Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Olivia POV
I knocked on the door marked 634. A woman's voice called out: “Just a second.” It wavered, but only a little.
I took a deep breath and sighed. I still wanted to kick Coop in the shins, the groin, maybe slap him across the face. All of the above. I've tried to be nice, but I'm done with that. With him. I swear, I'm done!
The image of him standing there, smiling at me, taunted my brain. Those scrubs leant him an easy-going air and reminded me of that picture of him and his dog.
The door swung open and a woman with greyish-white hair and vibrant hazel eyes stood on the other side. Her shoulders rounded a bit too much, but otherwise, she seemed . . . lively. Welcoming. She nodded at me. “You must be the young lady from the newspaper.”
“Well, the Texas State Tech student paper. But, yes that's me. Liv Milline.” I offered my hand in greeting, but it felt strange. I'm eighteen and this lady was older than?—
“Short for Olivia?”
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. Such a stuffy, boring name: Olivia .
“No one pronounces Dorotea correctly in West Texas.” She chuckled. “So just call me Dotty. And come in, please. I was beginning to worry that something had happened.”
“Oh, uh, no. Just had a little hiccup at the front desk.” I gritted my teeth to keep my grousing locked inside. Had a run in with the official Texas State Tech butthead.
An uneven smile slid across her features as she shuffled aside. I stepped into her small but tidy apartment. Before I could attempt the usual pleasantries, the old lady caught me up in a tight hug. I lost my bag. My arms trapped at my side, I swallowed and stared over her head at the wall. After a second, the floral-powdery smell felt familiar. The grey pieces of her hair shone silver in the fluorescent light. I took a deep breath and patted her back.
She released me. “I'm from Texas, dear. We don't shake hands. Besides, you looked like you could use a little TLC.” She closed the door. “Please, sit down. I'll pour us some tea. Something relaxing. I can't do caffeine this late at night.”
I gave her a smile as I arranged myself in the chair she offered, on the side of the table near the full-length window. She busied herself stuffing tea bags into matching mugs—both marked with the university insignia on the side. “Still a fan?”
She glanced up. “What's that?”
“The mugs.”
“Oh, yes, well.” She chuckled. “Some of the most expensive mugs I've ever bought.” Her eyes held a twinkle. She poured water from her electric kettle into each cup.
A weighted silence settled in. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it wasn't awkward, either. As I watched her retrieve saucers, milk and a sugar bowl, her words caught up to me.
I looked like I could use . . . help? Or affection of some sort? Certainly, that jerkface doesn't noticeably affect me. He's going to end up riding the bench the way he's playing. And. And! As far as the scouting teams are concerned, a freshman bench sitter— Thump! The table jumped beneath my fist.
Dammit. How is it that he can annoy me this much?
“What's bothering you, dear?” The cup and saucer chattered as she placed them on the table in front of me.
“Me? No, it's nothing. I'm fine, really.” I didn't want to talk about him. Besides, he worked here. Somehow. “How do you like this place? It seems pretty nice?”
“It's not like being with my family.” She sat in the chair across from me. “But they visit, and at least I'm not in the way when they have their own lives.” She blew across the top of her mug. “I couldn't keep up at the pace you young people do. Everyone always seems so busy these days, don’t they?” She sipped at her tea.
“Yeah. Too busy,” I said with a sigh. Didn't I know it? My father's permanent state of being: busy. “It's like a status symbol. To not be busy is to be worth less than those who have so many demands on their time.” Acid sloshed in my stomach. A bitter taste rose into my mouth.
“You came to interview me?”
I grabbed my bag and unzipped it. “Yes, ma’am.” I glanced inside. “I have some notes and?—”
“I'd rather not be interviewed today.” She gave me a sheepish smile. I took a deep breath and released my hold on the notepad inside my bag. Zipped it shut. I couldn't really be mad at her, but I wasn't sure I'd survive another run at the Cooper check-in gauntlet.
“Oh, um, sure. I didn't mean to bother you. I'll come back another time.” I rose from my chair. “Do you want me to text, er, call? I can call first and?—”
“I wasn't chasing you off, dear. Please sit down and finish your tea.” She patted the table.
