Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Breslin POV
“ A nd if someone like me could be this disappointed in you? What would she think of you, Cooper?”
A cold pit formed in my abdomen. It pulled at my stomach, my guts, my lungs. My thoughts swirled into a jumble. How dare she?
She's right.
I don't know. And I've been swimming in that toxic, raging stew for months.
I pressed my eyes closed, but all I could see was her face. She should've just hit me. The cold pit swallowed me whole.
A smack to the back of my head jarred my skull. Coach. Dammit.
“Well, you didn’t listen to me.” Eberhardt scowled up at me. “And now you’re playing with fire. Not smart and really damned dumb, Cooper.”
This whole fuckin day wouldn’t go on the “positive for my mental health” list. I followed him into his office and sunk down into the chair nearest his desk.
“Schorr’s pissed.”
I dug a hand into the front of my hair and ducked my head. I'd guessed that part.
“You got an explanation?”
So, this was college baseball. How much worse would it be in the majors? “Was off today. Think I tweaked my hamstring.”
He nodded. “I told him it looked like an injury.” He hovered at the end of his desk, looking like an umpire with his wide stance and crossed arms. “You’ve got to speak up. This is D1 baseball, you can’t hide injuries or try to play through. Everything has to be reported.”
I groaned.
“Rostered players have to be accounted for on a week-to-week basis.”
I shrugged. It'd clearly thrown me off, but didn't feel like an injury. “I don’t think it’ll hinder anything, just didn’t realize the problem until I started swinging.”
“Thought it looked like your stance was off.” He shook his head, released his arms and tapped my shoulder. “Come on, let’s go see the trainer. I’ll tell Hank. He’ll cool down.”
Glad he will. I rose and couldn't help but glance up at the windows. Like she'd have magically come back. Coach held open the office door. We moved through the locker room into the hall. Milline hadn't stuck around. Couldn't blame her. She'd had several douchey run-ins with Knox-out and there were enough other comments I couldn't help but pick up from other members of the team—whenever she was around.
“That one, I'd do for free,” Kinsley said and craned his neck as she walked by.
I chucked the batting helmet into his chest. He winced as he caught it. “Go hit the ball.” I groused at the guy.
I didn't like it. Any of it. I gritted my teeth and mentally smacked myself. And then I'd gone and . . . Fuck.
Coach held open the exit door and gestured that I should go. There was a long sidewalk to the training facility—located right next door to the Van Sante Soccer stadium. It was a bit of a walk, but the athletic teams shared the expenses of a medical-grade facility, or so the brochures on this place had said. The marketing slick claimed it was a 'win-win' for students in pre-med and PT programs, as well as Texas State Tech’s athletes. Supposedly, each team had their own trainers focused specifically on the injuries in their sport. This wasn't a part of the campus I wanted to be visiting.
“At the risk of stating the obvious, Coop.” Eberhardt broke the silence. He paced beside me, hands in his coach-short pockets. “You don’t have any room to fuck up.”
“I’m used to being?—”
“At the top without even trying?”
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. Without what? I worked my fuckin ass off!
“Every freshman here? Same boat. Or you thought you were different?” The entrance doors split open as we approached.
A bronze plaque on the wall caught my eye: “Thank you to the Vachon-Schreiber family, a legacy of generosity and commitment that spans the ages.” The name seemed familiar, but my ability to remember names was absolutely terrible.
“You listening to me?”
I grumbled. “This a pep talk?”
“No, not really. You just don't seem to understand how bad things can get for you.”
“What, because of my hamstring?”
“No, Coop.” He threw his hands up in the air like I was the biggest dipshit he'd spoken to in his entire life. At this point, maybe I deserved the distinction.
“I’ve had a lot of empathy for you, tried to be compassionate. But maybe you don’t respond to anything but tough love.” His voice rose and the veins in his neck strained against his skin. “And I’m telling you, there's no room for error right now. You've got to be on at every practice. Your grades better be Dean's List caliber. And you're going to have to learn how to get along with reporters. Especially Liv.” He took his hat off and pivoted. He motioned at a lab coated older lady fussing with some folders.
“Baseball,” he said to her. She nodded and walked off. Eberhardt ran a hand over his slick, greying hair and muttered something that sounded like: “Shouldn't have to tell you that.”
I'd lost track of whether he was speaking to me, or the folder lady? She’d left, so, was it me?
“Maybe she didn't . . . I dunno. Whatever.” He tugged his hat back on. “Just figure it out or you're gonna be back in Oklahoma figuring it out on your favorite juco team.”
I bit back a groan. No way I could suffer junior college back home. I shook my head.
“Then get your shit together, son. We are halfway through fall ball, and you're about outta time. I need to see production. Hitting, fielding, getting along with your teammates.”
This was starting to sound like the way my father lectured me about the farm. My insides deflated.
“And do one of her God damned interviews to prove you won't be a liability every time someone asks you what you had for breakfast.”
I blinked. Interviews? We were back to Milline? What the hell? Eberhardt glared at me, but he'd stopped shouting. “Yes sir,” I said with a nod.
“Coach Jay believed in you. Said you had fire for the game, a rare combination of dedication and natural God-given talent. If we're going to have a shot at a championship title this year, next year?” He paused, took a breath and looked away. “And then we’ll get you whipped into shape and you’ll be gone as soon as you hit sixty, won’t you?”
