Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Olivia POV
“ Y ou’re outta your damned mind.” A loud, irritated voice announced that Coach Schorr had found me sitting in the bleachers over the home team dugout. I winced. But wait, I'm allowed to be here. Ha ha! College Olivia - 1, NBfO - 0.
I glanced up at weathered features and grey-green eyes. The man didn't look anything close to refreshed after his afternoon nap. I had no idea how old he actually was. Only that he'd been un-retired for the past, well, this was his second season back. A few coaches had come and gone since the days when Curt and his two-time national championship team walked the quad 'as legends' or whatever. And when the University got tired of not winning national baseball titles, they rather predictably dragged the old guy out of retirement.
I shielded my eyes with my hand. Not sure why I bothered. I was already a melted, simmering version of what was once a college student. “What’d I do?”
“Got off the phone with Curtis.”
I frowned and bit the inside of my lip.
“I don’t need a reporter around who’s gonna aggravate my players.”
“Aggravate? I didn’t?—”
He spit at the bleachers. “If you weren’t part of the Striker family, I’d hand you your walking papers.” The skin of his cheeks seemed to be a collection of greyish lumps. And the bags under his eyes drooped. “. . . your brother’s a legacy. A damned fine ballplayer. One of the best I ever saw.”
I smiled. There was a heart in that weathered grump after all. He lifted his hat and ran a hand over his balding head.
“Stubborn pain in my ass the full four years he was here.”
I laughed. “Sounds like him.”
“Gave me God damned hives. Lost a good amount of my hair.”
Ok? So maybe a level up from grump. What was the perma-irritated old person hierarchy? Grump, then grouch, maybe curmudgeon?
“And Furston, Jesus. That man meddles. Just shows up tossing money around then makes a bunch of demands like he’s the king of the hill around here.”
Oh. Yeah, that was my dad. Meh, what’s he meddling in now?
“I don’t need him meddling! Not any more than he already has. Gonna lose the rest of my God damned hair over that problem child he sent me. Swear to God. Give him a scholarship. Oh yeah, like I just had one in my sock. Had to go make nice with that damned Vachon-Schreiber lady. Scrounging for Booster and NIL funds. Fuck my life with that one.”
My heart twisted. “Um, Coach?”
“What Milline? Can’t a man grouse to himself in peace?”
“Uh. Sure?” I folded my hands into my lap. “Let me know when you’re done? Maybe?”
“Just what I don’t need: another damned stubborn Milline. And here I thought maybe you’d be better. I remember you toddling around when Curt was here. You were about yay high.” He held a hand out like I'd been up to his knees or something.
He was clearly mistaken. “I was twelve?” Toddling?
His eyes narrowed. “You wanna be a baseball scout. Did I hear that right? Thought I was having a nightmare.”
“Yeah.” I straightened. “Yes Coach.”
“Your brother said I should support you in your . . .” He waved a hand like he was shooing something. “efforts. Women baseball scouts. As if that’s a place you need to be.”
“Excuse me?” I shot up from my bleacher seat. “There have been several, outstanding, exceptional women scouts. Robin Wallace and Amanda Hopkins are both?—”
“I have daughters. They’re amazing. Gonna be doctors and lawyers and show Dad how independent they can be. How much smarter. Couldn’t be prouder.” He spit again.
Ugh .
“Not a one of ‘em wants anything to do with baseball.” Watery eyes narrowed.
I stared. “Baseball’s amazing. It’s their loss.”
He sighed. “Your brother says you’ll grow out of it if I just humor you. So, I’ll humor you. But here’s the rules, take ‘em or leave ‘em, I don’t give a shit.”
Wow, thanks Curt. You and Schorr both suck . I put my game face back on. “Yes, Coach.”
“One, don’t start any trouble with my players. Any of my players. The good ones, the not gonna make the team ones, none of them. They better all tell me in a deposition that the Milline girl made their baseball life better, if they can even pick you out of a lineup.” He went on to mutter something I couldn't quite make out, but sounded like: “Furston’d kill me.”
“A good cop would never give up their CI, coach.”
“Yeah, shit, you caught me. I watch Homicide reruns when I can’t sleep. But you get the message.”
“Don’t cause trouble with your players. Got it. I can interview them, still, though, right?”
He scowled. “Don’t get smart with me, Milline.”
“Uh? Sorry?” I ducked my head as I rolled my eyes.
“Two, you’re gonna do actual scout work.”
A helium balloon swelled inside my heart. My feet vibrated and I swallowed the urge to tackle the man into a hug. “What?”
He pointed at me. “You’re gonna deal with all of the recruiting reports I get. Organize them. Make spreadsheets so I don’t have to fill the crap in by hand. Keep track of shit. My calendar. My top ten throughout the season. Who else is talking to them.”
The balloon deflated a bit. “So, basically be your admin.”
“The glamorous life of a scout.”
I folded my hands together and tried to contain my glee. “Will I get to go to showcases or offsite recruiting games?”
“No. If I had my way you wouldn’t go to our games. But the faculty advisor for the newspaper says otherwise.”
