Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Breslin POV
B aseball practice was the antidote to my helpful “mental health” sessions. It was the only thing that helped me recalibrate. I could just block everything else out, focus on the fundamentals.
Leather ball gripped in my hand. The stitches rubbing against my fingertips. Line up to my target, body tight. Throw, extend. Ball in the glove.
There was something soothing about playing catch—the rhythm, the motion. It was all so ingrained, the process was almost as natural as walking. Every so often, I'd look up at the sky and just feel . . .
The way the baseball fit in my hand. The sound of it hitting the pocket of a glove. The light breeze brushing my hair. I glanced at my intended target standing several yards away. Jimenez grinned like he'd just won a state championship ring.
“Your arm works better than both your legs.” His dark eyebrows pinched together and turned his expression into a menacing look.
I grumbled under my breath. Prick.
“You're that pissed I beat you?”
“Wasn't a race.” I threw the ball again. His glove tipped and snagged it out of the air. “Couldn't care less.”
“So, what, it's not personal? You just don't talk while you warm up?” He hurled the ball back at me. I caught it, and pulled the baseball into my right hand.
“No, I don't.” I gunned it back.
“Seriously? How can you just not talk? I think I'd die if I had to stand here and look all stone-faced and sullen like your ugly assed mug.” He threw again. “Baseball is fun, man! And this is the next best thing to getting paid to play. We get free room and board. Meals. Rides to the game.”
I caught his throw. “Do you ever shut the hell up?” I considered launching the ball at his face.
“Not really. This is the best. Warming up with my new best friends. My team! The Texas State Tech hawk things.”
Hawk things? What the hell was he smoking? I lobbed the ball back at him. Idiot.
“Strikers.” He caught the ball. “Hah. Yeah, we're gonna strike'em all out. And strike 'em again with our bats. Woo! I can't wait to take the field. Our uniforms are so sweet, man.” He tossed the ball at my glove. I hardly had to move it.
Could I get away with duffing him upside the head? Meh. I'm sure Eberhardt would reprimand me. It'd go on my report to the deputy and Dr. Feel Good—who would no doubt move me up to weekly. For my 'issues'. It wasn't a good plan even if it was somewhat amusing to consider.
I had to find someone else to warm up with. Maybe even someone I didn't feel like strangling. Surely there was someone on this team that fit the description.
“All right. Enough warm up. Let's go.” Coach called us in. He motioned to the various stations for batting practice. “Everyone should be good and warmed up. Going forward, we'll post practice schedules in advance, but for today, let's split into three groups: I need one group hitting on the field, one on defense, one in the cages.”
“Finally, 'mano. I've been itching for some batting practice something fierce.” Jimenez clapped his hands together and headed off toward the cages. I moved the opposite direction—toward the field.
Hell yeah. Hated to break it to Dr. Hamer, but crushing the ball was the only therapy I needed. Although the idea of being skin to skin with Rally Girl . . . Nope. Batting practice.
My muscles twitched in anticipation as I stood along the fence line with the others. Waiting. I'd stretched again. Did jumping jacks. Jogged to the dugout to get a drink. Picked a bat and swung it a few times. Stretched again.
Finally, I was on deck. I pulled on my batting glove, grabbed a couple of bats, and took warm up swings.
Now that freshman baseball camp was over, we'd settle into a routine. Every practice during 'fall ball' was like a tryout. Or so the scouts had explained.
Thirty-five players made the final roster. But about half of those would be pitchers.
“Hey Coop, you're up.” Fendleman held out his batting helmet. I palmed the heavy plastic thing, then worked it onto my head.
I took another few swings, the helmet strange after all these months. Narrowed my field of vision. The sound of my breathing echoed in the confined space. I bent my knees and measured the distance across home plate with my bat. Keep loose. I shook out my arms and legs. Dug my cleats into the dirt. Found my stance.
Jacobs stood behind the protection screen on the mound. He faced third, but looked at me. Jaw tight, narrowed eyes. He wound up, kicking out his leg as he lunged forward. The ball screamed straight at me. Red stitches moved and rotated. Curveball. I swung. Ping! The ball flew, arcing high into far left field. Knox, backpedaled a few steps then sped toward the warning track. He leapt and caught it at the wall.
I sent the next one into shallow left-center. I couldn’t help but grin as Knox-out raced forward and couldn’t get there in time. I settled into my batting stance. The jackass needed a good workout.
And to be taken down a few pegs.
He stood up, shirt stained grass-green. He flipped me off and moved into position. I grinned.
