Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Breslin POV
I closed the latch on the air vent and stepped down from Dotty's senior-rated step stool. “Ow.” I grimaced as I banged my elbow on the arched handle I forgot was there.
“You'll live.”
“Anything else?” I crossed my arms and met her gaze from across the room.
She held up a fluffy blue and white duster, on an extender arm. “Start at the top and work your way down.” She pointed at the top of her bookshelves, lining two entire walls of her living room.
I held back a groan and moved to take the duster. “No lemonade?”
“Oh sure. You want it fresh squeezed, too, Timmy?” She rolled her eyes and shuffled into her kitchenette.
“Thought I was Jack.” I groused at her and eyed the bookshelf. The lower shelves were all books, but the higher ones had some craft and knickknack-y things like Mom had at home. I extended the fluffed end of the duster and swiped at the top of the wood.
“I'll call you whatever I like, Mr. Cooper.” She called back. I shook my head and moved things from the top shelves to the base.
“You should be glad I didn't pick Susan.”
I glanced over my shoulder and found her pulling a pitcher from her refrigerator. She turned and poured something into a glass, then looked up. “Keep moving, or start talking. Those are your choices.”
I went back to dusting. Careful, methodical, it lacked the comfort of playing catch. I couldn't get lost in it, all I could think about was Milline's story, how close I came to kissing her—if it hadn't been for that running mouth of hers.
The way she'd fit against me when I'd accidentally . . . When I held her.
I sighed and rubbed the stringy, fluffy thing around a line of books.
“Great!” Dotty clapped her hands once. “Take a break. I poured filtered water just for you.”
I set down the duster and made my way to the table. “Made it yourself?”
“Just sit. Getting tired of your smartass mouth. You have quite the attitude.”
“So I hear. How do you cope?”
“With what?” She raised an eyebrow.
“With people thinking you have an attitude problem all the time. Could use some pointers.” I tried to keep the smirk off my face.
She stared at me. Lifting her glasses from the chain around her neck, she glared through the lenses as she placed them on her nose. Tapped one finger on her table. “Where did you go last night, since you weren't here?”
I sipped from my water. “Just crashed. Hit a wall. Thought I was coming down with something.”
“Nope. Good try, college boy. I'm betting I know exactly where you were. Which is exactly where an underaged kid shouldn't be.”
I took another sip of my water. Yes, I'd made a mistake. Thanks to her, it didn't have to become a bigger issue. I don't know what I would've done if I'd had to explain to the Director. Lying about it wasn't . . . good. But hell if I knew what I was supposed to do if someone else lied “for me”.
Like that time we snuck out of baseball camp. I didn't start it. I didn't say a word. I went along with it, but it'd been a case of “with them or against them”, with a promise of easy college girls . . . who could be against that?
I shook my head and sighed. At this point, telling the Director that I'd been an epic moron, knowing she and the Deputy were pals—and Coach—wasn't just my own death sentence. It would get Dotty in trouble, too. Right? “Why'd you do it?”
“Cover for you? Hmph. To quote Tom Holt: ‘In spite of intense competition for the job, I believe you're still your own worst enemy.’ Amusing bastard, but a bit jaded for my taste.” Dotty eyed me and drank from her mug. She grimaced, shoving it away. “I should just put ice in it at this point.”
Silence slid into the room. I was OK with that. I still felt like that mishmash of grossness on my floor this morning. Aching head, layers of insides scraped raw and fraying, my mind mixed up and spinning in circles like gears that couldn't catch.
At least, stuck in the closet, I'd had something else . . . some one else to focus on. In the dark, Milline had needed something from me. And for once, I'd been . . . enough.
“I hope I get to see you play. In person this time.”
I stood, knocking the chair off-kilter. It clattered against the tile. I could go back to dusting, needed to put all of her knick-knacks back on the shelf.
“I'm sorry I won't make it to your big game.”
I paced one way, caught myself before I ran into the couch and moved to the bookcase.
“We'd make plans. Like fuckin fairy tales.”
She let out a quiet breath. “It gave her hope.”
Then one day, the game ended. And she was sorry.
“Mr. Cooper.” Dotty called out from somewhere. I put the little ceramic figure of a kid with a cap and gown on the top shelf. I picked up the one of two 'old people' sitting on a bench, holding a book between them—the number thirty painted on the back.
“My mom likes stuff like this.”
Dotty moved closer. She took the figure from my hands and stared at the thing. “My daughter. She's the sentimental one. But the days we want to keep are the ones that go by too fast. And the ones we don't know what to do with, well, those speed by, too.” She set it on the second shelf, in front of the line of books. “You're not like the interns we get around here. Most of them act like we're patients in a terminal ward or at least some communicable disease. Like if they breathe the same air, they'll wake up wrinkled and addicted to daytime television.”
I focused on shuffling her figurines back into place. “I missed hanging around hospitals. This was the next best thing.”
She clicked her tongue. “You're the worst liar I ever saw. I heard Becca—we call her 'the warden' for fun—has to sign off on your hours. So, I know you're not here out of the kindness of your heart.”