Oh good. So he’d talked to Mrs. P, too. “Anyone can buy a ticket.”
“Sold out. Least all the big games are. Exhibition game sold out at last year’s Exhibition. In November.”
“Seriously? You need a bigger stadium.”
A weird grin took over his face. “We do, don’t we? Maybe that’s why I put up with your father and his meddling. You know how this shit works, oh, miniature Princess of Carolina baseball.”
“My dad’s donating money for a stadium? Of course he is.” Well, at least I knew what side the coaches would be on if my dad got wind of my baseball scouting activities. But my brother was coming around. Sort of. Wait, miniature? How was I miniature?
“I want to earn my place, Coach. All on my own. I’ve been working for Curt in the summers. I’ll be a great help, I promise.”
“We’ll see about that.” He huffed and turned to watch the line of players running sprints across the outfield.
Wow. They even had the pitchers running. Tanner's pretty quick . “Keep rising.”
“What's that?” Schorr grumbled.
“Ah, nothing.”
“Bottom line: you help out, you don’t cause trouble, you don’t distract my team. Whether that’s trying to get a date or flauntin’ your family tree, the answer’s no. I need them focused on Striker baseball.”
“Yes, Coach.” I sucked in a breath and held it. It’s only freshman camp. Not many starters graduated from last year’s roster. “Wait, did he just tell me not to date his players?”
“Yes, mini-Milline.” He chuckled. “Like that one. But some of these guys, playing ball is the only way they get to go to school. At all. Not making the team damages the whole person they’re trying to be, not just the player.” He moved to the railing. Crossed his arms and stared at the field.
“Got it.”
“I’ll do my part. Me and Eberhardt. We’ll teach you. But you gotta do yours.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Good. And your part’s gonna require a lot of patience and doing what I ask you to do just cause I said so.” He glanced at me over his shoulder.
“Yes sir.”
“And my best advice there, mini-princess.”
I locked my teeth together. Princess? Really? And dammit what’s with all the ‘mini’ remarks? I was a teensy tinsy bit shy of five foot seven.
He cleared his throat and spit. “Stay away from Coop.”
Ice flashed over my skin. “How does that work? He’s a member of the team, isn't he?”
“Undecided. He has to impress me. Like everyone else out here. Vying for a spot.”
“He'll make the thirty-five man roster. Or you’ll make someone’s prime candidate list for a mental health facility for cutting him.” And I said that out loud. I touched the railing, and about jumped out of my skin. Shit! Hot! Why does everything burn here?
“He's gotta make the starting roster, Milline. Supporters don’t hand over NIL money for bench sitters. And he's got worse issues. I can't fix those. He's gonna have do that on his own. My job is to form the ones with the most talent into a team. No hotshots, no lone wolves, no troublemakers. Team comes first. He ain't there. Can see it a mile away.”
“If he doesn't make the team?”
“He’ll land somewhere. We’ll find him a junior college program. Probably have to go back to Okla for a couple of years.” He shook his head. “So just leave him be.”
“If he's part of the team, I have to interview him and take?—”
“Then make nice and don’t aggravate him. If he complains, again, about reporters, so help me . . .” Coach turned away, hat in his hand and muttering under his breath. He started up the steps.
What kind of threat was that? If he complains again, what? Wait, again? “He complained about me?”
“. . . real rock and a hard place. Jesus H Christ. Millines. Four more years?” He shook his head. “Knew I shoulda stayed retired . . .”
Really? Coop? God, life was so unfair. The number one ballplayer for the past two years . . . I’d watched tape and network access channel “coverage” in the middle of the night. Read every article that held his name. Even had his national championship replica jersey in my dorm room closet.
Having him and Tanner standing up for me to that toad Knox . . . Almost made me feel like a princess. But I couldn’t just gush over him and seem like a total idiot fangirl. I needed to earn their respect. His respect. “I’m not some kid sister, now.”
I found Coop with my eyes. He stood apart from the rest. Head down. Sun bronzed arms glistening . . .
Damn, the world was unfair. My baseball crush. I was finally in the same zip code, able to watch him practice in real life. I glanced over my shoulder, but Schorr had disappeared.
Curt did tell me Coach had always been hard but fair. Guess that was still true.
I arranged my shorts so that I could manage to sit on the bleachers, again—without suffering second degree burns.
The team lined up for a new set of drills. They had to run backwards to the first cone, turn and sprint. The whole lot of them look winded. Heads down, drenched in sweat. Coop and Antonio were the only ones still running with any speed.
He complained about the reporter, not the person. “Avoiding him would just be ridiculous. Right?”
“You on the phone?”
I started. A guy with glasses and spiky hair held up a hand. Ah he'd been in the locker room earlier. The trainer, uh, what was his name? Did I know it? “Hah, um, no?”
“You just talk to yourself, then.” His mouth tucked up on one side.
A sigh escaped. So much time spent in empty rooms at ‘home’, I’d picked up a habit of talking to myself. Out loud. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Sure.” The trainer nodded but wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Coach told me to bring you these.” He opened his duffle bag and pulled out a ginormous stack of paper.
“What is that ?”
