Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Breslin POV
Strikers Baseball Locker Room
I leaned against my locker and sucked in a deep breath, trying to quell the acidic churning in my stomach. My new teammates crowded the space between bench seats and lockers. The stench of ammonia hung in the air.
I tipped my head back and stared at the ceiling. How much longer? Let’s go. I need to get back on the field. My arm muscles tightened and released. I'd never gone a whole summer without playing. Not since little league. But there'd been no time, with the legal shitstorm I'd stirred up. Don't think. One foot in front ? —
“And you’re Hester.” A female voice caught my ear. Someone let a chick in here? She'll regret that.
“Ellis, ma’am.”
“Don’t have to call me ma’am. Liv is fine. Ellis Hester, infielder from Spring, Texas. Nice RBI stats.”
Wait. Was that Rally Girl? I glanced around, but couldn’t see her through the throng of uniformed and sweaty dudes. Couldn't be her . I closed my eyes and let my mind wander off to an image of her half-naked. The soft feel of her skin. The scent of cinnamon and flowers?—
“She’s a reporter, dude. Ya gotta say something impressive.”
The enticing image of Rally Girl disappeared. An icy sweat pricked my skin. They let a fuckin reporter in here? I slammed my fist into my glove. The pool of acid in my stomach churned and sloshed. I needed out of there. Where were the coaches? I glanced at the door leading to the practice field. It was closed. There were nine, ten, eleven guys to my right. A fuck ton of them crammed everywhere else. Dammit. Fuck me. My breath came in gasps. Don't need this. Can't get out, either. I took a breath, held it. Closed my eyes again and mentally counted the stitches on a baseball.
“And you’re the former number three, Meyers.” The reporter's voice rose. Grated on my nerves.
“Tanner. Ms. Reporter.” His accent was a syrupy Southern drawl. Made me want to throw up.
“Tanner Meyers, left hander, Xavier High, Louisiana. High strikeout to walk ratio.”
“You uh, quoting Wikipedia, now?”
A few chuckles erupted. Traitors. Not like my teammates back home. Not a one of them gave an interview after we won. I glared at the back of Meyers. My team beat you.
“IML scouting reports,” she corrected him.
How the hell'd she get those?
A couple of low whistles.
“Says you gained some hefty velocity on your fastball senior year, topping out at ninety,” she said.
“In high school?”
“Never played Xavier.” A guy with a buzz cut shook his head to my left.
Means you didn't rank.
Voices, side conversations all converged at once.
“Shit, ninety? How'd he only rank third?” A voice rose above the hum.
A metal locker creaked and slammed shut. The entry door opened. “Hola!”
I glanced that way, hoping it was a coach, trainer, someone who'd let us do something already. Instead, a dark-haired guy with a grin like he paid a monthly fee to his dentist turned my way. He tossed his giant game bag to the floor.
“You have quite the legacy to live up to.” Miss Reporter's voice held a bright, challenging tone. “Schorr's program has produced some top tier IML pitchers.”
I pulled my hat low over my face, wishing I could just tune her out.
“You asking if I'm up for the challenge Ms. Reporter?” Meyers chuckled. Some other snickers.
Let's go.
“Just asking how you plan to contribute,” the reporter replied.
“I know what I want to contribute.” A harsh voice cut in. Finally. Someone to chase the nuisance out of here. I straightened and found the guy who said it in an instant. He made a show of pulling a gold chain necklace over his head and kissing one of the links. He shut his locker and turned around. The guy was built wide, kinda pudgy.
“She’s not asking you, Knox-out.” Meyers snarled.
“I think what she really wants is a little something-something,” Knox-out said with puckered lips and a shake of his head.
I groaned and ran a hand over my face. Not helping, ya shithead.
“I’m a pretty little reporter. Won’t you give me an interview of a lifetime? I'll show you exactly how I like it .” He held out one hand and thrust his hips like a fucking idiot.
A copper taste filled my mouth. I pushed away from my locker. “Leave her alone.” I bit out. My muscles itched to move. My insides screamed. You're asking for it.
He turned to glare at me.
“One star on this performance. Should've asked for a barf bag when I came in.” The reporter said with a laugh.
I advanced. Guys backed out of my way. “Knock it off. ” I growled at the pudgy-faced imbecile. “Or I'll?—”
“. . . the fuck up, asshat!” Meyers fumed. “She wasn't fuckin talking to you.” Red-faced, he pointed a finger in Knox-out's face.
“Come on, Tommy-man. Be cool,” Hester said. But he took a step back and ducked his head.
“Tommy Knox.” The pudgy moron sneered. “Twenty-second in last year’s news' player ranking. I’m turning up the heat this season.” He crossed his arms and squared his shoulders at the same time.
“I’m coming for you, Cooper.”
Olivia POV
His name set off a series of flares inside my abdomen. Hundreds of fluttering things beat their wings, took flight, then tumbled down in a chaotic mess. A small clump of players parted . . .
And there he was. Hat on, sunglasses atop the rim of his cap. The perfect amount of dark-haired scruff peppering his strong jawline. He didn't look at me, but he was my smirky sunglasses guy. I caught my breath. My brain spun in spinny circles.
“We're on the same team.” Coop glared at Tommy Knox, called “Knox-out” possibly due to the time he knocked out a base runner at the plate—the last time he played catcher.
“Do you even know what that means?” Tommy scoffed. “Always looked like The Coop show to me, not a Wildcats game.”
And just like that, smirky sunglasses guy and my longtime baseball crush Breslin “Coop” Cooper merged into one. Oh my God, I'd been so close. I'm wearing his shirt.
