Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Breslin POV
P ractice over and crisis temporarily averted, I guess. Meyers spent the entire afternoon in the bullpen—a first since we'd started camp. But I didn't question, mostly because I didn't give a damn. Was just grateful not to have to look at his face.
I did have to look at Jimenez's, who had decided to mother hen me. Which was irritating enough during practice, but then he started asking questions. Why didn't I go to study hall? Had I made any friends in my classes? Why don't I just ask “Reporter Chica” to hang out or grab dinner?
I mostly ignored the barrage of nonsense as I packed my shit and changed to go to the Senior Center. It was inevitable, probably, that my new teammates would find out . . . everything. The terms of my probation, my anger management sessions, everything that was currently 'restricted', but not yet 'expunged' on the US government's version of my “permanent record”.
“Look man, I get it.”
“What?”
“This is, well, not exactly where I wanted to be. But it's Coach Schorr. Only a handful of guys graduated from his program in the majors and all of them, all of them 'mano—when announcers talk about them? They're considered future hall of famers. Can you imagine?”
Yeah, I could.
“I want it so bad, I can taste it. Every morning's like a new challenge, and I thank God above that I'm alive.”
I glared at the locker across from me. This guy had done me a solid, had my back when I was being a fucking idiot. But Jesus . . . I took a breath and imagined lying at the base of the tree in my father's cornfield. My dog Merc resting at my side as I stared at the clear blue Oklahoma sky.
“Hey, you in there?”
I blinked and focused on . . . Jimenez. Ugh.
“You still look like you could use a hug, 'mano. I know it's kinda weird and I didn't know you then, but sorry about your mom.”
My heart dipped, and that stab of pain punched me in the gut with a sharp knife. I grabbed my duffel and hauled it over my shoulder.
“If you ever need a good lecture with a bunch of Spanish swearing, though, I'll let you borrow mine. Her tostones are the absolute best, too. And she gives great hugs. Especially after a long, bastard of a day, like today. Just brutal.”
“Thanks.” I mumbled as I started toward the door. This exchange was also going on my “not improving my mental health” list.
“I bet Reporter Chica gives nice hugs, too.”
Asshole. But it did bring up a good point, so I stopped. “Why do you think I'd care?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“I hate reporters. I just want to be left alone. And play baseball.” I held up the stupid paper. Why was it even in my hands? “She wrote some fucking article, after I told her?—”
He ducked his head, scrubbing a palm over the back of his neck. “You are one stubborn asshole.”
“She has no respect for—” I spit the words out. “She just needs to fuck off.”
“Not buying that one. I saw it on your face that first day of camp.” He grinned with a cocky tilt of his head. “Just for a split second.”
“I told her to get lost, once. Looks like I’ll have to do it again.”
“Nah, man. So far, in the month that I’ve been trying to figure out how to get through all your brooding teenaged-angst bullshit. Your snarling barbs.” He wagged a finger at me. “Endless whining. And I do mean endless?—”
“You don’t take a hint, either. Jackass.”
“Thick skin, ‘mano.” He patted his chest. “Raised with three brothers.”
“Don’t care.”
“Try as you might, you can't bullshit me. I saw you, man.”
Whatever. I didn't have any fucking clue what we were even arguing about. Idiot. Why couldn't he just go bother . . . anyone else? I flung the locker room door open. Fuck, I'd literally pay someone to deal with?—
“Reporter Chica made you smile.”
Silverado Senior Center
I sat at the front desk, chomping an extra protein bar post some kind of meat in gravy with instant potatoes mish-mash that the kitchen crew handed me. They served me double of everything, even the apples. It was free and it tasted a hell of a lot better than the shit they fed us in the student center.
A stack of Vanquished sports journals sat on a nearby table. I couldn't get away from the damned thing. Or her.
“She made you smile.”
The fuck she did. Her see-through shirt did. The way she told Meyers to basically fuck off, she could handle herself—while wearing the shirt I gave her.
“Rivaling Freshman Life by Liv Milline”. Well, at least I knew her name, now, and could stop calling her “Rally Girl”. I didn't feel like reading the rest of it. Blah blah blah Meyers led the Xavier High Privateers to the national championship. Ranked third . . . Breslin Cooper, the number one ranked player two years in a row . . . Top of the scouting rosters . . . chose Texas State Tech?
“Tanner and Coop clearly respect each other as competitors and now teammates.”
I stared at the page. Nothing about my mom or my arrest or . . . anything? I folded the thing back together. If she'd included that picture of me in handcuffs, probably could've made the front page. I crunched the last of my protein bar and swallowed it. Dusted off my hands. Chugged water. Had to wonder if my new teammates would buy any of it . . . when I sure the hell didn't.
A dull thump. I glanced up as a fake Ficus tree in the hallway leading to the residential wing tumped over and smacked against the wall. What the hell?
“Ohhhh.” Someone groaned. I looked around, but didn't see any other personnel. “Uhhhhh.”
I jumped to my feet and hurried toward the felled tree. An elderly lady kneeled with one leg stretched out at an odd angle—her blocky shoe toed the wall. Her arm rested on the upturned edge of the pot containing the Ficus.
