Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Breslin POV
28 hours later . . .
T he locker room churned with the same chaos roiling inside my mind. Doors slamming. Rising voices. My last nerves . . . the ends had been cut, pulled apart, and left in a fried sense of disarray.
I'd been threatened, then bodily removed from the girls' dorm. For a time, I'd remained resolute. Glued to the outside wall, determined to be part of solving whatever this was. Or at least, the first to know when an answer appeared.
And then she showed up—with barely a glance thrown my way. As if I didn't matter. Or worse: like I'd actually had something to do with . . . cheating. I wanted to shout at her, at all of them, that I hadn't done anything.
What’s wrong with them? How can they think I’d cheat? Assholes.
But even with everything going on, there was no skipping practice.
Yesterday’s afternoon drills rushed by on auto-pilot. Hitting had been decent. Still sucking wind on conditioning sprints. Eberhardt had given me that tight look, again. But I didn’t have time, then, to sit down with him. I hadn’t been in a good head space, either.
I stumbled forward as someone pushed past me. I blinked and found myself standing a few feet inside the locker room entrance. Spaced out? I turned to pretend like I was reading something on the bulletin board beside the coaches’ office.
I darted a glance into the bullpen, a group of people I didn't recognize—No, wait. There was Milline up at the whiteboard, drawing lines and boxes? And the hacker chick with her laptop sat at Schorr's desk.
I turned the other way and a suit-wearing someone who didn't belong here hovered by my locker. I sucked in a breath.
She promised me. With those eyes . . . That reminded me of the many times I'd imagined her—on my lap, wrapped around me in my bed.
Lying on her back atop Schorr's filing cabinet, legs on my shoulders and . . .
Yeah, I had a problem.
“Think carefully. Was there any time you didn't have your phone in your locker or in your possession?” Her brow formed deep creases.
I stared at her. “I'm thinking.”
“You leave it in your locker. But there was one time. You took it with you somewhere and you left it unattended.”
“You know who did this?”
“I have a guess. Cathy's trying to get him to make a mistake, but a witness. Someone who remembers leaving their device where only this person could have accessed it. This person who knows athletes and their schedules . . .”
Present-tense Milline gestured with a marker at her whiteboard drawing. Her audience consisted of an odd assortment: the scowling Dean in his brown-colored polyester suit pointed at something, an older woman crossed her arms and shook her head. Coach Schorr stood near his desk, his head dipped so far forward, I couldn't see his face under his hat. Some greasy dude in a faded plaid shirt creeped near Cathy. She brushed hair off her shoulder and snarled at Creeper.
“Look, we get it. It's been too much for anyone to handle.” Meyers’s ugly-assed reflection appeared behind me in the glass.
I turned to look him in the eye. What was this, some 'let's be friends' speech? Fuck him. I caught sight of an open locker. Empty. Latske’s nameplate had been pulled off. The guy was nowhere.
A few players leaned against the far wall. Loud banging, the locker room door opened. Fendleman peered into the hall. He waved us over.
“This is bullshit! It said it was a practice test.” Lan the trainer whined. “Between my job and the hours here?—”
“Keep going.” The football manager nudged Lan’s shoulder.
“What the hell's wrong with you people?” Lan shook as he acted out some role he chose to play.
Pretend all you want. You got caught.
“Yo, asshole!” Seager tromped through the hallway in his cleats. His Strikers football uniform and pads made the athletic guy from the student center look like an overpowered monster. “You’re lucky they’re just walking you out. I would’ve murdered you!”
“Not now.” The much smaller football manager stood in his way. “Let us handle it.”
Seager snarled. He glared at the manager for a second, then turned. Hesitated. And he didn't strike me as someone to hesitate.
Shit, he’s about to— Before I could move to stop him, a trio of footballers caught up. One snagged their team captain’s shoulder, pulling him back around.
Fendleman stepped closer to me and leaned in. “Relax, they’ve got him.”
“He tried to set us up.” Seager struggled against a giant wall with spiked hair.
Lan whirled away from the manager, who seemed mostly incapable of getting the shithead traitor out of here. “Coop, come on, you know I didn't do this!”
Fendleman held an arm across the doorway. “Don't,” he said.
“Tell them, please.” Lan's expression, for all his vocal attempts at some kind of emotion—dead eyes met mine and gave away his whole game.
He just wanted to call attention to me. To help sell the trap he'd set up. Or tried to. Tried and failed. Glares turned my way, but I didn't care.
