Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Olivia POV
La Reunion Dormitory
“ H ow did anyone do this before the internet and Ancestree.com free trial subscriptions?” I said out loud as I typed “Vachon” into the search bar.
Cathy giggled. The tap of keys on her keyboard. A pause and another giggle.
“What are you up to?” I glanced over at my friend in her corner of the room. A small pile of Star Struck cans littered the table around her multiple laptop setup. “Clearly not suffering over our ECON homework.”
“Chatting with a new friend.” She tossed her red curls and pulled her headset down to her neck. “Do you need me to find someone for you?”
“I need a name first, then, yes.” I looked at the whirling circle in the middle of my screen. “I'm sure I'll need help tracking them down.”
“Just ping me the name or whatever on chat.”
“Did you even go to class today?”
“Oh, I stacked my Tuesday-Thursdays afternoons. I picked two evening classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, so I'll go later.” She waved a hand at me.
“Weird.”
“As my friend Liv would say: hashtag hacker life.” She threw me a look and stuck out her tongue.
I made a face back at her. “She sounds smart. Amazing, really. I'm sure she's super interesting.”
“She's kind of a pain in the ass.” Cathy rolled her eyes and turned back to her laptops.
I crumpled a piece of paper from my notebook and threw it at her.
She laughed as she glanced at me over her shoulder. “A lovable one. But still.”
“Damned right.” I stopped as results finally started populating my screen. “Did you know the Vachon family had twelve kids?”
“Who?”
“The founders of this fine university. Twelve.” I watched the ancestry tree form. It had a bit of trouble showing twelve branches, so I turned it into a list. “Good grief these names. Margerie, Gerrit? Cornelis? Who names their kid Cornelis?”
“Who names their kid Furston?”
“Bleh. Dad really did get a bum deal over that one, but at least it was his father's name.” I shook my head as I re-sorted the list in chronological order. “Oh, OK this is kinda wild. Ten kids born between 1932 and 1948. And two born in the fifties.” I looked up but she had her back to me, again. “Hm. How old would someone born in nineteen fifty-two be, now?” I copied and pasted the names from the website into a chat window.
She pulled her headphones off as she spun her chair around. “Who's this?”
“The two Vachon family children born in the fifties. I mean, seventy's not too old to still be around.”
She bopped her head from side to side, cracked her knuckles and settled back into her groove. I rose from the seriously uncomfortable wood chair and set about picking up the trash and cans, sweeping them into our recyclables container. “I'll just run this outside.” I told her, but her headphones were back in place and her eyes fixed on the screen.
I sighed and snagged the trash bag from the larger can. If we kept up with it throughout the week, we wouldn't have another fast-and-furious rush to clean in time for dorm check on Thursdays. At least I could hope.
After making a quick pass over desks, I felt a bit better about our living space. I wasn't a neat freak—or else Hilda's propensity to throw her shoes wherever she felt like, whenever she felt like—would make it impossible to live in the same zip code with my bff. I was used to picking up after my brother, but when I lived on my own in my father's house, I tended to be less than organized.
I sat back down at my desk. Glanced at my email. Opened the chat program—and found Cathy's response. Ronald Vachon was indeed still alive. And living in New Jersey? Oof. I could call him, maybe. But somehow, I'd hoped to be able to sit down face-to-face. Even if I had to take a bit of a drive, I really wanted to interview them in person.
I typed into the program. “What about Dorotea?”
“Oh, damn, I forgot to hit send. Dorotea Vachon-Schreiber, 71, Clare, TX.”
I gasped and pulled up MapApp. My heart thudded and skipped over a beat in my chest. Clare was like the next township over, minutes away. I typed back to Cathy: “Could you get an address?”
“Hold please.” Her message pinged onscreen. Was it even remotely possible? That I could?—
“1161 Pinehurst Lane, Unit 634.”
Sounded like an apartment complex. I did a search . . . And was close. Silverado Senior Living Center. “Yes!” I pumped my fist in the air and dialed the number.
The automated system picked up. I frowned as it went through the list of options. I didn't know which one I needed? I just wanted to make an appointment to speak to one of their residents. I selected the Director's mailbox, left a message and hung up. I glanced at my Economics textbook, snarled at it: “No.” Instead of starting on that drudgery, I did a search for Dorotea Vachon-Schreiber. Nothing relevant in the front-page results. On page two, there was a listing for Judge Clayton Schreiber in Lubbock County, parents Dorotea and Jasper. I smiled.
The Vachon's have been changing the world from this little corner of Texas—for almost a hundred years. How cool is that?
I would find my winning angle in Dorotea, I just knew it.