I glanced at the door. Don’t really want to stay. I caught the time on a digital clock on her bookshelf. Will his royal assness figure out she blew me off?
“I'd just prefer to chat for a bit, if you'd humor an old lady. I get nervous, still, at my age, when someone interviews me. Officially, you know.” She gave me a doe-eyed smile and smoothed weathered hands over the tablecloth. “I thought maybe if we could just get to know each other, I wouldn't be quite so anxious when you turn on your camera and all that business.”
“Sure. I don't mind.” I sat back in the chair and leaned my bag against the table leg.
“You seem like a lovely girl. You must be very helpful to your mother when you're at home.” She glanced at me over her raised cup. The tea steamed into the air.
I shrugged and picked up my mug. “Not really. My mother isn't exactly the kind that stays home baking cookies.” I sipped at the beverage. The warm cup soothed against my palms.
“Oh, she's the corporate type, then?”
“No, but, I'm a little.” I stopped myself from grumbling. I didn’t want to start off sounding negative. “She's some weird combination of adventurous and high maintenance. If I had to try to describe her, she's like—” A world-traveling gold digger? How do I make that sound like she's not as toxic as she is? “Glamping.”
“Glamping? You’ll have to forgive me, dear, I’m not familiar . . .”
“Glamorous camping. An expensive, luxury adventure.” I laced my hands together around my cup of tea. I mentally patted myself on the back for the simile.
“Sounds wonderful.” Her eyebrows lowered and her mouth tightened as she spoke. She was on to me. I tried to shrug it off like it was no big deal.
“For her. For whomever rich boyfriend she's dating, I'm sure they have a wonderful time together.” Yeah, I wasn't doing so well at the not-sounding-bitter thing . . .
“Ah.” Her cup clacked into the saucer. “And so your father?—”
“My brother raised me. He's ten years older. Always been the one looking out for me. Letting me tag along.” I didn't meet her gaze. Dad was another topic I'd prefer to avoid.
“Hm. Sounds difficult. At least you must have interesting stories to tell.” She stretched her lips into a smile, but the expression didn't quite reach her eyes.
“I suppose. After all, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right?” I drained the rest of my cup.
“I think sayings like that are a bunch of hogwash. All they do is minimize the upset and turmoil people have faced in their lifetimes.” She held out another teabag labeled 'chamomile cinnamon'. I nodded and placed it in my cup, then picked up the electric kettle. I might as well stay, no way I wanted Cooper to think—I didn't know what he would think. And why should I care? I shouldn't care. At all. Ever.
I poured more hot water into my mug as Dotty continued. “You're a beautiful young lady. I'm sorry your parents seem too preoccupied to invest much of themselves.”
“Too busy.” My heart panged as I watched the clear liquid turn a light amber color.
“Everyone is, you know. But, I'll let you in on a little secret.” She lowered her voice to loud whisper.
“Oh?”
“It's all hogwash.” She laughed.
I couldn’t help but giggle. “I think you're right. I mean, when you take a moment to just sit back and . . .” have tea with someone with a longer view of life. And really listen . “Consider the world around us. What are we chasing?”
“Oh, I'm too old to be chasing anything these days.” One eyebrow lifted. “What are you chasing?”
“Are you interviewing me , now?”
“Maybe an old lady wants to know who's really sitting across the table. Will Liv Milline listen if I tell her my story? And what will she hear? Will she learn something?” Her eyes danced. “Or will she assume it's all a bunch of?—”
“Hogwash?” I spooned the teabag from my cup, transferring it to the saucer.
She chuckled. “I really shouldn't be so dramatic.”
“You're allowed.” I sipped at my fresh mug of tea. “Be dramatic if you want.”
“But I'm not nearly so interesting, dear. Tell me more about you. Do you have a beau?”
“A boyfriend?” I swallowed hard to keep from sputtering. “No, no boyfriend. I don't . . .” The 'no time' excuse died on my lips.
“Let me guess: too busy?”
“I guess I just haven't prioritized it. I try not to focus on that so much, truthfully.”
“Broken heart?”