Should change his name to Knox-gonna-make-the-roster.
I entered the coaches' office and froze. A heart-shaped rear in cutoff shorts bobbed in the air above long, familiar legs. I blinked. Shook my head. Nope, still there. I eased the door shut behind me. No need to disturb Rally Girl from . . . whatever this was she was doing. A low muttering sound from her lips—nothing I could make out. And I couldn't have cared less.
She shifted.
Damn. I wanted to feel those muscles move against my thighs. My fingers digging into her hips—her bare hips skin to skin against my?—
She popped up, her head whipping that ponytail around. I wish I knew what made my fingers itch to pull that thing . . .
“Don't you look like the cat who ate the canary.” She arched an eyebrow at me. I found a chair and sat before she could notice how much I'd been enjoying the show.
I shrugged.
“I'm filing,” she said and twisted one way then the other—like she was stretching. “Ugh.”
“It's a wonder you have time.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts. Like I needed to be reminded how round and needy and wonderful those things were, uh, could be. Potentially. Dammit.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Figured being a reporter, your schedule's crammed full of causing havoc and mayhem.”
“Sounds like a buddy cop movie.” She snarked and rolled her eyes. “Havoc and Mayhem ride again. Lame.” She turned back toward Schorr's desk. Her hand rubbed at her shoulder. “You're so predictable. Boring. Uninteresting in the slightest.”
“Thought you covered that with 'lame'.”
“You're right, I did. Boring old yesterday's news.”
I gritted my teeth. A tight band pushed against my chest. Then she knelt down, brought her thumb to her mouth, drawing it across the tip of her tongue. She flipped through a series of pages.
“At least Coach found something useful for you to do.” I could find something better.
She tossed her head and shot a glare in my direction. “Wow, talk out of your ass much?” She shoved folders around in the desk drawer—with emphasis. “Don't know why I asked. Everything you've said, since the moment we met, sounds like it comes straight from a giant ass.”
“Since we met ?”
She shot me a black look.
I glared back. “You were . . . more enthusiastic before you were a reporter.”
“You were less of a horse's backside before you became . . . his royal Coop-ness.” She flipped me off. And went back to her crawling-filing show. I moved my chair to the left so I could watch the lower, crouching rear . . . wobble.
“Sex between two consenting adults can improve your mental health.”
She lifted and pulled a sheet of paper from the coach's chair. Her body stretched, her right leg fully extended. Then she sat back on her knees. Her ponytail swaying . . .
Then that ass was in the air again, and I didn't want to just pull her hair. My mouth watered, thirsting to sink my teeth into?—
A hand smacked the back of my head. I leapt to my feet. “The fuck?”
Eberhardt pointed a finger at me. When did he come in? His weathered face scrunched into a dark glare.
Ah shit. Caught. Dammit.
“You'll treat members of the staff with respect. All members of the staff.”
I cleared my throat. “Yes sir.” Wait, she's staff? Since when? I moved my chair around to face his desk. It scraped loudly across the tile floor. The Coach spoke, and Rally Girl popped her head up.
“Hey, can we have a moment? I'll tell Hank you'll finish up tomorrow.”
She tossed a small set of pages into a wire basket, bent to grab her bag and water bottle. She pushed her feet into wedge sandals that . . . did things to her calves and lifted her rear. In those shorts. Without a second glance, those long legs strode toward the door, paused. She shimmied her backpack onto her shoulders. Her rear wiggling as?—
Smack!
The door clicked shut at the same moment I ducked my head. “Ow. Seriously? They allow this?” I grumbled.
“Who?” Eberhardt's mouth tightened and he frowned.
“The administration. Seems a bit—” I caught the narrowed eyes, the set of his jaw. This was a man who had offered to help me. I swallowed. “Sorry, coach.”
He pointed at me, again. “Commit these words to memory. They will save you a lot of trouble and heartache.”
I stared at the man. What was this, some sexual harassment speech?
“I mean it, Coop.”
I shrugged and held up my hands. “I didn't do anyth?—”
“That one? Forget it. She is out of your league .”
I don't remember much of my meeting with the coach after that. Got my report from the therapist. She hadn't been overly positive. Mentioned my “reticent” behavior. Said she would stick with bi-weekly meetings pending my efforts at making friends and being more “open” about my struggles. Whatever. Was probably doomed to weekly meetings either way. That's how she got paid, right?
