Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Breslin POV
E berhardt blew his whistle. We all paused our warmup as he waved his arms, calling us in. Some grumbles and grunts sounded from members of the team. But we dutifully jogged over as he took the small height advantage offered by the pitcher’s mound.
His dark eyes met mine. Jaw tight, some heavy, pinched expression I couldn't read . . .
“Ok, I'm sure everyone's wondering. But Latske's out, on academic suspension for the rest of the semester.”
A few guys shifted their stances, but no one uttered a sound.
“Trainer's out, too. We'll be looking for a replacement.”
Jimenez took a couple of steps my way. Jesus, this guy. I wanted to ask him: why me? Couldn't he go bother someone else for a change? Like Fendleman or Dereks? They were the most deserving.
“I know this is upsetting. Unfortunately, I can't share more information due to school policy. But please feel free to come by after practice, and if necessary, we can set up time with a mental health professional on campus.”
Yeah, I already have one of those. No thanks.
“Normal protocol would call for us to cancel regular activities, give you all time to process. Let you focus on your studies. But, our exhibition game's in just three weeks. So, we'll keep it light. But let this serve as a reminder as to why you're really here.”
A few grumbles and more shuffling worked through the crowd.
“Baseball's important. But you come here to learn.”
No, I came here to play baseball.
Jimenez nudged me with his elbow. I wouldn't look at him. Fuck off 'mano.
“Don't forget to pay attention to your classes. We have study hall and tutors available every night for support.”
Jimenez's elbow dug into my ribs. I still wouldn't look at him.
“Don't go down in flames, or you won't be on the field.” Coach held up his hands. “Any questions?” He glanced around at the assembled members of our team. “Good, now get back to work.”
I turned to head out into the outfield. And almost ran straight into Jimenez. I groaned inside. “What?”
He nodded at the station set up for sprints. “Heading over to conditioning first. Best chance to beat me.”
“You really are an asshole.”
“Pendejo. I hear it's your new nickname. Pendejo Cooper. Has a great ring to it.”
I hated him. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time. But at that moment, I actually felt like laughing—at the ridiculous normalcy of it all. I needed it right then.
I'd never tell him that, though. I'd pay him back the way a good teammate would.
By whipping his ass in wind sprints.
I stood between first and second base, a little farther back, in the grass. Knees bent. My weight on the balls of my feet. Coach stood at the plate, fungo resting on his right shoulder. He held up a hand. Dereks, the starting shortstop from last year's team, flipped the coach a practice ball.
“Look alive. Come on, quick feet, deft hands. Sharp minds. Who wants it?” He tossed the ball in the air and whipped the light-core bat through the air, topping the ball. It clunked to the ground and stopped only a few feet down the third base line. Jimenez leapt from behind the plate. He palmed the ball and spun as he released the throw. It went wide of the first baseman.
I shook my head. Sloppy. Come on.
“Take a lap.” Coach pointed with his fungo.
Jimenez threw his glove down. He hung his head and dutifully started down the first base line toward the outfield.
Idiot. Get your head out of your ass.
I punched my fist into the pocket of my glove. It made a satisfying thunk sound.
“Look alive. Who wants it. Come on, quick feet quick feet.” Coach called out. We stayed low and shuffled on our toes. “Shift.”
I shuffle-stepped right, moving closer to the bag at second. Clunk ! The ball sang as Eberhardt hit a line drive straight up the middle. I pivoted. The ball raced through the air. I stretched and lunged, catching it off the hop just shy of the base. It was under me, and I stumbled over the bag. Shit.
I imagined the runner. I could dig the ball out of my glove and throw off-kilter. But I was already too slow. I righted myself and held my position, tagging the base and facing first.
Eberhardt nodded. He held up a hand and I threw him the ball.
I got back in position just in time to see Jimenez, sucking wind, pull his face mask back on and crouch behind the plate.
“All right. Look alive out there. Look alive. Who wants it?”
He sent the next ball sailing above third base. Fendleman waved off the incoming outfielder. He caught the ball and drilled it to first. A solid throw with good power. But he pulled Stanton a step off the bag.
“Take a lap!” Eberhardt pointed. Fendleman ducked his head.
I wiped sweat and dirt from my forehead before replacing the cap on my head. Some 'light practice'. Yeah, right.
Fendleman trudge off to right field. Behind him, the rest of the freshman were doing the jog-and-scoop maneuvers.
At least I'm getting real reps.
“Strikers, look alive out there. Look alive!”
And I couldn't stop the image that popped into my brain: of my reflection earlier this morning. Eyes red and glazed over, the world swimming in my vision, a stranger with a desolate version of my face. Unfocused. Unseeing. Drowning and barely breathing.
Look alive? I stared into the webbing of my glove. How much longer . . . can I even pretend?
If I’d thought I’d make it out of the locker room that day unscathed—because of my innocence on the hacking front—I had grossly underestimated Schorr’s aggravation. At the situation, me, someone disrupting his afternoon nap. Shit if I knew, but I hadn't done anything wrong?
