Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Breslin POV
M y legs spent, my arms jelly, I all but stumbled into the locker room. I was gonna hurt the next day. I'd thought I was in fairly good condition, but clearly I had under-prepared for collegiate level baseball. Glancing around the room, the looks of exhaustion said in loud voices that I was not the only one who had underestimated their training.
But I was supposed to be number one. And yet clearly, telling myself I was already competing at the next level had not done me any favors.
Shit. I slumped down on the bench next to my locker and tipped my head back.
“I feel that, man.” Jimenez groaned as he sat down a few feet away. “I need a bath in some icyhot. Minus my best bits.”
God what I wouldn't give for a muzzle right then. Wasn't there some way to shut this guy up? I was not gonna make it the full season with this guy running his mouth like an engine without a muffler.
I closed my eyes and prayed to heaven above that he could be smited. Smote? Something. Just someone please shut him up.
“You ever get some of that on your balls, man? Fuckin burns like no one's business. Woo. There's no ice then. Just hot. Ow, mama!”
I couldn’t hurt him. But maybe I could beat my head on the locker and knock myself unconscious. I was tired enough that I probably didn’t have to try that hard . . .
“Ain't the good kinda heat. Not the aching-sweet thing of beauty between a mami chula's?—”
“Shut the ever-lovin fuck up.”
Is what I wanted to say. Instead, I bit my tongue and clenched my eyes shut. I wasn't going to make it. I wasn't going to keep from punching him in the face. I stood, threw my glove in my locker and grabbed my backpack from the hook. Spun the lock. I imagined myself bounding out of the room, but my legs barely managed to do much more than shuffle.
Still, I must have gotten going a bit too fast because the next thing I knew, the reporter “chica” was on the ground, phone skittering across the tile.
And I was the asshole. Shit.
I stared at her. She sat on her rear in the center of the hallway, rubbed her hip and winced. Ah fuck. Is she going to claim I injured her—to get back at me for earlier? Dammit. Fuck . I glanced behind me at the locker room door. She can follow me . I looked up at the door to freedom. I'd have to step over her . That would be ridiculous. Terrible. I had more integrity than that.
Still . . .
She met my gaze and seethed through clenched teeth.
“You . . .” Dammit, what was her name? I had not been paying attention to anything other than, well, my shirt. On her body. Idiot.
“Well, what's left of me. Geez, do you eat bricks for breakfast or what?”
Her legs, long and tan and open —they bent at the knee as she rested her elbows on them. And apparently, my body was not too tired to enjoy the view.
“I'm not hurt and I'm not upset. But I am a little akimbo. Could you help me up?” She spoke in a soft voice. Dark eyelashes framed bright blue-green eyes.
I extended a hand and helped her up. Her fingers in mine, I tugged Rally Girl to her feet. She stood for a breath, two. So close. Connected. Something about the feel of her skin against mine . . . A small, but soothing warmth tingled through the nerves in my hand, sparking a heated rush from my palm to my neck.
A sharp breath, and then her fingers slid from my grasp.
“. . . maybe offer an apology?” She tipped her chin and met my gaze. Moved her hand up and down in a phantom handshake. “Sure, Coop. No hard feelings.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Can this be over? I panted for air and shifted back a step. Her being the hot chick in the water fountain had been one thing. I could have tried to find her, always wondered, haunted the student center and bookstore in the hopes I'd run into her again.
Her being a reporter meant all of those things went on the “no fuckin way, ever” list.
“I don't know what you're over there thinking, but. I wouldn’t hurt you. You mean too much to the team.” She frowned. “This was an accident. Not that it didn't jar me to the bone. You missed your calling as a linebacker.”
I blinked. Opened my mouth. Re-ran the words through my brain. She just said a shit ton of stuff, and what the fuck was any of it about?
“I'm fine, really. You need to stop gushing over me. All the upset is really beneath you, Coop.” One eyebrow rose and she crossed her arms over her chest. How did she breathe while saying all those words?
“Um, are you ok?” She tilted her head and looked up at me.
I stared at her mouth. “You talk a lot.”
Her arms dropped to her sides. “That's what you have to say? Not a 'you ok? So sorry, I didn't see you there. Can I help you with your things after rudely colliding with you?'“
I didn't catch all of it, but maybe if I did the last thing, she'd move out of my way? And I could get food, drink a gallon of water, take a shower? I stunk to hell and back.