Deputy Reegan told Eberhardt my community service application had been approved, so I could start serving my sentence at the old folks' home. Schorr okayed a semester-long reprieve from nightly study hall, even sorting out an appropriate 'cover story'. Didn't want the other players to think I was getting special treatment or whatever.
How was Rally Girl the reporter out of my league? What'd that even mean? Is her dad rich or something? Like that mattered. Gimme a break. When I made it to the majors, I bet he'd be all: take my hot daughter, please. Forget her attitude problem and that she was ever a reporter . . .
Out of my league? Out of my league?
I stared at my phone. I could look her up, if I knew her name. Which I'd heard people say a time or two. Hell, she'd introduced herself to Meyers. But did I listen? Nope. No. She was Rally Girl, the hot chick in the fountain. That was all I'd wanted to know.
Well, I'd wanted to get to know a few other things . . .
Dammit. I'm sure that jerk Jimenez knew. I could ask him tomorrow. Whatever. This was dumb. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Just needed to get my community service hours in, make the starting roster, keep up all my probation shit. Talk to Dr. Fuckin Feelgood. Make new friends or something. Be part of the team.
But outperform them.
And oh yeah, actually study, get decent grades, decide on a major and all that shit. I took a deep breath as the tight feeling turned into a lead weight trying to cave in my chest.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd neglected to feed it. I wanted to order a pizza and drink beer. Maybe I could pass out and not give a shit about anything for a while. But I was on a limited budget, and unlike the fridge in my dad's house . . . local law enforcement wouldn't just give me a stern look with a grumbled: 'thought twelve still came in a case', when I helped myself as an underaged 'kid'.
My phone buzzed long and two short. And now he's calling. Great. I'd ignored too many text messages, apparently, so this was the price. With a sigh, I picked up and held the handset to my ear. “Hey, Dad. Just got out of practice.”
“You doing ok?” His deep voice still sounded . . . so tired.
“Sure.” No, I feel like I'm starting to drown.
“That's good. I just . . .” A pause. Heavy and thick, it spanned the miles. I held my breath, waiting in the silence.
“I just wanted to hear your voice.” His tone stretched to the point of breaking.
I ducked my head. “Yeah, sure Dad, I'm here.”
“Today.It's just not a good day, ya know?”
I pressed my eyes closed. His grief crashed over me in a thick, violent wave. I can't handle this, too. Part of me screamed and clawed, begging not to be here. To be saved from having to listen to this man. My father.
“Had to call Goodson. It was just too much.” His voice rasped. “I don't know how to do this alone.”
Fuck Declan. He should be there.
“Goodson’s a good man. He took care of most of the chores. But I can't afford to keep paying him. Got another damned medical bill in the mail yesterday.”
So that's what set him off. A coughing fit sounded on the other end of the line. “Six months, son. It's been six God damned months.”
“I know, Dad.”
“And I don't know what I'm doing anymore.” A labored breath. “It just, it's like everything that was worth a damn is gone.”
A numb kind of heaviness brought me to the floor. I leaned my head back against the wall. Felt the painful squeeze, the compression, the weight on my chest. Crushing the air from my lungs.
“I don't mean—I just . . .”
“Yeah, I know.” I stared at the nightstand on the other side of the room. “I miss her, too.” Every damned day. I closed my eyes and pictured her face. Before she was sick. The way she smiled. I didn't look like her, but my hair, my eyes . . . My first name, Breslin. Was all her. And I was all she left behind in this world. Why?
She was warmth when you were distant and cold. And in truth, I don't feel like I even know you.
I stayed quiet for a time, as my dad continued to cry.
“I'll come home Saturday. I've got practice Friday till late and I have to catch up on community service hours, but I can work things out to spend Saturday . . . at home.”
“I know you've got a lot with school and practice. But the ranch is your future, son.”
I winced and ran a hand through my hair. The never-ending battle. I didn't have the energy to argue with him tonight. So I settled for: “Sure, Dad.” And hung up.
I buried my face in my hands. You and Mom never listened to me. Always thought baseball was something I'd grow out of. I struggled for air. But baseball is all I want as my future.
“And you're—” No, don't say it. Don't think it. Get up. Get going. Need fuel. Food. I rose to my feet. Trudged across my dorm room. Grabbed my ID card and cap from the table by the door. I made it to the elevator, pressed the button. Leaned my head against the wall and sighed.
Just a part of my past. The crushing pain began all over again.
The next day
Despite my better judgment, I found myself looking for that irritating, man-shaped debacle with the big mouth. Not finding him in the locker room (nor did I see any sign that the Rally Girl “filing show” would happen), I pushed through the exit door and stepped into the hall.
