Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Olivia POV
I shot a text to Antonio and Hilda, saying I hoped their coffee went better than my interview. As I stepped through the auto-lock hallway door, I caught site of an unseemly trashcan all akimbo. Trash piled up beside it. “Oh, the place is in shambles. Here, let me fix things.” I adjusted the top to fit on the can correctly, then picked up the spilled trash, shoving it through the spring-loaded door-thingy. “Be more like Coop, really? Of all the!” I crammed a cardboard box into the repaired bin. “Just ugh!”
I stormed through the corridor toward the check-in desk. An empty check-in desk. I huffed and ran a hand over my forehead. Seriously? I just want out of this place. I glanced around the area. A door formed a wedge in the far wall. Maybe the kid was in there?
I moved closer, noting a white lump of fabric spilling from inside. “What's he doing? That is definitely a hazard. Some old lady would probably trip.” I knelt and tried to gather the stuff. It was long and a little shimmery. The end was rolled up, but the fabric was slippery—like satin? “Hell of a tablecloth.” I sighed and had to take the bag off my upper arm after it slipped from my shoulder. I shoved it next to a fake plant, piling the fabric into my arms. The door didn't seem to want to budge. I kicked at it, trying to move it wider, and ended up turning sideways to fold myself in.
Something clattered on the ground. I turned. “Oh, crap, my phone?—”
“Dammit, I told you, Dotty Schreiber said—Shit!” A heavy thud. I whirled around just as Coop rushed at me. My heart leapt into my throat. I might've screamed.
I hugged the tablecloth to my chest, closed my eyes and ducked. An arm caught me around my waist and pulled me close. A loud bang! I opened my eyes but the place was dark.
“Sonofabitch.” Coop's breath hushed and rushed near my ear. He pulled me forward into the darkness. Another bang, a slap, a knock. He groaned. I rested my cheek on the mountain of tablecloth wedged between us. He held onto me, the scent of sandalwood and coffee smelled like heaven.
“We're stuck.”
“Hm?”
“I couldn't find the wedge. Dammit.” Another thud against the door. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to move? Ditch the fabric and wrap my arm around him? Bury my face in his chest and lick his collarbone? That last one was probably a no.
“Fuck. Those maintenance assholes.” He seethed.
“There was just a tablecloth piled around the door . . .”
“It was rolled up and stuck in the—Nevermind.” He huffed out a breath. “Where's your phone? Just call the main line and tell them we're in the maintenance closet.”
I buried my face in the fabric. Were we really trapped, together, in a closet? Oh shit . I crushed my eyelids closed. Not trapped. We’re not trapped. Just stuck . . . for a few minutes. It’s fine. Someone will get us ? —
“Milline. Your phone.”
“I dropped it. Outside.” I hugged the tablecloth tighter.
He groaned. “Dammit.”
“I was trying to keep people from tripping. I didn’t know. And then my phone just fell. And the door closed and I?—”
“It’s ok.” His voice sounded strangely . . . soft. Considering the cursing and groaning of a few seconds ago. He took a deep breath, and I felt it because, oh, he was still holding onto me?
“You don't have yours?”
“It's 'for emergencies only'. I left it in Dotty's apartment,” he said in a half grumble, half sigh.
“I see.” Was there any way to get rid of this fluff of fabric in my arms? His arm around my waist practically burned, fringed with tingly currents. I turned my head and tried to see . . . anything else, but it was just darkness. And him.
“Livvie? Why the hell are you—?” My brother's voice sounded low and deep. I ducked my head into my kneecaps. The hems of coats brushed against the back of my shoulders.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and tried to stifle a whimper. An anxious stew bubbled in my abdomen.
And all I wanted was for Breslin to keep holding me.
Breslin POV
“I left my purse, dropped my phone. But no one's going to be looking for me anytime soon. At least you'll be missed at baseball practice. Someone might even think to look here for you eventually. Please tell me we won't be in here that long?”
How did she say all of that in one breath? It was a mystery to me. She panted for air. Vibrations ran through muscle and skin. “You ok?”
“Ah, sure, fine. It's absolutely the best part of my day so far, being locked inside a closet.” She shifted and her thigh brushed my leg. Hazy images from my morning shower nagged at my brain. She trembled.
I released her and took a step back. If she thought I was a problem or threat in some way, I should give her space. There was room in the back of the closet. It wasn't wide, but it was long. A section of blank storage space sat behind the built-in shelves. Could sit back there and just wait. My shoes thudded on the tile floor as I moved away from the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Just—there's more room in the back.”