“Why does it matter?” I went to pick up the duster, but she'd already grabbed it.
“Why does anything we do matter?” She pointed at me. “Because if it didn't, we wouldn't bother still being here. Doing anything.” She wrinkled her nose at the dust-covered thing, turning and shuffling away. I moved after her. She opened her pantry. A hollow-ish banging filled the air, capped off by a hacking cough. She pulled an extra-large trash container into the living room.
“You ok?”
“Peachy. As old as I am, I was hoping my allergies would die first.” She waved at the air. I reached for the duster, but she pulled it away. “Why does playing baseball matter so much to you, Jack?”
I crossed my arms and shrugged. “I'm good at it.” Something pulled at the sides of my brain. I shooed it away. Focus.
“And? There's nothing more magical to it than you're just good at it?”
The same thing pushed and poked blunt fingers into the corners of my mind. I shook my head, frowned against the laces tightening over my chest. What's happening to me? Stop.
“You're a big guy out here. But you're still a kid in here.” Sharp talons stabbed my ribcage. “You're going to stand there and tell me the only thing about baseball that matters is you're good at it?”
I ran a hand over my face as something roared in my ears. “I figured there has to be a reason. Right? I'm not great at spelling or cooking, geometry or fuckin farming.” I pointed at the door. “I'm good at baseball . I'm not just good, I'm fucking great at it . I should be in the God damned major leagues instead of this crappy piece of shit dustbowl.” I shouted at the ceiling as something uncoiled inside me. It rose and raged. Hot liquid seared the length of my spine. And everything burned.
“But this is my fucking life! My mom died and some reporter wanted a story.” I heaved for air. “And all I cared about was playing in some game . Like that was what mattered. She was dying, and I was mad. I'm still fucking pissed. Criminals survive every day. Murderers and rapists and lunatics. But not her .”
“Life, in all the years I've been living it, son, doesn't make a lick of sense where that's concerned.”
Her words took the last of the fight out of me. Out of fuel, I sunk into her couch. “I should've spent more time with her. She thought I took baseball too seriously.” I stared at something, nothing. The world was a blur around me. “I thought it was because she didn't believe in me. That I could make it.”
“She knew you would, son.” Dotty tilted my chin to look at her. And it was like that day when I was twelve, curled over my bleeding knee and sprained wrist, my bike twisted and broken on the sidewalk. And I was afraid to move, to cry, to breathe . . .
“Look at me. You'll be ok. Breslin, let me help you.”
“. . . she didn't want you to forget there are better things in life. Or who you are. In here.”
And like the dumb kid I was, I couldn't stop my tears.
After the weirdest day I'd ever had, I needed baseball to get my head right. My body ached all over and I would've done just about anything to get back on the field. Maybe even let Milline interview me . . . if she was wearing her see-through shirt.
I took a deep breath and knocked on Coach's door. Eberhardt let me in, he gave me a nod. “Hey, Coop. Glad to see ya.”
I swiped the cap from my head and cleared my throat. “Need to talk to Coach.”
“Don't need a chat. You're here, so I expect you know the deal.”
“Yes sir.”
“No prima donna shit. No trouble. I'm first on your list, not that damned reporter.”
Something grated on my already frayed nerves. My mouth opened without the consent of my brain. “She's staff, though.”
“What?”
I glanced at Eberhardt. “I thought she was staff, not just 'some reporter'. Whatever she does in here. It's important to her.”
Coach spit in his trashcan and glared at me.
“I'm not . . . justifying anything. I get it. And I don't know the whole story, but. She went out of her way to help the team. I know the guys out there . . . think the same.”
He crossed his arms as an awkward silence slipped into the room. An eyebrow lifted. “God damn it, Jeffrey! These kids get more difficult every year! What happened to the days when we just had to worry about teen pregnancy? Not computer whats-its and ROI numbers and get out! Get out and you're running extra laps for missing morning reps, and you'd better be on, Mr. Cooper. I'd better see the most amazing baseball I've ever seen out of a freshman from here on!”
I met Eberhardt's gaze. He nodded toward the door. “You heard him. Ten laps.”
“Got it.” I pivoted, but before I could escape?—
“Make it eleven! And you'd better not get anyone pregnant, either.”
I smacked into the door. “What?”
Eberhardt barked out a laugh. “Hank, you're over the top.”
“Covering all the bases with this one.”
“That is typically how they get the girl pregnant.” Eberhardt chuckled. “How it worked with Kaitlyn.”
Coach shook his head. “Good thing she kept your sorry butt. You and your stupid over Maisy Sue or whatever.”
“Forgot about her. Oh wow.”
“You were a mess back then.” He threw his hat on his desk and sunk down in his chair. “So many have come through here, not just ballplayers but young men, trying to find their way in life.”
“You've made a real difference. You have.”
I cleared my throat. Both coaches turned to look at me. “Am I . . . Bases?” I couldn't form coherent thoughts. Pregnant? I pointed at the door. “Um, can I?—”
“Go!”
They didn't have to tell me twice.