“I know better than most.” I crossed my arms. “How guilty you are.”
“Boom.” One of the footballers made like he was dropping a mic. “That's right, sucka. Strikers stick together. You get outta here, nah. Go home and cry to your mama?—”
“That's enough.” Seager growled as a couple of security guards finally showed up. They ushered Lan out of the building.
“Strikers don't cheat.” Seager raised his chin as he glanced at me. “Not on my fuckin watch.”
I tipped my cap at him before he and his group walked away. Fendleman smacked the flat of his hand on the wall. “Dammit, Lan.” He groused and kicked the door. “ Our trainer. On my watch.” The defacto team captain growled and swore as he moved back into our locker room.
Kinsley and Dereks mumbled something about letting the Striker offensive line ‘have a shot’ before filing in behind Fendleman.
As the football crew retreated, other athletes still milled about. A couple of guys dressed out in maroon soccer jerseys lingered with one of the female trainers. One hand on her hip, she frowned. Tall, curvy, she was hot. Not quite Milline hot—with her shorts and tennis shoes that said: 'do me up against the wall of the dugout,' but?—
And one of the soccer dudes was glaring at me. I took the hint and retreated to the locker room. The air compressed in our space. It felt heavy and grim. That administrator guy still breathed next to my locker.
“Relax. She's got this, 'mano.” Jimenez gripped my shoulder and flashed his over-the-top grin—the one that made me itch to wipe it off his face.
I nodded.
“They got Lan. That in there.” He waved at the coaches' bullpen. Cathy held her laptop up, pointing at the screen. “Is just a formality.”
Milline's hacker friend spoke as she drew her finger across the screen. I wished to hell I could read lips.
Coach Schorr threw his hat across the room. It collided with the whiteboard and dropped to the ground. He pointed at the Creeper dude, and barked the word: “Out.”
Wasn't hard to guess that one.
Then Coach turned on Milline. She capped her marker and crossed her arms.
It took a few seconds for the bullpen audience to find their way to the door. Schorr pointed and bellowed another, louder, “Now” that probably registered on the Richter scale. Creeper bolted. The Dean and the older lady hastened from the room. My unwelcome locker mate joined them as they exited.
Cathy crammed her laptop in her bag and shuffled toward the door. She turned the knob then looked over her shoulder. At Milline. My heart thumped in a wild, rushed beat.
Coach drew his blinds. And that's when I lost sight of her.
Cathy opened the door and ducked out. She glanced around. Jimenez drew near, and she smiled at him. Then her gaze lifted. She met my eyes and pursed her lips. She glanced, again, at the shuttered bullpen.
“He's pissed.” She hissed as she drew near. “I don't know how she's going to take it, but you owe her one. Fix it.”
Before I could ask what she was talking about, she beelined for the exit.
Murmurs and grousing. The creak and crash of lockers opening then shutting. I glanced around as the rest of the team appeared to return to normal. Minus Latske.
A series of loud, dull thumps and thuds. Then Coach Schorr shouted. “I don't want him in my program. He's not allowed to set foot in this locker room, do you hear me? And that goes double for the other one. Shit! Fuck!”
Eberhardt stood, wedged in the doorway. “Hank, calm down. He's already gone.”
“Which one, Jeffrey?”
“Both of them.”
Crack, thud thump thud. “God damned idiots!”
“Go on, Liv.” Eberhardt moved aside as Milline passed by. The door closed behind her.
She didn't look my way as she clutched the bag over her shoulder and left the locker room. I wondered what Schorr told her. I wondered what Cathy was worried about.
“She had your back, 'mano,” Jimenez said a little too close to my ear. I jerked away. “You should at least thank her.”
“Why?” I moved to my locker, now that it was administrative-asshole-free. “I didn't do anything wrong.”
“Seriously? You think those clowns would've figured that shit out? They were ready to yank your plate and send you packing.”
I seethed through clenched teeth. “Fucker stole my phone while I was icing my hamstring.”
“Yeah, he's a real mamagüevo.”
I blinked, ran through the limited Spanish I knew. Nope. Nada.
“Bottom line, though? That greasy dude's data showed you were the cheating pendejo. Bad move, right?”
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. This guy was never going to shut up was he?
“Don’t mess with the guy with the Reporter Chica on his side.” He laughed. “She had him figured out .”
“Will you at least keep your voice down?”
“Bro, she and Cat made the whole lot of them—Latske, that mamón, Lan.” He spit at the ground. “Fuckin careverga. And that amemao Reyes. They all looked like chumps, man.”