“Not really. Just, I dunno. It's kinda dumb. I'm being dumb.” I took another sip of tea.
“Are you really? Or are you just telling yourself that?” She placed another teabag in her mug and poured from her kettle. “Trying to minimize your feelings, with a bunch of hogwash?”
“You're good.”
“I've been around, Liv dear. So, tell Aunt Dotty all about your boy troubles.” Her voice crooned softly.
“I didn't say?—”
“Ah.” She gave me a smile that this time, it did reach her eyes. They glinted in the overhead lighting, hazel and gold. “You didn't have to, dear. You didn't have to.”
I packed up my notepad and phone into my backpack and headed for the front desk. A part of me silently willed grumpy guardian Cooper to no longer be there. Honestly, how he ended up here defied all logic in my brain. Most work-study programs were fulfilled on campus. Athletes, specifically ones of his caliber, usually received full rides, I thought? Why’s he here?
I was not born under a lucky star, apparently. The horse's ass hunched over his textbook. One hand shoved his hair from his forehead. An overhead light bathed him in its amber glow.
My heart thudded in its ribcage as I remembered words I'd told Dotty not an hour before.
“I used to have the worst kind of crush on him.”
He wore a thermal shirt under his scrubs, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Cream colored fabric stretched taut over his triceps. The bulging extensors in his forearms—on a different guy, not Cooper—were the kind I'd dreamed of feeling?—
“You need to sign out.” His deep voice called over his shoulder.
Ugh. I trudged over to the counter. Why were we like this? “Need my ID again?”
He rolled his eyes as he pointed at the sign-in sheet. “Write the time and sign it.”
“Someone should teach you better manners.” I grumbled and scrawled my name, again, across the sheet.
He stared at the same textbook from before. Didn't look like he'd made much progress. “Have fun.” I made a face at him and turned to leave.
He caught up with me at the door. Hands tucked into his scrub pockets, he strode out into the October evening air. My shoes halted on the sidewalk.
“What? You want to make sure I leave?”
“It's the job. Supposed to walk visitors to their cars.”
“I'm fine.”
He shrugged. “Didn't ask.”
I stared at him. “I don't need you to walk me to my car, Coop.”
“I have instructions.”
“Look, you did your job. I'd feel better, honestly, if you'd just leave me alone and go back inside.”
“Whether I like it or not, your safety between this door and the one on your car, is my responsibility. If something, somehow happened to you—and that seems to be my luck these days—a lot more could go wrong for me than being permanently irritated by your attention.”
“My attention? Clearly you need your head examined. I don't care one bit what you do or don't do.”
“Good, so don't care that I'm walking you to your car.”
I huffed and growled at the same time. “Fine.” I fast-walked past him, in the direction of my sedan. He loped beside me. His footsteps rhythmic, steady. A cool breeze stirred the scent of cedar and sage into the evening air. Crickets chirped in the distance. I wanted to ask him what he was doing here, if there was a way we could be civil to each other. How he knew Dotty.
If he was actually ok.
“This is me.” I opened the door to the backseat and tossed my bag into the floorboard.
“Carolina?” He stared at my official Sabers-licensed license plate. He ran the fingers of one hand over his forehead. “Sabers fan.”
I crossed my arms against my chest. “Yeah.”
He nodded. “Had a good season last year. Was hoping they'd have a great one this year.”
I smiled. “Me too.” I cleared my throat and debated whether to say the words on the tip of my tongue. “I was hoping they'd draft you.”
He winced and looked away. “Makes two of us.”
“Do you think we could ever, you know, not hate each other? We've got four years?—”
“I'm not staying.” He ducked his head and fixed me with a look I couldn't read. His eyes red at the rims, dark circles marred the skin underneath. The way he gripped his arm, in his right hand and shrunk away—gave me the impression of a wounded animal. Who didn't trust me not to hurt it.
“I want to play major league ball, but no scout or team will touch me right now. But that'll change . I just have to make it so they can't ignore me.” His irises gleamed.
“I'm sure you'll get there.”