“Excuse me?” She reached out a weather hand. “Can you?—”
I grasped her fingers as I knelt beside her. “You ok?”
“Only a little the worse for wear, son.” She gave me a shaky smile.
“I'll get a nurse,” I said and released her hand. I stood, glancing toward the residence door, scanning the?—
“Dammit, I said I'm fine.” She smacked me in my shin. What?
“I'll be right as rain once I'm righted. Just help an old lady up?”
I leaned down and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled. Clung to my arm. Nails bit into my skin. I grimaced to keep from seething out loud.
“You're a tall one to be sure.” She retracted her claws and stared up at me. One palm on her hip, she held a hand to her forehead like she was looking off in the distance. “Looks like you could use some exercise. I try to keep the staff here in good shape ya know.”
I shook my head. “Guess someone has to.”
She grinned. “You've got an attitude problem, I can tell from a mile away. We'll have to work on that. Come on, I'll let you walk me to my room.”
I rolled my eyes but offered her my elbow. She threaded her arm through mine. Her fingers cool against my skin, she smelled of soap and honey. I shortened my stride as she leaned on my arm and shuffled along beside me . . .
Just like my mom used to.
“I feel so cooped up all the time, I've got to get out of this room, Breslin. Why's it such a big deal? I'm used to trekking back and forth to the barn three or four times a day, making a dozen trips around the house. At least. Driving you to practices ? —”
“I have my license, now. You just need to take it easy.”
“Talkative one. Really should let an old lady have her say.” My companion darted a glance in my direction over her oversized glasses. Probably the ultimate fashion accessory for 'old lady' wear.
“Hm.”
“My room's that one, Jack.” She pointed. “Along that there wall.”
I glanced down at her and lifted an eyebrow.
“Don't give me that look. You wanna stay inside all cooped up and what, stuck in front of a TV all day?” She huffed. “I still like to walk.”
“And fall, apparently.”
She clicked her tongue and fixed me with a stern look.
“You should be more careful.”
“Jack's such a dull boy.” She scoffed as we continued our glorified shuffle toward the far end of a long hallway. “Are you careful at everything you do?”
I pressed my lips together to keep from arguing with her. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. My mother, until the day she died, was a feisty, opinionated spitfire stuffed into a five foot two body.
“That's what I thought. You could at least have better manners. People in these parts, we're known for being friendly or haven't you heard?”
“I thought this place was known for dust and desert.”
“Well, you're off the Travel Texas planning committee. Name's Dorotea, but I go by Dotty.” Her hand tightened around my arm. “I see Cooper on your name tag. Is that a first name? Last name?”
“You . . .” Mom tightened her hand around my elbow. Pale, bony. I didn't know how the things still functioned much less . . . still held that much strength. “Be great, son. The person I know you can be. Be who you are every day, Breslin.”
“Mom, you shouldn't get so worked up. I ? —”
“Nonsense. Life is passion. It's fire. Don't let the world extinguish it. I've seen your fire. I see it when you play. I wish I could see it when you . . . find love. Get married. Have your own kids . . . Someday.” She smiled, but her eyes slipped closed.
My heart pitched out of my chest and fell to the floor. “Mom, please.”
Don't go.
“You weren't supposed to get all teary-eyed for my sake. Geez, you're tall, Cooper.” She stopped in the middle of the hallway—near the door to her “residence”. “What'd they put in your Wheaties? Some of Jack's beanstalk beans?”
“How'd you get so tall?” Mom grinned and ruffled my hair. She smiled, but her eyes looked glassy. Like she might cry. “You're not my little guy anymore.”
“Mr. Cooper?”
I blinked and looked away. “Yeah.”
“Lost in a memory, I see. I know the look. Happens often enough around here. Just not usually with the younger folks.” Her voice softened and she gave me a small smile.
“You reminded me . . . of something my mom said, once.” Heat welled in my eyes. I took a breath, blinked the world back into focus.
“You're kind of a big guy to be a mama's boy. I know I'm short, but what are you, six two?”
I gently pulled her arm from mine. Was it this place? Too much like a hospital? Or her? Stubborn and fiery even if she looked . . . so frail.
Dotty opened the door. “You could stay.” She gestured at the small plastic white table sitting next to a curtained window. “Have some tea.”
“Promise me you won't forget . . .”
I shook my head. “My job's the front desk.”
“Ain't nobody coming to visit us petrified pieces of wood at this time of night, Jack.”
“Doesn't change the job.” I slid my hands in my pockets and fixed my eyes on the door frame. Ugly, brown-painted metal. Probably meant to look like wood.
“You should call your mom. Tell her you miss her. We mothers like to hear?—”
“She died.” I clenched my jaw and turned away. A hollow place in my chest felt like it ripped open and bled. All these months later, and still, the burning and aching emptiness inside me?—
A soft sigh. “I'm sorry,” Dotty said.
“I'm sorry I won't make it to your big game.” Mom patted my hand.
“Most people are.”