“Ok. Um, I'll see if maybe I can see my phone. Maybe it dropped near enough?—”
“It's got a seal on the door. They have to keep count of the stuff in this closet for a state grant or some shit.” I ran a hand over my forehead. “Maintenance guys lectured me and they were calling the Director, so they'll find us. Or Dotty will break down the door.”
“She won't think you just bailed?”
“No chance.”
“I can't see anything. I thought my eyes would've adjusted by now, but it's just dark. I swear I'm going to start eating carrots with every meal.” A soft thud. “Ow. Where are you?”
“Here. I'm here,” I said and drew out the words for her. A shape moved, just outlines.
“I swear it's pitch black in here. How can you—” I caught her arm and pulled. She stumbled forward, into me. No longer holding that wad of fabric, one hand gripped my biceps. Her thigh pressed against mine.
“I'm right here,” I said.
“Oh.”
Several heartbeats rushed by, but she didn't move. Her breath on my neck, the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her shirt. “You're . . . you're still holding onto me. I mean it's ok, I just. I don't know why you would and it's?—”
“Ah, uh, yeah.” I let go of her, but the feel of her remained. Like she'd been etched into parts of my skin. “Blame my mental health specialist.” I huffed out a breath and would have stared at my hands, but I couldn't see them. “Didn't expect her to be right.” Idiot .
“What's that?” Her hand wrapped around my forearm. “Your therapist or something?”
“Or something.”
“You don't have claustrophobia right?” She released her grip on me. “Not that there's anything wrong with it and I might even empathize. It's kinda weird because I used to find them safe, I think. Or at least I remember hiding in closets when my parents fought. But, uh, sorry. We were talking about you. And blaming your mental health person?”
My back found the wall. “Said I needed to hug people or some shit. Probably the magic eight ball diagnosis. Delinquent kid's acting out because? Shake. Your answer is: not enough hugs.”
She let out a giggle. “Sounds like a true-life documentary. Not Enough Hugs: The Storm Cooper Story.”
“Yeah, wasn't sure what to think about that nickname.”
“It was inventive. But you might run into trademark issues eventually.”
The darkness wasn't completely quiet. The din of the kitchen clattered and clinked faintly through the walls. Her breaths shushed. When I closed my eyes, the air crackled. Don't remember the shower. Talk about something else.
“That was the first and maybe last time playing baseball for a crowd that size. Couldn't even enjoy it.” I lowered myself to a sitting position.
“That's a hard one.”
“Every move felt like I was running on nails. My whole body ached like I could've been a million years old—at seventeen.”
“You played pretty well. I mean, considering. Tanner shut you down at the plate, but your team rallied. Once they knocked him out . . .” She puffed out a breath, and it sounded like she was sitting, too. “Well, you were there. You lived it. I wasn't allowed to go.”
“Most people couldn't.”
“Yeah, you know, just meant that, um, hey, did you skip training this morning?”
I stared into the dark, but could barely make out the outline of her shoulder. I let out a long breath. “Schorr told me not to show up unless I changed my attitude.”
“Oh. That's, hm. He was in a real mood. Guess he feels entitled to be a stubborn mule since he's old or something. Maybe he just needs to cool off? He didn't cut you, right? That wasn't?—”
“Not sure.” I folded my arms on top of my knees and shook my head. “He said I was just out for myself. I'm not sure how that's even possible in a team sport.”
“Hm.” A drumming, tapping sound erupted from her ‘side’ of the small room.
“What're you doing?”
“Oh. Sorry. Just thinking.” It stopped. Her hand slid over my shin . . . and needed to keep going. Heat pooled in my abdomen. I held my breath.
Her hand stilled. “Um, Coop?”
“Yeah.” My voice rumbled as I forced it through my lips.
“Can I sit beside you? I'm, uh this—please?” The last word pitched up an octave.
“Yeah.”
What happened next was a strange series of shuffling and her hands in awkward places. When she placed her palm on my chest and finally spilled next to me, it was all I could do not to trap the thing there. To keep her near.
And then she was sitting so close . The citrusy scent of her perfume or shampoo tinged the warm space beside me. An electricity crackled in the darkened room. I swallowed, hard. “Better?”
A hesitation. A breath. Something pulled or pushed, but I needed to be closer. Maybe she understood what was happening. Maybe she felt this same?—
“You could let me interview you? Storyline: Standout Baseball Prodigy Needs More Hugs.” Her hair brushed my arm. “In a touching battle that reminds us that athletes are more than their exploits on the field, freshman Striker Breslin Cooper holds a simple desire. This powerhitter and former number one in the high school baseball rankings, frankly, he just needs a hug.”
