholesome place, he could take his nine-year-old daughter.
Having snuck in twenty-two times over the years, the real story was—I wouldn't take my grandma into a men's locker room.
And she's not your typical grandma who bakes cookies and smiles a lot. She's the kind that raised six sons and two daughters. And even she would be appalled. Most likely, she'd take a rolling pin to several heads—both kinds—and call the rest of their mothers. Grandma was no joke.
Ted threw his back into the door labeled “Locker Room”. I followed him into a court of jock straps and menthol. The door eased shut behind us, and my guide pointed to the glass windows off to the side. Inside was, indeed, a bullpen-style office. The window glass had blinds, which currently hung open. One guy stood at the white board, hat in hand and scratching at his head. The other rested black orthopedic shoes on his desk. His chair reclined all the way back, his ballcap balanced on his forehead and chin.
“Coach Schorr,” Ted said and pointed to the possibly-napping man in the chair. “And that's Coach Eberhardt, the assistant head coach. He wasn't here during Coach's prior win streak. But the idea is Coach'll bring him along over the next couple of years. Hopefully, we'll have eight or nine championship titles by then,” he said with a grin.
I found myself grinning back. “Heck yeah,” I said. “Victory Tech rides again.”
Ted’s entire face brightened. Yep, me and the sour-faced admin were off to a great start. Being buds. Compadres. Respected colleagues. Mutually enthusiastic ones at that.
His eyes drifted down to my chest again. Really? I sighed inwardly. Locker room. Yeah. I glanced at the windows of the coaches’ office. Eberhardt sat on the edge of his chair, eyeing something on the whiteboard.
And my new ‘buddy’ was still checking me out. Dammit, Ted!