“You should thank your girlfriend, Coop.” Fendleman leaned against the locker next to mine. “Heard Eberhardt say she saved the whole athletic department a lot of embarrassment.”
“And she’s hot. You should thank her every day for that.” Dereks put his palms together and mouthed: 'thank you' at the ceiling.
“Probably saved your life, too.” Kinsley smirked.
“She’s not his girlfriend.” Meyers’s drawl grated on my nerves like an entire alley full of cats dragging nails across a chalkboard. While someone recorded it. And played it on repeat.
“She sure as hell ain’t dating you.” Jimenez pointed finger guns at Meyers and chuckled.
“Not yet, but, she’ll come around.” A sly grin slid across his mouth. “I gotta good feeling.”
“Yeah, if it’s in your cup, brah. We’ve all had that good feeling .” Dereks laughed and slapped Kinsley a high five.
“Especially when she runs around in those shorts.” Fendleman raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Right Coop?”
Meyers’s complexion darkened. And I had to admit, my insides felt like his face looked. He snarled something at Dereks as he walked away.
“That one's feral. Wonder what crawled up his ass.”
Jimenez gave him a deadpan look. “Tú si ere aqueroso, nadie te preguntó.”
“Leave her alone.” I grumbled. I shot a dark glare at Fendleman, looking him straight in the eye. “You're lowering the bar. Like a—” I spit at the floor. “Carre verde.”
Fendleman rose to his full height and squared his shoulders. “Get your shit together, Coop . You're on the fence right now. And whether I think you can play? Matters. Lose the ‘tude or pack up.”
“Sack up or pack up.” Dereks grabbed his cup and tugged on it.
“Tell Mrs. Coop thanks, though. Didn't mean any disrespect, there, man.” Kins held out a hand.
I stared at it.
He laughed. “She'll be a great wife.” Shook my hand then saluted. “See ya.” As he headed toward the field, he whooped. “Mrs. Coop saved the day!”
Fuck me.
Jimenez straddled the bench. “I hope she'll take you. The way you make friends, I'll never marry you off.”
“Fuck you, too.”
“What, or you'll call me a carre verde? We're gonna have to work on your street cred, 'mano, that was.” He snickered. “So terrible.”
I shrugged. “Fendleman didn't know.”
“That you called him a green dick?” He huffed. “Car-eh-ver- gah . Is a dickhead. Mamagüevo is a cocksucker. Pendejo?—”
“Means asshole.” I grabbed my glove and shut my locker.
“Good job.”
“Google translate just returns your picture.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, you're funny. Got some jokes.” He gave me a wry smile. “Don't think she's up for being Mrs. Coop. Might want to work on that.”
I groaned. Everything about that sounded like a bad fucking idea.
“And your attitude. And your hitting. Running. Fielding's been pretty shit lately, too.”
I flipped him off. “Maybe carre verde's right. Hope your dick turns green and falls off.”
He shook his head. “It's cause I care, 'mano. Remember that.” He slapped me on the back and then took off at a jog.
I tucked my glove under my arm and lifted my cap. My hand shook as I pulled it over my head. The November sun still glared in the sky and I retreated into the shade, sagging against the side of the building. What a pain.
My body, my eyelids, everything felt heavy. I'd barely slept. Hadn't had much to eat. I couldn't afford another bad practice, but this had all the makings of one. How much longer? I leaned my head back against the wall next to the locker room door. I can't keep this up.
I can't . . . keep up.
I closed my eyes. And her face swam in the space between my brain and my eyelids.
She lowered her head. “That's really your opinion of me?”
I blew out a breath. The overhang came into focus as I stared straight ahead. She didn't stay for practice. That has to be a first. My hand found the opening in my glove and slid inside. She hadn't missed a day. Not one. Even before school started.
“I don't know how she's going to take it, but you owe her one.”
I wonder what Coach said. I looked down at my glove. Traced the lines of wear in the leather. Ran my fingers over the faded logo in the corner. I'd had it for so long . . .
“She had your back, 'mano.”
The scent of grass mixed with the smell of my leather glove. The November weather had finally cooled, and the mild breeze stirred the air and soothed over my skin.
“You should at least thank her.”
I sighed. Yeah, no, she hadn't done any of her whatever-that-was to help me. Like every other reporter on earth—she was only out for herself.
Just stay focused. Don't get involved.
Not even with . . . her .