“Minimum hours.” I didn’t want to meet his gaze. They gave me a place to land when my life got flipped upside down. And all I thought about was how to leave them behind in the West Texas dust. That and maybe how to not-interview Milline in my bed.
“Man, baseball already?” A guy with glasses and a faux-hawk I'd vaguely seen hovering around the edges of our practices appeared. Carrying a clipboard, he motioned to us. We followed him to a large PT room—with exercise equipment on one side, and curtained-off cots on the other. Trainer-guy pointed at the third station. “Sit.”
“Lan, can you check range of motion on his hammy? May be a strain.” Eberhardt addressed the trainer. “Just email me the report.”
Coach stabbed a finger in my face. “No leg work in the morning.”
“Got it, coach.”
He turned and moved toward the door, lifting one hand in a wave. “Can’t run bases with a strained hammy.”
The trainer guy gave me a crooked grin. “Words to live by.” He set the clipboard in a pocket at the end of the cot. “Lay down, we'll run through some stretches.”
I did what he asked. He grabbed my left knee and brought it up toward my hip, then leaned on my shin.
“So, what were you doing when you noticed the pain?” He repositioned my leg and applied pressure.
I stared at the ceiling. “What goes in your report?”
“Just diagnosis and treatment.”
“I tweaked it in morning reps. Thought if I took it easy the rest of the day and went light on legs tomorrow—” The stretch turned sour. I grimaced as the bastard muscle pinched.
“Yeah, hammy’s are a bitch. They complain even when they’re just tight. But one thing I keep reminding the coaches about: in this heat, supplementing electrolytes and magnesium is critical. You may find that icing it tonight, taking some magnesium before bed, and spending a few extra minutes stretching for the next couple of days—could be all it needs.”
“I can hope.”
“I'll get you a cold pack. Can you keep ice on it tonight?”
“Sure.”
“Ok, good. And I'll get you some of this new electrolyte supplement they brought in for the football squad. It's like medical grade, super expensive shit.” He pulled a blue ice pack from the tiny fridge beneath the cot.
“I don’t see why they should get special treatment.” He placed a pillow under my knee, draped the ice pack over it and moved my leg on top. I winced as the sting of ice hit my skin.
“Soccer, baseball, track, if football needs it, so do you guys,” Trainer-guy said.
He had a point. But football was football—a cash-cow of a sport. Always had been. I could be mad about it, or I could just play baseball.
“I need your name and email address for the coach’s report.” He handed me the clipboard and lowered his voice. “If there's anything you don't want me to say, let me know. I can send you a copy, too. Oh, and the info on what’s in the supplement, where to get it and all that.”
“Sure? That’d be great.” I guess?
“Telling ya, those old guys. They’re nice and all, but if I wasn't an upstanding citizen, I could probably requisition a whole lab of computer gear and just approve the forms myself. Schorr doesn't even open his emails. He just prints them and has that piece of hot ass file ‘em away.”
Piece of hot what? And we were back to Milline. I wasn’t the only one who’d enjoyed the filing show. Dammit. Now, I felt like punching him in the mouth.
Was he still talking? Geez, this guy beat Jimenez on the annoying talker scale. “I've got to go.” I didn’t want to be late for my role ‘serving the community’ or whatever. Yeah, right.
“Take the cold pack.” He rummaged around in a supply cabinet, then tossed me an elastic bandage. “This too. I'll just go grab the canister from the back.”
I guess he was being nice? I didn't know why he was going out of his way. Maybe he was that dedicated to the team? Maybe he was just one of those guys who did things because he could get away with it.
My stomach twisted, and I wasn't sure if it needed food. Or if it didn't like the feeling that we were taking something we shouldn't. I pulled the ice pack from the back of my leg.
Trainer-guy reappeared. He held out a flat, round container with official packaging, labeling it Premium Recovery Electrolyte Supplement. “You don't need a lot, but this is a helluva lot better than any of those sugary sports drinks. You've got to stay in prime shape, right?”
“Yeah.” I tucked the collection of stuff under my arm. “According to those old guys, I've got no room for error.”
“What does that mean?”
“Right now, it means I’ve got to get to an appointment before I’m late, fix my hamstring, and figure out that crappy ECON homework due next week.”
“Yeah that one’s a doozy, and the professor?” He rolled his eyes and puffed out a weird sort of chuckle. “What a cockblock, am I right?”
No. The hell? I shook my head. “Sure.” Either he didn’t know what that word meant or the professor was doing something to his dating life that I didn’t want to know about.
“Well, ya know, if you ever want to vent about it. I’m here. Like I get it. I really get it.” He turned to walk away, then paused. His hand on the small table beside the cot. He picked up my phone. “Don't forget this.” He held up the device. Had it been there a second ago?
“Ah, thanks,” I said, shoving the phone into my pocket. And then I beat it out of there. I beelined for my truck, dumped my stuff into the passenger's seat, and climbed inside.
“Soft food with flavor and too many carbs? Or dry protein and wilted salad.” I glanced at the clock. I’d be late to my shift if I stopped for food at the quad.
“Mush and gravy it is. Maybe I’ll luck out and they’ll have jello.”
I caught my eyes in the rearview mirror. Red. Vacant. Who was this guy? Was that me? “You’re treading water as fast as you can, and still drowning.” I took a beat to lower my head, feel the pang in my chest—the familiar, empty ache that was all I had left of her. I closed my eyes as it amplified to knife point of pain.
Deep breath in. I pushed it all aside and shifted the car into gear.