“Scouting reports. He's got some manilla folders in his office. Likes them alphabetized by high school.”
“There's this somewhat new-ish device, only been around for like, my whole life.” I punctuated the three words with abrupt hand gestures. Dad referred to it as my ‘campaign attitude’. I dropped my hands back to my sides. “It's called a computer. Pretty handy.”
“Coach Schorr’s old school. He likes paper. Doesn’t trust the computer not to eat his data.” Trainer guy shrugged. “Whatever that means. He basically uses the computer as memory for his printer.”
A heavy, dark thing sat on my chest. What was I going to do with . . . paper? “Any chance I could get a soft copy?” I was probably whimpering. Whining. Pathetic. But so was not using a computer. Dammit Schorr! “I can’t make up tracking spreadsheets from hard copy data?”
“Eh, I don't know. Was just told to give you these and have you make files.”
“And I will, one hundred percent, make the files. But I'm also supposed to 'keep his calendar' and make tracking spreadsheets. Which require, er, not this.” I waved a hand at the block of paper. Whatever this is. Was it a punishment? I fought against the dark, suffocating panic squashing my insides. I can buy a scanner. Or take pictures with my phone. And I'm still copying and pasting for days.
He sat down on the bleacher seat across the aisle and crossed his arms. “I mean, I’m not supposed to. But.”
“But? There’s a but. What is it? What can I do for my new best friend?” I gave him a hopeful grin.
He rolled his eyes. “Hah. Right.”
“Ah come on. We can at least commiserate as new friends. Fellow hostages to the hard copies of impending doom?”
“Yeah, this is the worst.” He blew out a breath. “I’d probably get my ethical hacker cert pulled for even being in the same room with this fiasco.” He ducked his head with a groan.
“You sound like my roommate. She says she's a white hat, though? Tinged with grey or something.”
He laughed. “Only tinged with? Funny.”
I tried to look like I had some clue what I'd just said—instead of repeating the phrases from memory. “So, what do you need, a month’s supply of Star Struck amped up sodas?” Cathy drank those like it was a religious belief.
His eyebrows lifted. “Not a bad trade. But you're with the school paper, right?”
“That's me. Liv Milline, Reporter Chica, I heard Antonio call me.” I laughed.
“Yeah. He's funny. I'm Landon. Most people call me Lan.”
A pause. I glanced over at the field. Coach shouted at wilted-looking ballplayers. One guy doubled over the warning track. His body shuddered.“Ew. That's bad.”
Lan shrugged. “There's always a few. Anyway, so.”
“So?”
“I have a research assignment for my summer two class due Friday and I need data.”
I blinked. “Data?” My brain was stuck somewhere between a player needing medical attention, and the person who could provide it was sitting here. “What?”
“Back issues of the Van Weekly. I'm thinking that if I can pull the last issues from each season, I can build out a database of key metrics. Injuries, hit ratios, all kinds of stuff.”
Oh. We're still on the trade.
“The journalism department keeps all that in like a ShareDrive or something?”
I shrugged. “Back issues? Probably. You just need access?”
“They let us apply for guest credentials for the archive, but I didn't decide on my topic until . . . yesterday. So, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Ah. Procrastination. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can shortcut you to the front of the approval line or something. Guest access for twenty-four hours. I'm sure it's do-able.”
Coach yelled something different than the short, sharp barks of: “Go. Go. Go.” I scanned the field. A group of three guys knelt at the edge of the grass, one was the shuddering guy from earlier. “I think you have some new patients.”
He sighed. “Not one of the perks.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Eh. They'll live. Always do. A few years ago, the heat out here was so bad, we kept having to take someone to the ER, felt like every day. That coach isn't here anymore.”
“Ah. But the sun still is.”
He huffed out a breath. “Yeah.” He chuckled. “That's Texas.”
“I feel like you're needed for trainer things, but before you go. You'll send me soft copies?” I batted my eyelashes. Oh, I did. I needed to not be stuck trying to making sense out of this Schorr-iffic amount of paper.
“It'll be a FastTransfer link. Use that email for the Share credentials. Please.”
“I got it. Fair trade. Can't wait to work together this season.” I gave him a salute. “Now go, save the fish. They're bordering on deep fried.”
“You're a weird one.” He shook his head as he turned away.
A tiny, miniscule breath of air stirred, just as lifeless in this heat as the over-cooked ballplayers.
Just enough to rifle the papers and toss a couple to the floor. Lan had left them behind for me. I grumbled and retrieved the couple of escapees. An email exchange, with history, had been printed out. With hyperlinks to demo videos. The actual hyperlink masked by a formatted link—blue with underline.
Yeah, I'll file that alphabetically all right. But would it be under U for Up, or Y for Yours? If I could find a magnifying glass, I could set it all on fire?
It was time to go, either way. I could still catch Coop and 'make nice' or whatever. Make nice. I was nice! Ted, Antonio, Lan all thought so. Even Smirky Sunglasses Guy before he was Coop. All of them had been . . .
And that's when it dawned on me: I had flashed Breslin Cooper. My longtime baseball crush. I groaned and buried my face in my hands.
Dammit Liv!