Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Breslin POV
“ A nd so you’re the number one around here.” Rally Girl aka the reporter’s voice caught me around the ribcage and squeezed. I gulped a heavy breath, holding it for the count of three. Dammit, why? Just want to play ball.
I drew myself up and turned to face her. The damned shirt I leant her was tight in all the right places—as if Rally the patron saint of tempting tits was smiling down on me. “No interviews,” I mumbled.
She moved closer. Her breasts bubbled into that neckline. Looked horribly trapped and like they should be set free. Well handled. By me.
“It’s not really an interview . Just a question.” That irritating little smirk toyed with her lips. “Breslin ‘Coop’ Cooper, right-handed utility player. Power hitter with a .448 batting average and twenty-two home runs.” Words formed on her lips, glistening in the fluorescent lighting. I wanted to consume them, taste them on her tongue.
“. . . ninety stolen bases, and can even throw a decent 87 mph fastball. Credited with one save? Your junior year.”
I shrugged. But she held the full attention of that part of my anatomy . . . I gritted my teeth against the increasing discomfort.
“Extra innings. The team ran out of pitchers.” Someone piped up from the crowd.
“Hey, he got the ball over the plate and struck a guy out. That's real pitching, right Jacobs?”
A group chuckle rose into the air.
Her eyes glittered beneath dark lashes. “So, number one.”
My stomach stopped churning. Instead, it shot a series of electric flares through my system. They rippled down my spine.
“. . . on the collegiate stage, do you think you can, like Tanner over there, keep rising?” She held out her phone like a microphone.
Like Meyers? The electric flares turned to lead and sunk into churning battery acid. I straightened and caught Meyers rolling his eyes. “No comment.”
“Wait, seriously?” Her phone clattered to the floor. Jimenez knelt and picked it up for her. She continued to stare. Her mouth hung open.
I crossed my arms and took two steps back. “No interviews. No comments.”
Someone whistled. A murmur of voices.
Those blue green eyes met and held my gaze. A small pinch of her eyebrow. Her lips twitched, trembled then opened like she meant to say something else.
“Hey, you're being a jerk to her right now.” Jimenez hissed out of the corner of his mouth. He handed her the phone.
“But I . . .” She rubbed the tail of her shirt over the device screen. “It's not like . . .”
She looked up at me again, but this time . . . Her eyebrows lifted and her mouth turned down in a pained expression. All the over-the-top bullshit from that hack Knox-out or whatever the fuck his name was, and she'd cry cause I won't talk to her? Gimme a break.
“I know you've had your differences with the press?—”
A phantom force punched me in the gut. I lost my ability to breathe. The memory of ice cold rain. Cameras flashing. Too many questions.
“Coop, Coop! Over here!”
“You still think you can go straight to the draft ? —”
“. . . a devastating loss?”
“. . . what would your mother have wanted?”
I don’t know. And I didn’t. I still had no idea.
A chorus of groans erupted in the locker room. Light flickered. Too bright.
“Get her outta here.” Someone called out.
“She’s not wrong.” Meyers shot back.
I whirled around. A loud bang. My hand, my knuckles throbbed. I gasped for air. Can't breathe. I had tried to prepare for this. I thought I had. But one reference and I’m breaking down, again. Fuck!
“No fuckin' comment. Not now. Not ever.” I gritted out through clenched teeth. The edges of the room pulsed in living color. According to my ‘anger management’ therapist, this was a warning sign. Too much adrenal reaction.
Calm down.
Employing every ounce of willpower I could summon, I straightened, drew in halting bits of air and held on for dear life. I needed to find a way to calm down. Let go. Get it together.
I let out a shaking breath and counted. Took another shuddering gulp, and breathed. Focus. Breathe.
Another breath. A slow countdown. Had the whole place gone quiet?
Ignore her and she'll go away. And then you can watch those long legs leave. For some reason, that idea got my breathing into a better rhythm.
“Hey, Reporter Chica! Forget him, and interview me!”
Another round of groans. I turned and got caught in her gaze. Soft eyes glimmered before she glanced away.
“Antonio, I already know your story.” She patted him on the arm on her way to the door. “You’re my go-to guy.” She tossed over her shoulder and disappeared around the row of lockers.
“Heh. Did you hear that? I’m her go-to guy. You know what this means, 'mano?”
That you’re a sucker and an idiot? I focused on my breathing and kept the commentary locked inside.
“I’ve got an in with an influencer! I’m gonna be?—”
“What the hell are you ladies doing, getting your nails done?” Coach Eberhardt's voice echoed through the locker room. “I sent the trainer in here twenty minutes ago to get your asses on the field.”
The doors leading to the ballfield banged open. Sunlight streamed inside, like clouds parting after a hurricane.
“We are now behind schedule. I hate being behind schedule. I hate being behind in the score. And I hate being behind in the win column.”
The churning acid settled. My cramped quads practically hummed, primed, ready to burn. Finally.
“This week is not the start of baseball season. Not yet. This week is lovingly referred to by those who have survived it as: Fry the Fish Week. You know why?”
