Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Breslin POV
M onday morning came on like a hangover. I spent my lunch with Doc Hamer, trying to tape and glue the still-shattered pieces of my life back on. My entire nervous system felt like a continuous mis-fire. Strung so tight, the smallest bump might cause me to snap.
“You're visibly unwell.” She folded her hands over her desktop. “And you don't even want me to start on your?—”
I shook my head. “Stress and anxiety scores? No, not really.”
“Let's do some breathing exercises. Have you been practicing mindfulness and the exercises?—”
“Sure.” I bit out. “When things are normal.” I hunched forward and hoped the longer pieces of hair might block her view of my eyes. No amount of eyedrops or cold compresses could make me look like I had my shit together.
“When what things are normal?” Her voice hit a nauseatingly patient tone that chafed my eardrums and tromped on nerve endings.
“Nothing. Never mind. Nothing's normal.” I ducked my head, resting my forehead on my fingertips. “It's all fucked up and has been for months.”
“Grief is like that,” she said.
I'm sure she had a speech for every situation. I'm positive, in fact. Oh, just turn to page nine of the 'losing your mom to fucking cancer' handbook. Fuck me. I stared at my hands and remained silent.
“Deep breath in.” She inhaled with her breathing hand gestures.
I hated this. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to relax or release or any of that shit. I wanted to punch the crap out of that punching bag at the training center, drink a case of beer until I passed out.
“And exhale. One, and two, and three.”
I closed my eyes, but it was all turmoil. No one thought or image would stay in my head. Not even that blank emptiness . . .
“Mr. Cooper?” Her voice pitched sharper.
“I can't do this today.” I stood and paced. Eyed the door. Could I leave? What would happen? Doesn't matter. It's not like I have a starting position. Or any position.
“What is it? What's bothering you? Did something happen?”
“Got in an argument with my dad. He kicked me out.”
“What kind of argument?” Her voice had returned to that measured tone I hated.
“What do you mean, what kind of argument?” My hands clenched and I rolled my eyes. “The kind where a father and son start with yelling at each other.” I returned to pacing. “And it ends with me driving back to school in the middle of the night with my backseat filled with crap I don't need.” I pointed at the door like the man was on the other side. “Because my dad told me not to come back.”
“Sounds like a difficult situation.”
Shut up. What the hell do you care? I pitched myself back onto the couch and scowled at her. “Saves me a ton of headache.”
She tilted her head like she was studying me. “How so?”
“I don't have to listen to his misery. His moping. His farm updates. His guilt trips. I'm free of all of it, now. He thought, he actually thought, that if he told me he'd have to sell the farm that I'd just quit baseball, and school, to help him fix it.” I gave a humorless laugh.
“There are people who would go home and help out their parents.”
“My brother’s the oldest, let him do the guilt trip thing. Oh wait, no one can even find him to tell him his mother is dead.” I leveled a glare at her. “Where's your magic handbook pages for that?”
“I don't know what that means. But you do feel guilty for not helping, your anger tells me that. It makes you feel powerful in the face of helplessness.”
“You're right. This is helping so much .” I sneered. “What's next Doc? You got a cure for disappointment?”
“I can't solve your problems for you. But you already knew that. Your intelligence scores, despite a general lack of interest in your studies, are as impressive as your athletic ability.” Every syllable grated on my nerves to the point it pained me to sit there. Still. Listening to this . . . self-help blathering bullshit.
“Who's disappointed in you?”
I stared at the wall. “Who isn't?”
“Your coaches?”
“Told me to get my shit together. Direct quote.”
“Teammates?”
“Hate me. Most of them think I'm a king-sized asshole. And so we can go down the list, Dad is self-explanatory. Pretty sure even my mom . . .” I swallowed against the sore lump in my throat.
“And the young lady you?—”
Heat flared through my system. “Milline? Yes, let's bring up the reporter , too. She's actually the queen of disappointment.”
The therapist folded her hands together and leaned forward on her desk. “Why is she at the top of the list?”
I stopped. “She's not. I don't care what she thinks. She's irritating, and everywhere, like this Texas sand. Chafing. And makes me so . . . so frustrated. Why can't she leave me alone?” But even as I said the words, my heart sank lower in my chest—like someone had tied an anchor to it and let go.
“. . . people don't make us feel a certain way. We choose how to react to them. In the case of this reporter, if she's a distraction, I could make a recommendation to the coaches that she be removed. Based on your history, they may even consider it. But who else would have to go because they irritate you? Jimenez, Meyers, Knox, Dereks? You've complained about all of them. And the only common denominator in the equation is you.”