My heart skipped a beat at the sound of my name. When everyone else in the world seemed to forget I had a first name at all, she would say it—with just a hint of an accent that was uniquely her.
“You could have your own crowd of little helpers hanging around the locker room.”
“Helpers?”
“You know, like the gaggle of women who follow Tanner everywhere.”
I grumbled. “Don’t compare me to him. And no, no interview.” I leaned my head back against the wall. Fuckin Meyers .
“Well, I tried. It'll be a weird gap in my reporting. Never being able to feature a quote or an interview from one of the starting roster. I wonder how long it'll take Mrs. P to notice.” She sighed. “If I can even land the assignment. Not looking good so far.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. Or why.
“But, when we get out of here, I’ll give you a hug. If you want.”
My stomach dropped into that heated, simmering pool in my abdomen. Oh, if there was one thing I couldn’t deny, it’s that I wanted her wrapped around me. All of her.
“You don’t have to, though, I know we’re not exactly friends. Coworkers, maybe? But if it would help or anything, I'm here. Do you have to like the person for it to be helpful? Keep you from your downward spiral into delinquency and all that.” Trembling fingers found my forearm.
“Not sure. They’d probably have to be quiet, though.”
A harsh puff of air rushed from her lips. “Oh ha ha ha. I talk a normal amount . You don’t-talk an abnormal amount. And then there’s your Storm Cooper glare.”
“Patent pending,” I said to the outline of her in the dark.
There was a pause. “Did you just say patent pending? Was that like an actual joke? Are you ok? You’re really coming unglued being locked in here.”
“I think you’re the one who's nervous.”
“I'm fine. I'll be fine. There's air, we can breathe.” She inhaled a shaky-sounding breath, as her hand tightened around my arm. “Right? When you said 'seal', that didn't mean air, did it?”
“There's a vent.”
“Ok good. See, nothing to worry about. Totally fine.”
The heat in my stomach flickered higher, warming my chest. “My . . . mother would struggle with feeling shut in.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She shifted, and her touch lightened. “Hospital rooms can be small.”
“She would give me this look, and that would be my cue to get her out of there, take her for a walk.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “When she couldn't, anymore. It was like . . .” I stared into the dark haze of the room.
“What was it like?” Her voice was soft as her hand slipped to rest on my wrist. That warm flickering ventured higher.
“It was like this game or something. We never called it that, but it was to me. Pretending I'd go to college like she wanted me to.” I closed my eyes and tried to keep the memories at bay. But they ached and burned all the way through. “We'd make plans. Like fuckin fairy tales.”
“It gave her hope.”
“It was just dumb kid stuff. What to buy for my dorm room, classes I'd take. Ordinary things.” Silence hung like darkened cobwebs in the air—sticky, vacant, they slowed buzzing thoughts and empty words.
But I couldn't hide behind them forever.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I hate feeling like this. It's like you want to say something, convey . . . something. But it's not about the words. And yet we think that we need to say something.”
The heat in my stomach mixed with freezing liquid. The strange hot-and-cold stew tumbled over. “Huh?”
“I'm sure everyone's sorry and said they're sorry, and you've heard it a thousand times. We all mean well, by the way. We just don't have words.”
I rubbed a hand over my forehead. Maybe that was the end of it. A little different than the standard lines. She meant well. Good talk. “It's fine. Most people just say ‘sorry’. I don’t need a speech.”
“I'm not, though.” Her hair swished against my arm as she shook her head. “It's sad your mother died. It is. Because of all the things she'll miss. It's very sad. But, I'm glad she lived.”
The words hit like a sucker punch to my stomach. Air whooshed from my lungs. My whole-body aching and raw, I pulled from her grasp and rose to my feet. I glanced in the direction of the door, but the shrinking space was dark and still.
How could she of all people find those words? Strange and rambling awkward fucking words that made everything hurt all over again. People were supposed to say they were sorry, look sad for a moment, and then talk about the weather. Or ask something else mundane that didn't fucking matter. Platitudes like “if there's ever anything I can do . . .”
And if it weren't my mother, I wouldn't know what to say or do for someone either. “Why?” Was all I could manage.
“My mother left when I was seven. Lots of 'I'm sorry' and 'poor things’ said to and about me. But all that matters from that time was my brother, making sure life felt normal. When it's not . . . normal for a mother to turn her back on her children.”
I sucked in a breath. This was too much. Too damned much to feel or think. I should be training right now. That's what I needed. Not, not this.
“So, what classes will you take? Your first semester?”
“What the hell? Are you—” And that's when it hit me. She was telling me she was anxious. The signs had all been there: tremors and shakiness. Probably the rambling. Especially the rambling.