And then I can go back to my baseball reporting. I glanced at my phone. Just need that director to call me back.
I blew out a breath and shot another glare at my Economics book. “Fine, you win.” I groaned and opened the textbook of doom.
Breslin POV
Baseball Field House
I scrubbed a hand over my face. Eberhardt had tagged Jimenez at the start of practice. That asshole was getting reps at catcher with the rostered team from last year. On the other side of the field, Schorr was working personally with Meyers. I'd heard him say something to Jacobs about developing a slider-cutter combo. Four pitches for a college pitcher was a serious advantage, even in D1.
They're leaving me behind. My heart squeezed . . . hard, and pulled on every nerve ending in my body.
I was still in with the freshman troop. Granted, there had already been several rounds of cuts. But, I wanted, needed to be on the roster. The starting roster.
“Hey Coop. Wanna say something to your fans out there?” Milline held her phone out—entering my personal space. I considered throwing the damned thing on the ground and crushing it beneath my cleats.
“No comment.” I bit out between clenched teeth.
She rolled her eyes and huffed. A growl tore from her lips before she turned away.
Good riddance. I meant to pivot and turn my attention back to the batting cage. But for some reason, my eyes wanted to follow her hips in those short shorts.
And those long, tanned legs. There's no harm in looking, right? She moved across the outfield, and I enjoyed watching her go. She pivoted at the foul line and headed toward home plate.
You have no room for any other distractions. Just ignore her. Permanently. I grumbled under my breath. But the memory of her in her see-through shirt wasn’t easy to forget. Why did she have to be a reporter?
“You're up, Coop!”
I adjusted my cup. Only halfway . . . Yeah ok, they meant “up to bat”. I huffed out a breath and hustled to the gate.
It'd been a shitty practice. I’d hit like leftover garbage. A nagging pain in my hamstring kept pulling my concentration out of the zone. A fitting endcap to a fairly shitty day. And I still had the cowboy old folks' home to add to my fun list. But before I even made it to the locker room, Eberhardt had tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to chat. Didn’t seem like a good sign.
Which meant I was in less of a mood to deal with a reporter. But guess who was waiting outside the coaches' office when I arrived? Yeah. My rotten fuckin luck.
She leaned against the wall, shorts hiked to her hip on one side. Those legs, which had a recurring role in my dreams—wrapped around my waist—ended in a pair of tennis shoes. No ties, no socks. Her bag slung over her shoulder, one hand tucked in her pocket. If I didn't hate her so much, I'd definitely want to strip her naked and improve my mental health against that wall.
I took a deep breath. Hate was a strong word. Disapproved of. Distrusted. Left me discontent. Wanted distance from.
“Waiting on Schorr,” she said—like I had asked or something?
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “You’re working for him, now?”
“I want to help out the team.”
“That’s not the job of a reporter.”
“And since you’re the expert—” She pointed at me. “Oh wait, that’s right, my job is to cause havoc and mayhem and generally excel at being a lying snake in the grass.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a child.”
“I wish.” I leaned back against the wall on the other side of the door and stared at the ceiling. “Nothing better than being a kid playing baseball.” There really was nothing like it.
Her features softened and she smiled at me. And in an instant, she was back to being that girl in the water fountain. My mouth went dry.
“I remember my brother played on some fields that weren't much more than dirt and clay. No grass anywhere. Didn't even have lights, so if you didn't get enough runs by the sixth inning, too bad. I'll never forget seeing them play. How filthy they were, grinning from ear to ear. Especially when they won.”
“Yeah, we played a game one time that didn't have a back fence, just ended in rows of cornfield. My uniform had a giant green stain on the front the rest of the season.”
She giggled. “It was well-loved.”
I rolled my eyes. “Drove my mom nuts. She bleached it so many times it fell apart by the end of the season.”
She covered her mouth as she laughed. But my gut twisted with the memory of my mom scrubbing at that stain and throwing up her hands in disgust.
“This just has to be good enough!”
“It’s fine, mom.”
My father glared like I had done something wrong. “We spent hundreds of dollars on that travel ball uniform for you. Can’t afford to buy another one.”
I sighed and ran my fingertips over my forehead as I forced the memory from my mind. I snuck a glance at Milline. Fringes of her dark gold hair formed a line from her temple to curl in front of her ear. She had a small line of freckles on the bridge of her nose. The faint scent of orange blossoms drifted into the space between us. I adjusted my stance and was glad I’d changed out of my practice gear—and cup.
She glanced up at me through dark lashes. I liked the way she bit her lip and stared at me like I was the only guy on the team.
“ So, you’re the number one around here.”