“Of course it's me. It's always me. The fate of the farm? Me. Winning a national championship? Me. My mom?—”
Her eyes lifted and met mine. And she had that look, like she'd solved some fucking puzzle cube. Fuck . “Don't say a word.”
“I don't have to say anything. Like I indicated before, you're an intelligent young man. You know what's really bothering you. Why you're so angry at everyone and lashing out. You're not ready to face her death, accept it and heal.”
I gritted my teeth and checked my watch. Thirty-two minutes, barely over halfway. “Is that an official diagnosis ?” I made air quotes to hammer home that I was mocking her.
Her mouth tightened and she blinked slowly. “Everyone has to work things out in their own way. But you're here because you don't have positive or effective coping skills. And that's what we need to focus on.”
She was going to move this shit to weekly, I just knew it. Fuck . How about scotch? Probably not positive, but effective.
“Tell me about . . . what you do when you're not in class, or at practice. How do you take care of?—”
“Exciting community service at the cowboy old folks’ home. And studying.” I rolled my left shoulder. I needed to move, stretch, run. “Just trying to stay focused right now,” I mumbled. “Exhibition game's coming up in a little less than a month. I need to produce. Get stronger. Every practice, every?—”
“You do that. You retreat into baseball.”
“According to my father, it's my whole world.” I scoffed.
“It's, at the very least, a meticulously constructed world.” She stood and moved to the front of her desk. “One in which the universe revolves mostly the way you want it to.”
I laughed. “I wish.”
“Doesn't it?”
“If it did, I'd be starting instead of riding the bench.” I grumbled at her.
“Not what I mean. It's a game constructed of well-defined rules. Measurable results and goals. It's easy compared to real life—which is messy and hard.”
“There's nothing easy about the game.”
“You're mistaking my words.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I assume on purpose.”
“What is it, just everyone pile their shit on Breslin month? Before my dad kicked me out he was begging me to come home on the weekends. The deputy sheriff of this tiny town has nothing better to do than count and nag me about community service hours. Which, to make my court-mandated requirement, I'm spending every extra minute at the senior place. But I'm still running out of time. Everything's on a ticking clock right now, make the roster, midterms, this legal shit. My dad's mess, prove I can do an interview, make friends, make practice, produce, focus, these sessions. And I keep fucking up, and she's always there to see it. Why her?”
“That's a lot. For anyone.” The therapist's voice finally sounded closer to soothing.
“It just seems like everything keeps getting worse.”
“I get that.”
I leveled a glare at her. “How?”
“Doesn't matter if I personally relate, what's important is to honor our feelings. You have to experience them. Honor them by naming them. Knowing them. I hear frustration, overwhelm, anxiety, and guilt every time you open your mouth. Any others you'd like to call out?”
Fear. Some weird stew of a wishful-achey misery I kept trying to push aside. “Think that covers it.”
“Most of those stem from a combination of fear and pride. You're afraid of disappointing people who matter to you. Your pride pushes you to be the best. In healthy doses these can be motivators. But when you're already damaged and grieving, this is a toxic and ruthless combination. It's hard, but sometimes, we need to take a step back and find joy or at least satisfaction in smaller wins.”
Toxic? Ruthless?
“You got your community service hours in last week. Excellent job. You didn't get cut from the team, so there's still a chance at a starting position.”
“It's not enough to not-get-cut. I need?—”
“It's a starting point. You can't make the roster if you've been cut. So step one is you're still there, still competing for your chance. Take a breath, let it out.”
Fuck me. But I did her breathing thing. Because scotch from Dad’s liquor cabinet wasn’t an option.
“What are some other wins?”
I just stared at her. Had she not been listening?
“Your grades are good. I know midterms have a heavier weight, but step one, the foundation is there.”
I tried to keep my head up. This, more than anything, felt like defeat.
“What about teammates? Or friends?”
Don’t say it. “New team’s a bunch of assholes. Not like . . .”
“Coop, man. Sorry.” Cubby pulled his ballcap from his head, tears and dirt smeared across one cheek.
“Yeah, sorry. Sucks, man.” Riley gripped my shoulder and squeezed.
“You’re a good kid.” Coach Jay rasped. “You’ll make her proud.”
She sighed. “Do you have anyone to talk to? Be open with?”
I shook my head. Who would I even?—
“I want to play major league ball. No scout or team will touch me right now. But that'll change. I just have to . . .” I faltered for a moment when I met her gaze. “Make it so they can't ignore me.”
A small smile. “I'm sure you'll get there.”
I rubbed at my temples wishing I could go back and erase that conversation. Why did I tell Milline that?
” . . . about your mother’s death? Talking is a step toward healing, and you need to take that first step.” The therapist's voice was back to grating on my last fuckin nerve.
Never. Because if I didn’t . . . get over it, I couldn't forget.