Yeah, I was ‘dumb brained’ as Coach Jay used to call us, when we were making boneheaded mistakes. I shoved my hands in my pockets. Hung my head. “Probably make me take all the same crappy shit I took in high school.”
“Like economics?”
I huffed. “That one'll be the worst. Guaranteed.” I moved back to approximately, where I thought I'd been sitting before. I think I missed. She felt further away.
“Do you think they'll have hangers in the dorms or we'll need to buy some?”
“No idea. Probably have to bring our own, is my guess.” I scooted closer to the sound of her voice. Should I ask if she was ok? Pretend I didn't know? She'd had my back with all that crazy hacking crap. “Should get my truck tuned up.”
“Some new tires. It's a long way to drive from Ramona, Oklahoma.”
“You'll call me when you get there. I'll be worried. That's what mothers do best, you know.”
I couldn't play anymore. I hoped she'd be ok. Hell, I'd hold her, hold onto her as long as she'd let me. Just don't make me . . .
“You're not a bad guy, you know.”
My stomach un-knotted and my lungs managed to pull in air. “First person to think that in a while.”
“Nah, Dotty has you figured out,” she said with a breathy laugh. “I wish I could figure her out. I need to write an article for Founders’ Day. And it can't be a run-of-the-mill bio, has to be some amazing take on her story, or Mrs. P will kill my grade.”
“Maybe being a reporter’s not your gig.”
“Really.” Her voice dropped and found a sharper edge.
I shrugged. “You could try something else?”
“And lose my baseball remit and built-in excuse to pester you on a daily basis? Hm. Convenient.”
“You’ll find other reasons. As for baseball, you do a pretty banger job at filing.”
She nudged me with her elbow. “You sure it’s a hug you need and not a punch to the face?”
“You could try. Kinda short though.” I spoke to the top of her head. “Maybe a punch to my knee.”
“Knee to the groin?” Her voice was syrupy sweet.
I winced. “Negatory. And violent for someone holding my arm like it’s a lifeline.”
She let go. But I almost couldn't tell the difference, the way my forearm prickled and stung. “Schorr's mad at me. I don’t think I’m filing anymore.”
“Did he say you were fired?”
“He said he was disappointed. That I knew better. I’d abused his trust in me. And I have a lot of growing up to do.”
Sounds familiar. “He’s testing you. Wants to see whether you’re the type to give up. Or pick yourself out of the dirt, admit you made a mistake and keep going.”
“Oh. So then maybe it's the same for you?”
“Me? He knows what I'm made of. I think. I dunno. How can I prove I'm a team player when from day one those guys . . .” Had it out for me like I came in with a target on my back. I shook my head. “Not even on the fuckin team, yet.” Not on the fuckin team at all. Dammit. Can't get back in if I'm not on the field.
“Mmmm, someone told me a story once. Hotshot one-of-a-kind pitcher joined a ballclub after playing for their biggest rival. Almost like Yankees—Red Sox bad.”
“Ouch.”
“He wanted to show them that he was part of the team, tried giving gifts, donating to local charities. They weren't in his face about stuff, but made it clear: he wasn't one of them.”
“Tough. Sure the paycheck helped soften the blow.” I closed my eyes. “So, what'd he do?”
“When you've got a million-dollar arm, I think the money's just there. But you're missing the point: we can't change other people. What they think, how they feel.”
“There was a point?”
She huffed. “It's not as important what he did as what you can still do . I can tell you the pitcher met with these guys one on one, learned about their families, their goals, what made them tick. But there wasn't a magic cure. Some guys would always hate him because of where he came from. Others, he became closer to over time. Whichever path his teammates chose, he made it a point to show he cared about them . And let the rest go.”
What, was this some kind of riddle?
“Being part of a team looks different to different people. The question is what does it look like to Breslin Cooper?”
I'm sure I was scowling. My face felt pinched and tight. She sounded like Coach Jay, that guy was always pushing me. Frustrating the shit out of me like he knew so much more. And I was just a dumb fucking kid. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Good talk, Coach .” I stood, banging my shoulder on the corner of a shelf. I seethed as I paced toward the door.
“Breslin?”
“What?”
“I hope I get to see you play. In person this time.”
I wanted to hit something, shout at her then kiss her hard on the mouth until she forgot everything and everyone but me. To break down the door on this closet, and get as far away from her as I could, but still hold on to that warm, anchoring feeling when I held her.
How could she be so damned—! A growl tore from my throat, but nothing else. My mouth opened, but couldn't find the words that seemed to come so easily for her.
I slammed the outside of my fist against the wall.