I stared at him. I couldn't help it. Wouldn't apologize for it. He was?—
Bam! The sound of man versus metal. I blinked and Tanner had a fistful of Tommy's shirt—holding him up against a locker. Shit, this wasn't good. Tommy was an ass, had always been an ass. But his parents were the super-rich can't-be-bothered type. Except when it came to their son's baseball career.
He didn't know me, but I'd been toted along to more than one dinner for my own can't-be-bothered parent—so Dad would have a built-in excuse to leave. The Knox's had been after him for years to buy a stake in their minor league team: the Golden Gladiators.
“What’s your deal, Meyers? She your girl? That why she’s in here—where she don’t belong?”
Coop’s eyes met mine. Narrowed gaze, tight mouth—nothing at all like the guy from before. I tried to shake my head, but he looked away.
“Sure she’ll be up for sucking your dick while she’s still down on her knees begging for what I got.”
My blood froze in my veins. A surreal buzzing sound whipped around me. “And he went there.”
Hester pulled his cap down and lowered his head.
Meyers snarled something. Coop’s fists clenched. His face drained of color. And all I could picture was that day . . .
Rain and tears on his face. “Leave me alone!” He shoved the man away with both hands.
Cameras flashed. Coop held up a hand and winced.
“Well, you know what they say, Tanner.” I interrupted their man-to-man discussion. “Those who talk loudest have the smallest mouthful.” My heart lurched then fell. That did not come out right.
Tanner’s lips twitched. A few snickers rose from the huddle. Knox-out frowned.
Shit. I couldn’t back down, I had to own it. “I always wondered about that saying.” I tilted my head and frowned. “I think I get it now.”
I risked a glance at Coop, and there it was: a small tilt of his mouth just before he ducked his head. He crossed his arms over his chest. One cleat came up to rest on the bench in front of him.
I reached for Meyers’s arm. “I can fight my own battles, thank you.”
He released Knox, golden eyes dancing when he met my gaze. “Don’t think I’m familiar with that saying Miss Reporter.”
“No? And here I thought it was some ancient Chinese proverb. Hm. Either way, I’ll put little Tommy down for ‘heat and big plays’.”
“Fuck you Meyers,” Knox rasped. He shoved past Tanner on his way out of the huddle. “And you, too, reporter girl .”
“I'm sorry for my teammate, Miss. Not all of us was raised by swamp gators.” Meyers’s lips twisted into a grin. His eyes drifted lower than my face. This was getting old.
“You want me to escort you?—”
“I want you to answer my question.” I folded my arms over my chest. “This is my beat and if you think a little too much testosterone in the air is going to knock me off my game, it’s about time you met me.” I held out my left hand in introduction.
He quirked one eyebrow up and held my gaze. I was afraid I was as red as a tomato from my exchange with Knox, but this was the job. And I wasn’t backing down.
He shook my hand.
“Liv Milline, official reporter for the Van Weekly. Now, do you have an answer for me?”
“Ah. What was the question Miss Liv? 'Fraid I forgot.”
“Your contribution. You have something for me or should I put you down for ‘flow’?”
A chuckle rose from the group. The buzzing tension that had filled the air during the Knox-up drag-out conflict began to loosen. I shot a quick look at Coop as Meyers ran a hand through shoulder-length strands of ‘flow’-ing hair.
Coop winced and oh geez, I caught his hand on his cup. Fuck locker rooms, I was so over them.
But I finally scored direct eye contact. Just for an instant, then Antonio Jimenez leaned into his personal space.
“Command and control.” Meyers's voice rose. He held a baseball in his palm then contracted his hand. “I’m a controlled burn, Miss Reporter. Already on high heat.” Tanner gave me some simpering look like I was supposed to melt.
Rehearse much? I tried to keep from rolling my eyes at his obviously-practiced little speech.
“And I’m gonna keep rising.” He directed the last sentence toward Coop.
Vomit . Still, I needed to develop my own version of a happy dance. Called it . The challenge issued was small, but it was there. You don't take top competitors, the human equivalent of alpha male pack leaders, throw them all in a pressure cooker of 'gotta make the roster' stew, and expect it to be smooth sailing to happy, productive and wholly cooperative teammates. I knew it. See, Mrs. P? I'm gonna be the best baseball reporter you've ever had.
“What do you think Miss Liv? That print-worthy?”
“Oh, pitch perfect. Really. I'm hoping you'll be able to make time to share more of your story with me.” I held up my phone. “For the paper. You know.” Oh, damn, I was not Team Meyers. I backed up a step.
His lips curved and he touched his cap. “Say the word.”
“Uh, th-thanks. And for earlier, too. I-I appreciate it.” I turned and wove my way through the sweltering throng of freshmen. A couple of “heys” were thrown my way. I smiled, patted shoulders. Promised to 'circle back' with a few guys—after practice or later this week. I don't think any of them would've expected me to leave without a quote from the infamous number one.
It's Coop. He's really ? —
A tap on my shoulder. I paused. Put my game face back on. Really Ted ?
“Hey, Olivia. I told Coach you're here.”
“Oh, um. I'm almost done. Can I have another minute?”
Ted shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have to get back to the front office. You'll need to stop by and turn that in.” He pointed to my temporary badge. “Once Coach signs your papers to grant you access to the practice field, we can put in your application for official press credentials. That's for the games. No rush on that.”
Uh yeah there was. Ok, he was right, there wasn't. We had almost three whole months before the exhibition game.
I smiled as sweetly as I could. “Thank you so much, Ted. And please, call me Liv.”
The guy reddened from his scalp to his neck. He mumbled something then shuffled off. I took a deep breath, long exhale. It was time to officially meet number one.
Breslin Cooper.