Help her with her stuff. Right. I set my backpack down and knelt at her feet. I tried not to think about those short running shorts or how good it'd feel to slide my fingers over the curve of her calf, up to her hip. I shoved all her shit into her bag and tossed it to her. I retrieved her phone from the tile floor.
“That’s, um. Yeah. Thanks.” She pulled the device from my grip.
I pushed my sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. “You're ok?”
“Yeah.” She pulled the bag over her shoulder. “Got bowled over by a human freight train, but lived to tell the tale. I pity any catcher that tries to get in your way.” She gave me a tight-lipped smile.
So many words. No wonder she had to write them all down. “But you’re fine?”
“Yeah. Do you need me to sign a waiver?” She said with a shrug.
Red hazed into my vision. “I’d say yes, but reporters are lying snakes in the grass. So wouldn’t matter.”
“I . . .” Her jaw worked, but no sound came out.
An errant thought about her mouth working flit through my traitorous brain.
“I’m not? I wouldn’t. We're on the same team , Coop.” She pointed at her jersey as if that was 'proof' or whatever. It sure as hell wasn't.
“We’re not . ” I shook my head and hefted my backpack onto my shoulder. “But you were right about one thing.”
“What’s—What do you mean?”
I leaned down and stared at her head on. Her eyes widened. She turned a deep dark pink.
“To pity the person who tries to get in my way.”
I brushed past her as I escaped through the outside door.
After my shower and water inhalation, the pain set in. Fatigue weighted my quads and calves. My dorm room situation had been by special arrangement. There were two athlete-only dorms, and football got the state-of-the-art facility arranged more like apartments than dorms. Baseball, soccer and hockey were assigned to the second dorm with a host of women athletes.
But the way I understood things, if you came in with an endorsement deal—or decent NIL money—you were allotted to the “overflow” queue, with an opportunity for assignment to one of the rooms in the sleek “football-only” dorm.
I’d have gladly taken a room in either dorm as long as I didn’t get stuck with some damned roommate I couldn’t stand. Like Meyers. Ugh, or that never-ending chatterbox, Jimenez.
But when Coach pulled off an entire series of hail-mary’s to get me into a Strikers uniform, he didn’t stop halfway. He pulled together enough money to cover my tuition, room, board and books. Athletes received a special meal plan and extra study sessions to meet the needs of our demanding programs.
I didn’t feel up to being around anyone right then. But I had to eat or I wouldn’t make it through strength training in the morning.
My phone lit up.
Dad: Hey kid, how's camp going?
I sighed. If I answered, it would end up the same place it always did: calling and listening to him cry over how much he missed mom. And me. I was too far away, of course. Even though I’d already promised to drive home this weekend.
I miss her, too. Why do I have to be the one leaned on? Aren't you supposed to be the one . . . understanding my pain? I lost my mom. The woman who kissed scrapes and boo-boos on my small legs and patched me up with cartoon band-aids. The one who sat with me in the emergency room the time I sprained my wrist falling off my bike, lecturing me to be more careful—while tears slid down her face.
She thought I should kiss girls instead of chase baseballs. That's mom. Was my mom.
This place. It was strange, sterile. I still had boxes in my closet. I'd placed my laundry in my hamper. Hung up my towel. Rinsed my few dishes in the sink.
“Ugh, Breslin. Your room smells like dirty gym socks and I swear there's something molding in here. Honey, you're practically an adult.” She bent and started throwing my laundry into a basket. Her face paled beneath that scarf over her head. “I can't pick up after you when you're away at college.”
Away at college had become her euphemism for 'after I'm gone.' I sucked in a cold breath. My feet moved. “I've got it, Mom.” I pulled the basket from her. Felt her sag against me as I wrapped my arm around her.
I rubbed a hand over my face and blinked away the memory. Acid churned inside my abdomen. It grabbed my stomach and wrung it out to the point of pain. Food. Student center. I needed to eat.
I stood in line and grabbed stuff to go. The open section of the student center held some combination of amped up footballers and wilted baseball players. The difference, most likely, was that we were freshman. The entire football squad was here, had been here for a couple of weeks.