And was treated to one of the most nauseating sights I'd been subjected to in a while: a small crowd of girls around Meyers. One with curly dark hair and a crop top squealed and shook a colorful set of pages in the air.
“Ohmygosh, I saw you play in the finals.” She hugged on his arm. “I couldn't believe it when I saw your picture. That I get to go to school with you. It's so amazing. I'll be at every game.”
“Mer, you know the home games are sold out already.” A different girl studied her nails. Her pink-streaked hair hung down on one side. A hundred piercings lined her ear, several in one eyebrow.
“What? That's so unfair.” The one clinging to Meyers pouted. “You'll sign my copy of the article, though, won't you, Tanny-baby?” She turned quivering lips up to Tanny-baby, and that disgusting smirk slid into place as a third chick tugged on his other arm.
“Mer you know the rules of sharing. No public displays.”
My stomach turned. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to eat for a week. I shook my head and decided to retreat to the safety of the locker room. I usually kept some antacids in my first aid kit.
I'd just sat down, already dressed out and ready to go a good thirty minutes before practice started—when Tanny-baby rushed in. Vomit . I crossed my arms and closed my eyes.
“Here. I snagged you a copy,” Meyers said.
I breathed and willed the muscles in my shoulders to relax.
“You deaf or dead?”
I blinked my eyes open. He held out a folded group of papers. “What's this?”
“Article? It's about freshman life and?—”
“No thanks.” I pushed it away.
“It features, well, me—and you. Thought you might like a copy.” He continued to hold the thing out to me.
“Why me?”
“Rivals turned teammates.” He shrugged. “Still remains to be seen. But take it.”
I accepted the pages he pushed at me. The heading on the front read: The Vanquished Sports Journal across the top. That fuckin reporter .
“You look surprised. Weren't you interviewed?”
“I don't do interviews.”
He tilted his head. “Didn't realize you'd hung it up already. Almost seems a shame. Page ten, by the way.”
I slapped it against the bench. “What're you talking about? I'm not done.”
“Well, you're clearly not done being a petulant child. Get over yourself.”
“Get over myself?” The prickle of irritation bit into my spine and spread roots through my system. “Is that your amazing advice, Tanny-baby?”
He grinned. “Just biding my time till your favorite reporter comes around. And she will. Once she realizes that you're not even yesterday’s news. Just a guy who never-had-the-guts.” He turned like he meant to walk away.
My vision sharpened. The room pulsed.
He paused at the end of the row. “She's gonna taste so good.”
Red and black haze swirled around me. It filled the air, clogged my lungs. It grew so thick, I could no longer see.
Blood rushed in my ears.
I leapt to my feet. Anger thrummed through my veins, lightening my body to the point where I could barely feel it.
A hand on my shoulder. My jaw clenched and my fist rose to strike.
“Easy now, 'mano. You don't want to hurt anyone.”
“Yes, I do.” I really really do .
“He's a pinche gilipollas and his day is coming. Don't let him drag you down.”
I seethed through gritted teeth. I needed to hit something. My body screamed, every muscle strung tight to the point of breaking.
“If you hit him, he wins. And you lose. Again.”
I took a breath, but didn't exhale so much as had the air crushed from my lungs. I took another one.
“That's good. Breathe man. Just breathe.”
I took another breath as the pulsing room faded. My heart stopped sprinting and settled into a jog.
“That's it. Better? You ok?”
I managed a nod. Jimenez had one arm over my shoulder. His other hand gripped my elbow. “You need a hug, man?”
“Fuck off.” I shook him off me and sat down on the bench in front of my locker. This is not improving my mental health.
He just grinned that megawatt smile. I hated it. And Meyers. And the article I hadn't even read, but fuck Rally Girl for writing it. And?—
When did I start hating everyone in the world and everything in it?
I hung my head. I didn't even feel like practicing anymore.
“You are so much like my little bro back home.” Jimenez sat next to me. He grasped my shoulder and jostled me back and forth. I closed my eyes. The light, driving adrenaline rush started to fade.
“Chin up, 'mano. As they say: 'no hay mal que dure hundred anos.'“
“I don't know that much Spanish.” I grumbled and pulled from his grip, again.
He laughed. “I'll teach you, 'mano. That's short for 'brother' by the way. Just lighten up a bit, will ya? Maybe learn to smile?”
I glared.
“Well, let's just hope Reporter Chica likes the sullen, brooding type.” He chuckled as he rose to his feet. “I hear that's a thing.”