I just can’t. Let her go.
Jimenez glanced my way as I dragged into the locker room. I needed to find my 'switch', the one that once I flipped it, my entire world narrowed down to just baseball. At least for a while.
I sat down on the bench and leaned back. Fatigue nagged at my brain, my shoulders and legs felt like lead. Maybe the damned mindfulness breathing thing would help. It was just breathing, and?—
“S'up man?”
And might, might keep me from punching this asshole in the face. I opened one eye. “What?”
“Hey, just wanted to say a Texas-official sounding 'howdy', ya know. To my teammate.”
“You're serious.”
“Come on, you've gotta lighten up. The only person who can change your situation is you, you know. And it's up here more than anything.” He poked at his temple. “I don't get it, I won't pretend I've walked any kinda mileage in your cleats, 'mano. But if you want to get on the field?”
He glanced around. “I heard Coach say that you need to start looking like a member of the team and not a lone wolf. I thought that was a strange analogy, but maybe.” He tilted his head. “Sometimes you do look like you might have fangs in there, 'stead of regular teeth.”
I glared at him while my stomach tied itself into knots with acidic lumps. “Coach said that?”
“You don't hang out with us, or joke around, ever. None of the impromptu team meals in that place that, I dunno man. I would've thought in Texas, we'd be getting primo steaks and we get chicken that seems like if they'd left it a little longer, it could've been jerky.”
I didn't need this. Any of this. But I did need to change . . . something. I was one more bad practice away from being sent packing, I could feel it.
And this guy was still talking about food?
” . . . maybe a good chili. Mmm, with some proper ají gustoso. Mmmm-hmm! What?”
I sighed.
“Yeah, Hilda made that face right before she agreed, finally, to go to coffee with me.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “I'm gonna beg our Reporter Chica for her bff-manual on impressing my future wife.”
“I'm not going to coffee with you.”
He chuckled. “How 'bout a beer? They say that Hoppers place doesn't really bother, ya know, making sure everyone from the college is an 'upperclassman'. You only have to be eighteen back home. Sucks, man.”
I crossed my arms.
“We should check it out. Hear they have a mechanical bull.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Texas, it's like its own country.”
“Yeah, sure.” A few beers would dull the ache of this guy chattering non-fuckin-stop.
“Great. See? Not so hard. Friday, after this miserable week of midterms is over. Hopefully we'll be celebrating.”
Dammit, that reminded me. “I need to talk to Nevins. “
His face fell from its usual grin. He stared at me a second, then one eyebrow lifted. “You need to work on your conversation skills. Big time. Especially if you want a chance with that Reporter Chica. But to answer you, Nevins took off about twenty minutes ago. Think he was heading to the Tech Center. Something about his laptop.”
“I got an email about study materials? Did they send something out for study hall?” I pulled up the message on my phone and showed it to him.
“Coach Nevins? What email's that from?”
“So you didn't get it? Says it's for ECON.”
“Eh, I'm not taking that this semester. After all the grousing I've heard, I'm not taking it in the Spring, either. I'm gonna see if I can snag it online at a junior college or something. Nu-uh, no way.”
I stared at him. “Who's your advisor?”
He frowned. “Those guys are all palomos.” He tapped his temple. “I got street smarts.”
I couldn't even argue. That strategy was fuckin brilliant.
“Anyway, so Nevins wouldn't have sent it to me. You could check with Tanner.”
I rolled my eyes. “Pass. I'll wait.”
“Yeah, he likes you the same. Gotta get over that one, 'mano. If you want to wear the same jersey come spring.” And he pointed at me. “And you do. Because he's going to be in Strikers maroon and silver. And we're gonna be national champs this year, 'mano. I can see it. That beautiful trophy, my amazing girlfriend at my side. I can feel the metal in my hand. Woo!” And then he lifted fists above his shoulders and began to gyrate in ways I didn't think my hips could go.
I took in a breath and closed my eyes. Maybe that's what I should picture in my mindfulness exercises, that national championship trophy—like the ones Schorr's team won almost a decade ago. The gleam of the gold-colored rails, deep breath in.
The award ceremony in the stadium. People cheering. Exhale out.
Milline in my jersey, leaning over me as she huffed in my ear.
“Your shirt. I love to wear it when I'm alone.”
She slid over my lap, straddling me. Her fingers worked the buttons free ? —
Metal creaked and clanged. The fuck? My eyes flew open. The locker room stretched around me, a few teammates milling about. A locker banged shut. I smacked my hand against my forehead, trying to erase that damned image.
“Don't know what's in there, 'mano, but it musta been some kinda something to have you acting like a carajito.”
And like usual, I had no idea what any of that meant.