Why did those words mean so much to me at the time? Why did they practically feel like a lifeline . . . even though. Even though I shouldn’t like or trust anything about her.
Why did I want to hear her say those words to me again?
“I watched you play, you know.”
I blinked. “When?”
“Every game I could. The last two years.”
I didn’t need or want to know that. I didn’t want to know that. In the state I was in—possibly about to be cut from the last chance I had left—knowing that, would make me want to grab her, hold onto her.
Hold her.
“Didn’t know it was you when you gave me your shirt.” She turned an interesting shade of pink. Reminded me of that day and how flustered she got when I'd protected her from flashing several of my teammates.
“Got my attention.” You’ve still got it.
“Oh, ha ha ha.” She met my gaze with that cute little smirky tilt to her mouth. My heart fell, the way my stomach did the time my high school teammates and I went on some crazy rollercoaster ride. The thing lurched, leapt, only to fall and fall and fall like it might never stop.
I froze. And the world stopped for just a half dozen heartbeats. I counted because that’s how long I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
I just wanted . . .
A loud knock at the window and the office door clicked open. Schorr looked from me to Milline. He crossed his arms. “I don’t have anything for you. Come back tomorrow.”
I blinked. Was he talking to me?
“But Coach, I?—”
He scowled. “What was our agreement?”
“Yes sir,” she said with a sigh. “But how’d he look out there?”
I glanced from one to the other. It was like I wasn’t there and she—the reporter —was on some different level with Coach. What the hell was going on?
“He’s got work to do, whaddya think?”
She nodded and bit at the end of her thumb.
“Nothing happens overnight, Milline. Ask your brother about that, sometime. He’ll tell ya.”
Her eyes flitted up to me and quickly away. “Sure.”
Coach dropped his arms. “Come back tomorrow and catch up on my filing.”
“Yes sir.”
About that time, Eberhardt waved me into the room. I needed to get around these two. Schorr muttered something under his breath and pushed past me. My blood formed icy lumps in my veins. My whole body went numb. He barely acknowledged me? Shit. This is bad. My stomach twisted into a large, frozen pretzel.
“You sure you want to be left out of my highlight reel?” Milline tilted her head. The ends of her ponytail brushed the exposed flesh of her neck. “Pretty sure even Rally gave me a better interview.” A wry twist of her lips. “And he's a hawk.”
“Go away.”
Her eyes lowered. She nodded slowly, her hands gripping the strap of her bag with white knuckles. I tried to move around her, but she stepped into my path.
“What?”
“I rooted for you.”
I needed to talk to coach, to plead my case. I couldn't be cut. Not now. And she was in my way. What the hell was she even saying?
“Not Tanner, you. I’d hoped, despite how difficult the year had been, that you and the Wildcats would find a way to rise above. But it was too much to put on your shoulders. You were still . . .” Her brows contracted in a pained expression. That same fuckin expression people gave me when they said they were sorry about my mom.
I didn't need her pity. “I told you to leave me alone.” I considered physically moving her aside. “But you couldn't do that could you? You just had to write that fuckin article.”
“It was my job, Cooper. I took the assignment before I knew what an asshole you were. Are. Still . . . are.”
“Oh, I’m the asshole? Not the person who has no respect for boundaries. Or anyone. Ever.”
“Pretty sure if we had a show of hands—of your own teammates no less—the vote would be unanimous. Narcissistic hothead and primo jerkwad’s the Breslin Cooper special.”
“Why, cause you flashed your tits at them, too?” I winced, regretting the words as soon as they left my mouth. She turned white. Her hand shook where it gripped the strap of her bag.
A throat cleared from somewhere behind me. A locker door creaked.
“Wow.” She shuffled so that she was backing away from the coaches’ office. Around me.
I shouldn’t have said that. I had done something nice for someone. It had made me feel like a good human—for the first time in so long.
“You know.” Her chin wobbled. My chest tightened at the thought she might cry. “I don’t claim to know much about mothers. But I really wonder?—”
“Don’t you say a God damned word about my mother.” My gut started to cave in. I couldn’t breathe.
“I was grateful for your help that day. I respected you as a ballplayer. Hell, I even considered myself a fan. And if someone like me could be this disappointed in you?” Her eyes flashed in the light—jaw set, chin raised. She should have hit me. I wanted her to. Because I fuckin deserved it.
Instead, she smiled and waved at the small group of freshmen behind me, then moved toward the exit.
The locker room door hedged open. She tossed her blond hair as she turned and met my gaze. Tears escaped even as she continued to battle for control. She didn't have to let me witness it, she could have been long gone. Or at least safely on the other side of that wall—instead of sharing that I had wounded her.
“What would she think of you, Cooper?”