“Sit your ass down in that there chair, hotshot.” Coach Schorr pointed through the window at one of his office chairs. I sucked in a breath and did as I was told. He closed the door behind him.
“Today was a fuckin fiasco. And for some reason, you were at the center of it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“While technically that’s true. And I’m sure it seems unfair to be yelled at about something you had no knowledge of. Because you didn’t, right? You didn’t talk to a God damned reporter before you spoke to your coach?”
I swallowed. Hard. Fuckin shit. What should I have told him? I shook my head. I couldn’t speak.
“Good. Because I shouldn’t have to remind you that you are here by the grace of God, Coach Jay, that man over there.” He gestured at the picture of Eberhardt hanging on the wall. “And every bit of favor I owe the Sabers organization. Do you think we just pull scholarships outta our ass, son?”
I lowered my head. “No sir.”
“Let me make things crystal clear to you, Mr. Cooper: you need to stay out of trouble. As far away from it as you can get. And if it happens to creep up on you, you run. And where do you run? You run to me or to Jeffrey over there, and we are the first to God damn know that you ate something that didn’t agree with you and so you spent the night in the shitter. If you get a hangnail, decide to take a vow of silence, if you think you want to try getting married and having babies while you’re still in college. If you miss a class, get a sniffle, have a bad fuckin hair day, I am the first to know. Think of me as your new BFF that only wants to know the bad stuff. But I sure as hell, do not want to find out because the God damned newspaper sponsor and the Dean are in my office . Do you hear me?”
I’m pretty sure there were residents of the cemetery the next county over who heard him. “Yes, sir.”
He blew out a breath. “Jeffrey says I need to apologize to your friend. But she winds me up, that one. So much like her brother.” He swept a hand over his head and continued muttering some string of words that sounded like: “. . . if she could pitch like him . . . but she wants to be a—” He glared and met my gaze. “You listening to me?”
“Uh, friend, coach?”
“Milline. God damned Millines making my life harder than it has to be. And I came outta retirement for this shit.” He threw his hat down on his desk. “Jesus, Cooper. One of my players paid the trainer to steal tests for Chrissakes!”
“Not worth spitting on.” I reached for something my dad would’ve said and that’s what came out. Must’ve satisfied Schorr because his features finally relaxed and he sunk into his chair.
“How’s the head shrinker lady? That doing any good?” He leaned back, steepled his hands and frowned.
“I'd rather play baseball.”
“Yeah.” He made a harsh sound that wasn't quite a chuckle. “And I'd rather have a head fulla hair. But you boys, every season my forehead grows higher. I'm pretty damn sure that if I have to deal with four years of your shit, Cooper, it's all gonna be gone and I'll be one bald sonofabitch.”
I let out a long breath. Wait, if? “Coach?”
“You’re not there yet, Cooper. I need to know the Captain’s behind you. That you’ll be part of a team. I don’t see it. You’re talented. But talent only gets you so far. Your team spirit sucks. I can’t have lone wolf assholes who think their shit smells better than the rest.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you’ve got two weeks left. Make ‘em count or start looking in the trade portal.”
“But my scholarship. And my legal crap. All of that took sponsored petitions, and?—”
“So you’ll sit out a season. Not the end of the world.”
“The hell it’s not. I’m here for one reason: to prove I can still play. You can’t take that?—”
“And that’s your problem, right there. We’re not here to be your supporting cast. You’re here to be part of this team because you want to wear the uniform and do your part. When you’re ready to be a Striker, door’s open. If you’re under the mistaken impression this is the Cooper show, where you play some games and prove you’re still a talented asshole that belongs in the draft? Then get the fuck outta my office. And don’t darken my door again.”
“I just want to play ball, coach.”
“Then get over yourself. Learn to be part of the team. Or pack your God damned bags. I’ve won this university six national championships, and you know what they all had in common?”
“I don't . . . know?”
“None of them included Breslin fucking Cooper on the roster. Yet somehow? We still won.”
My insides turned into a numb, wobbly gelatin.
“Don’t come to practice tomorrow unless you’ve changed your attitude. Furston can suck an omelet full of eggs.”
This wasn’t happening. That’s what I told myself as my legs lifted me from the chair, moved me through the door, out of the fieldhouse . . . to my truck.
I sat there, in the driver's seat for God knows how long. Staring. Replaying Schorr's words in my head.
“Don’t come to practice tomorrow . . .”
“You’ve got two weeks left. Make ‘em count or start looking in the trade portal.”
Fuck. Not this. Not this! What do I do? How do I fix this? Mom would?—
I glanced down at my phone. And it hit me all over again.
Mom was gone. Dad and Declan, out of my life.
There was no one to call.
And if I lost my scholarship, if I lost this place, this chance, I was legally an adult. With no real money. No place to go.