I rubbed a hand over my forehead. I was afraid I could guess.
“Because none of you are in D1 shape.” Coach continued to holler.
Ah shit. Not conditioning practice.
“It's a hundred and ten degrees in the shade out there, hotter than the seventh level of hell. For those who do not know me, I am Coach Eberhardt, you can call me Coach or you can call me Sir.”
Sweat dripped down both sides of my face.
“Consider me your official Welcoming committee. Welcome to Texas. Welcome to Strikers baseball. Welcome to Hell Week.” Coach shoved his hat on his head and crossed his arms.
I squared my shoulders and put on my game face. This is it. A new beginning.
“Aw I’m sorry, I know,” Coach said with a 'so sad' tone. “It’s a new team and a new season and there’s a lot going on for you fish. But we don't make excuses here. So move your asses, now! Ten laps! Let's go!” The man's face turned an unhealthy shade of red.
The knot of ballplayers passed through the doorway. I took off at a jog behind them. I made a small salute to Coach as I went by.
“You'd better be first, Cooper!”
I let out a grunt and picked up speed.
Thanks for the welcome, but I'm just passing through.
The Texas sun blazed heat over the fieldhouse stadium, lighting the world in stark contrasts. Deep green-colored grass, bright orange dirt. Sharp white chalk lines.
“Move it, boys!” Coach bellowed. The group of players jogged in a small herd formation along the wall of the outfield. Ten laps wasn't a small feat, but if my teammates were keeping up with their summer training, it shouldn't have been extraordinary.
I focused on the sound of my breathing, the crunch of my shoes in the dirt. I kept my head up. The biggest problem was really the boredom of it all. Run a lap. Run the same circle. See the same sights, nothing to keep your mind off the heat, the fatigue.
After seven laps, most of the team lagged behind. Just Meyers and that Jimenez guy kept pace with me. I had no idea what it would be like, trying to be on the same team as Meyers. We'd competed our entire high school careers. Pitcher versus batter. With any luck, I'd caused him some nightmares over the years. Smug, arrogant windbag. Always preening.
I wiped at the sweat on my forehead. Gonna keep rising . Whatever. Sure looked like he wanted to fall into bed with Rally Girl back there. She seemed to be into baseball players. Maybe he'll get lucky. I snarled as a dark pit opened in my stomach. Don't go there. Keep focused. New team. New start. I picked up my pace moving into the eighth lap. My thoughts drifting . . .
I picked up the bat and sucked in a breath. Seventh inning, I had to get on base. My body felt like lead. Every movement like . . . I was watching someone else.
His first pitch blew right by me.
I shook my head. Blinked and wiped away the sweat stinging my eyes. She had to be a fuckin reporter. Damn.
“You have something for me or should I put you down for ‘flow’?”
I could have kissed her for that. She won't go for Meyers. She knew our stats by memory—barely looking at her supposed scouting reports. IML teams don't release reports on current prospects.
I darted a glance over my right shoulder. Dammit, Meyers. He was still keeping up. A quick look over my left shoulder, and there was that Jimenez guy.
The hell'd he come from? Yeah, he said he'd spent the past couple of seasons in the Dominican. But couldn't he find someone else to bother? So much talking. And grinning.
“Hey.” Jimenez huffed as he matched my stride. “Is coach trying to kill us?”
I grunted my reply, hoping he would take a fuckin hint and just run his legs and not his mouth.
“I'm not going to make another lap.”
“So don't. But.” I tried to get enough air in my lungs. “If you can talk that much. You're not—” I gulped down a breath. “Working hard enough.”
“Don't know what else I expected from number one.” He threw his head back and barked out a laugh.
And then that asshole picked up his pace.
Motherfucker. I willed my legs to move faster. I huffed. My quad muscles sizzled.
I caught up. By then, Meyers was only a few steps behind.
We turned the corner to the last stretch. I accelerated into a full on sprint. Meyers matched my pace. We hauled ass in a dead heat.
Then Jimenez found some rocket fuel or some shit and blew by both of us to the finish.
“Jesus fuckin Christ.” Meyers puffed.
“That guy's an asshole.” I tried to grumble, but couldn't get enough air. I sunk to the ground on one knee.
“I love this heat!” Jimenez pumped his fist in the air. “Woo! Let's play some baseball!” He hopped around. His foot caught on something and he fell. Meyers snickered.
“Up yours.” Someone griped at him as they jogged by.
“Ya'll suck. Buncha pricks.” More grousing from passersby.
I sat back on the grass and wheezed for air. Jimenez was back on his feet. He offered high fives to the other players as they passed. A few scowls. Knox-out looked ready to slug him.
“He drinks rocket fuel for breakfast,” I wheezed.
Meyers shook his head and stood up. He glanced down at me. Took a deep breath and extended a hand.
No way. Not a chance. I stood on my own. I rose to my feet and glared down at him. I'll always stand on my own.
Meyers retracted his hand, running it through his 'flow', and let out a sigh. “Got work to do.”
Yeah. We do.