“You're baseball, right?” A voice barked over my shoulder. I blinked and turned my head. A guy about my height lifted dark eyebrows.
“Yeah,” I replied.
He flipped up a hand and held it out. “You're holding up the line, Ace.”
I moved. He didn't.
“You look a little lost.” He squared his shoulders and squinted at me.
“Tired.”
He smirked. “Sure. Well, you get used to it.” He turned back to his tray and pushed it along its rails-- toward the cashier.
“Used to what?”
Hazy eyes stared at me for a moment. A hollow smile. “Anything. Everything. Whatever it is. You can get used to it.”
He moved past me and I finally remembered myself enough to nod at the cashier, and swipe my ID to check out.
“Yo Seager, over here man.” Someone shouted from a large table teeming with small giants. Offensive lineman. Probably.
“I'm not sitting with you fuckers.” The guy who spoke to me, Seager? Roared back.
“Yeah, whatever, asshole.” A guy with red spiky hair griped back. “You gotta tone down that attitude if you want us to have your back, man.”
“. . . living in Sack city.” A deep bass voice practically sang.
Some blond guy with a man bun threw a french fry across the table. “Notice we didn't say 'be nice'.”
“Keep wishing.” Seager laughed and sat down with his team. “Maybe a unicorn'll show up and shove a rainbow up your ass.”
I took my to-go bag and passed by several tables with faces from this afternoon. No one I could say I recognized. Just . . . faces. I attempted to jog back to my truck, but my legs wouldn't go. I'd overdone it, competing with Jimenez. He'd been killing me by the end, but I wouldn't give in. Couldn't. After everything it took to be here, I had to get back to the 'number one' everyone expected me to be.
He'd spent the summer training in one of the Dominican pro baseball camps. I'd spent it in anger management sessions, courtrooms, and to be fair, I did stick with my weight training. But running on a treadmill was clearly not the same as sprinting in a hundred- and ten-degree heat. I groaned as I lifted myself into my truck. I'd have to get to training early to stretch, and then go light on my legs—or I'd risk tearing a quad or hamstring. Couldn't afford that.
“Whatever it is. You can get used to it.”
What had that been about? Probably just a guy tired and hungry to the point of being lightheaded like the rest of us—not really a life lesson worth thinking twice about. But his teammates . . .
I used to have that. My entire high school team showed up at her funeral. Several even attended my arraignment. Wrote letters to the judge. What Knox had said wasn't fair, it'd never been the Coop show or whatever. There's no one person who can carry an entire team.
I bit into one of the chicken sandwiches I'd chosen as 'dinner'. The bread felt dry as cotton in my mouth. I downed more water.
“You get used to it.”
This place was hot and strange. The only people I could claim as acquaintances were the coaches, Meyers and Jimenez—if I had to. And her , Rally Girl.
“I'm glad you were here.” Her gaze lowered but her smile . . .
Fuck. Why’d she have to be a reporter? The fact that in hindsight, it was the only thing that made any sense—why she was here—just. Aggravated the shit out of me. I let out a frustrated groan and choked down the rest of chicken sandwich number one.
I’d been nice to her. Helped her out. And still, the ruthless little pest couldn’t stand for me not to answer her questions. “Like Meyers did.” I sneered to no one.
I unwrapped chicken sandwich number two and uttered a prayer that this one would taste a bit less like extra-dry cardboard—and maybe something like real food.
From the first bite, I knew that prayer had been in vain.
So far, life after going away to college consisted of being stuck with the world’s crummiest chicken sandwiches, a bunch of overbearing responsibilities, learning anger management ‘tools and techniques.’
It was teammates who wanted a piece of me. A dad who’s depressed and a mom who's . . . gone.
I didn't want to get used to it .
My stomach flipped over and simmered in the acid that constantly churned and ate away at my insides. Heat and anger pulsed from my heart through my veins. Not now, not ever.
Anger turned to rage. I seethed and punched my dashboard. My knuckles, already bruised from this afternoon, screamed in protest. I punched it again anyway.
I won't. I refuse. You hear me?
Whatever I did to deserve this . . . I’ll make it right. Just . . . Pain stabbed me through, all the way through, like a blunt edge shoved between my ribs into my chest. It made everything hurt. Every breath. Every heartbeat.
It hurt every second. Just to be alive.