Light crashed into the room with the creak of the door—casting a long shadow along the floor. Before I could turn, I caught sight of her, huddled in a ball.
“I remember hiding in closets when my parents fought.”
“My mother left when I was seven.”
The pounding in my ears stopped. My heart stutter-stepped and slowed its pace.
She lifted her head and winced, those legs slowly unfurling. Her palms on the ground, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. A blond piece of hair stuck to her cheek. Was she crying? The urge to move the wayward strand pricked at the tips of my fingers.
Milline's blue-green eyes opened and met my gaze. Her mouth tilted, then she lifted herself from the floor. I enjoyed the view for a moment—some combination of wiggling and stretching that I wanted to remember.
I ran a hand through my hair, my insides a jumbled, aching mix I didn't understand. I tried to tamp it down, but it just burrowed deeper inside my chest. If there was a way to claw it out— I just need to get out of here. I turned, moving through the doorway, I picked up her dropped phone and bag.
” . . . the whole lot of you, I'm the one who sent him. We’re allowed to have air filters, ya damn hornswogglers.” Dotty huffed in the face of the lead maintenance worker. He glanced my way as I neared. I gave him my best Storm Cooper glare.
“You're supposed to create a ticket,” the director said. “You of all people know?—”
“Cooper works here. He was willing to help. There's no excuse for locking him up.”
“Oh my gosh, we did not lock him up, Dotty! It was an accident for chrissakes.” The director-lady turned to look at me. “You're not?—”
“I'm fine. She's the one to worry about.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “Reporter. Probably already called her attorney.” I glanced at Milline over my shoulder.
Her eyes widened and she stared. Her face blazed a deep red color as she sputtered. “That'd be a neat trick seeing as you have my phone.” She made a beeline for me. Grabbing for her purse, she pulled it from my grip, then held out a hand for her mobile.
“We say please and thank you here, child,” Dotty groused. “Young people and their manners. And don't you get me started on you.” She wagged a finger in the face of the maintenance guy. “You're going to get me my air filters. Cooper will install them. No tickets this time, Becca.”
The back and forth faded as I met Milline's gaze. Pursed lips, chin raised, she glared. I held up her phone.
“Decided to add 'theft' to your rap sheet after all?”
I pressed my eyes shut as the verbal blow landed in the soreness of an open wound. “Cheap shot. But, fitting.”
I handed back her device. She pocketed it and crossed her arms over her chest. “You called yourself a delinquent.” She looked away. “ That’s fitting.”
“Cheap shots are what I expect from reporters.” The words felt like sand on my tongue, worse than those dry-as-dirt sandwiches.
“Sorry. Guess I forgot for a second, that we're not on the same team .” Her ponytail whipped through the air as she spun away from me. Took a step and stopped. She glanced at me over her shoulder. “Don't worry, Cooper, I won't make the mistake again.” She practically ran to the lobby desk, the director hot on her heels.
And just like that, the churning stew inside me stopped. It froze into a solid, jagged lump that someone stabbed into my gut.
It was better if she left me alone. It was . . . better.
“Well, if there's one thing your mother didn't have to worry about, it was becoming a grandmother too young. Come on, Jack, we've got some maintenance to do while you say your peace.”
I glanced down at the pint-sized elderly woman with her white hair and pinched features. “I just came by to say thanks.”
A weird sort of smirk formed on her face. “Oh no, Mr. Cooper, you owe me one. So you're gonna change my filters and replace some light bulbs. And I've got dusting in high places that's long overdue.”
I shook my head and sighed. “Sure.”
“And you're gonna stop being a knucklehead, open those lips and talk.”
I crossed my arms.
“Or I'll call blondie back here and tell her the real reason you work the desk. I'm sure she'd love a story with some headline like: Tarnished All-Star Appears Nightly in Silverado.”
I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound like I'm on stage at a nightclub.”
“Yeah, well, no one accused me of being a reporter.” She pulled on my elbow. “Get your tuckus in gear.” I did my best slow-walk beside her. We paused at the hallway door. She pointed to the air filters leaning against the wall.
“You've only got a couple of hours before practice starts.” She waved her access badge at the reader, then turned and gave me a nudge. I grabbed the handle, pulling the door open for her.
“Schorr's gone soft in his old age if you're still on his roster.”
A phantom force sucker punched me in the gut as I leaned down to grab her filters. “Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck this whole God damned college shit.” I groaned.
“Yeah, you're one smooth conversationalist aren't you?” She tugged me through the doorway. My feet moved like they'd turned to lead. “Oh, come now. Unless Andressa's recovered her cold and signed up for karaoke tonight, the fat lady's not singing your tune, yet.”