Wild eyes met mine. And that's when I saw him . . . really saw. The days' old stubble, the tears swimming in his eyes. He looked the same as he did that day outside the hospital, the televised footage streaming onscreen like a nightmare that wouldn't quit in the light of day.
“Get away from me!” Coop hollered at the crowd of reporters. “Dad. Da-ad!” His voice broke as he pleaded with his father . . .
” . . . you really going to play the same week your mother died ?”
“Will a major league team take a chance on a grieving kid?”
I tightened my jaw and reminded myself not to get involved. Not only was I a member of “the world's lowest profession” in his mind, but between my dad owning a minor stake in the Sabers ballclub, and my brother being a scout for the organization, my family would have had some hand in his current situation.
And I didn't have the heart to bear more of his hatred.
“Thanks for . . .” I tried to finish, but my voice was barely more than a whisper.
He didn't say a word as he walked away.
I stared out of my dorm window, my ECON textbook still thumbing its nose at me and my inattention. I couldn't focus. My stomach churned . . . it hadn't wanted food. And not just because the student center menu was some weird combination of cardboard and ass.
“He can't, he can't know . Can he?”
The idea was really ridiculous, even for the way I put pieces of things together. He'd called me Milline often enough, but seemed surprised by my license plate. “But what if . . . he figured it out? Right then?” I shook my head. I was being an idiot, but I couldn't shake this weird, anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Like I'd done something wrong.
I sat down on the small window seat and drew my knees into my chest. I glanced at my reflection, trying to reason with it.
“How would he possibly know? It's not like Dad gets personally involved with talent.”
In fact, his attitude during the frequent lectures I had the misfortune of bearing the brunt of would indicate he purposely steered clear.
“They’re the perfect spectacle on that ballfield, Olivia, but they’re rarely even good employees.” Dad sneered. “They’re like animals . . .”
Maybe if Coop had grown up in North Carolina, he could’ve remembered when Furston Milline was a co-owner of the club, before he became an operations exec for the IML. But that was really only newsworthy when Dad was going through the divorce from my mom, although I was too young to really understand at the time. But the beauty of the internet archives meant I could go back and read the stories at the time. Having to sell shares to split cash, or hand over partial interest in the ballclub. It made headlines for a while. But it didn't make national news. I don't think it even made it to Atlanta.
As for Curt, he helped out at the baseball camps, but mostly with the pitchers—who were always starry-eyed over his Silver Arrow status. It was a prestigious award, but he was the best with or without some trophy. He’ll be in the Hall of Fame someday, I know it.
He was also on the road a lot. Away. I was in junior high and then high school. I generally told people my brother raised me, but only until about eighth grade. After that, he was a voice on a phone speaker, an image on my TV screen.
I was sorry when he got injured. But I'd have been lying if I said I wasn't happy to have my brother around more.
I knew he wasn't the one scouting Coop. Especially because these days, Curt was some “special assistant” to the Sabers GM, taking on the highest profile deals: like international rostering and multi-player trades. Could he have helped Coop, though?
“I used to have the biggest crush on him.”
Dotty's eyebrows lifted. “Who’s that, dear?”
“Coop, the front desk guy.”
“Ah, the tall young man with the bad attitude.” She clicked her tongue.
I laughed. “What’d he do?”
“Oh, he’s a sourpuss if there ever was one. Spoils all my fun.” She narrowed her eyes and gave me a tight smile. “I’ve decided his penance will be my meddling. For his own good, of course.”
“Meddling. Reminds me of someone else I know.” The lines in the textbook blurred. I was fairly certain I'd already read them four times. And I still had no idea what the paragraph said. I glanced at the window. The night sky hid behind the light and my reflection in the glass.
“And Furston, Jesus. That man meddles.”
“Bottom line: he had to have met Curt or Dad at some point. But that doesn’t mean he knows they’re related to me.” I assured my reflection. “Which means . . . he just hates me. For being me. Awesome. Good talk, me.” I laid my head on my desk and sighed.
Baseball may have been the family business. One I was proud of and wanted to be a part of, but it wasn't like we were the Hilton's and hotels were our business.
It was more like being a franchise owner of a Buc-ee's. If we lived in Texas, that is.