Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Breslin POV
Friday Afternoon Practice
A ir crackled through the fieldhouse. Bright sunlight bathed the ballfield even as a crisp breeze bit at any bare bits of flesh. Late autumn days in West Texas were only less-hot than summer, but nighttime temperatures swept in before sunset. Something about a crisp but-bright fall afternoon screamed baseball weather. And we were only a few weeks away from our exhibition game.
“Look alive out there. Look alive.” Ping! The ring of the bat. A pop fly, an easy out to the short stop. I raced toward second. Planted my foot in the center of the bag. Dereks pivoted and slung the ball at me. I whipped my glove up and snagged it from mid-air.
A small hop off the base, avoiding the cleats of a phantom baserunner. I threw to Fendleman, covering third. He batted at it, but managed to hold onto the ball. Bad form. He launched a rocket at first. Stanton lifted his glove, plucking it out of the air.
“Sloppy.” I grumbled under my breath.
“Too slow.” Coach Eberhardt bellowed from the batter’s box. Fungo slung over his shoulder, he kicked some dirt. “You guys want to play or what?”
“Yes coach.” Voices piped up, out of sync.
“Yes coach!”
“Damn right we do!”
“Then get your heads out of your asses, right now. Exhibition game’s a week away, and not one of you looks like you belong on the field come game time.”
I wasn’t in the mood for this shit. This was our starting lineup? I should be in centerfield. Or at short. What the fuck was Fendleman doing batting at my throw like a middle schooler?
Garbage. And I was fuckin stuck at second. I punched my fist into my glove. And an extra time just for good measure. I crouched into my ready position.
Ping! Coach sent the ball sailing into short centerfield. Kinsley tore through the outfield as Dereks, shielding his eyes from the sun backpedaled from the basepath toward the grass. I covered second, a growing sense of alarm churning in my abdomen. One of you has to call it. Come on, you idiots. Call it!
Kinsley had the better line on it, but unless he could pull off some kind of amazing dive, he wasn't catching up with it. Dereks, pretty sure he lost the damned thing in the sun.
Sure enough, the ball dropped to the ground. And then it was like collegiate athletes got replaced with t-ball toddlers. Kinsley dove, sliding across the ground. He took out Dereks from behind. The ball settled into the grass. Both of those guys groaning and completely outside of the play. I ran to the ball, scooping it up. I pegged it at Fendleman—a perfectly reasonable throw. Maybe a bit too hard, but on target. He couldn't hold onto it. Batted it onto the basepath. Fumbled and tripped. Picked it up. Overthrew Jimenez at home plate.
Eberhardt pulled his cap down over his face. His complexion an angry, mottled red. Jimenez threw his helmet at the ground and started swearing in Spanish.
“Hijo de puta, a quién diablos le estabas lanzando la pelota? Tu abuela en las gradas? Estúpido, mi hermana lanza mejor que tu.”
Fendleman, like most of us, probably didn't understand much Spanish. But the rapid pace of syllables dripping from Jimenez's salty tongue said everything. Between the 'estupido' and the hand gestures, we got the gist.
“Fuck you, Jimenez,” Fendleman snarled and pointed his glove.
“Hey, we're a team.” I called out. Someone had to, they were behaving like children. “Shake it off.”
“And fuck you, too, Cooper. You think you're some kind of hot shit, throwing a fastball like that? You're just trying to make me look bad.”
“You don't need Coop to make you look bad,” Jimenez spat at the ground. “Lo haces todo por tu cuenta.” He sneered.
“What'd you just call me?” Fendleman threw down his glove.
“Enough!” Eberhardt roared. “That's it, all of you, take a lap. In fact, take ten then hit the showers. You're done.”
Fuck. A collective groan rose from the group. I threw my glove at the ground and took a breath. Picked up my feet and started to jog toward the baseline. Ten laps was a pretty long distance to run at the end of practice. But we deserved it, as a team.
Jimenez caught up and fell in step beside me. Still muttering a string of obscenities. He'd pulled off his catcher gear and still caught up with me. I silently wished I could get away with swearing like he did. The jackass.
He huffed at me. “Still up for Hoppers?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I panted back. Damn, this run shouldn't be wearing me out like this. If I could get a decent night’s rest, maybe it wouldn’t. I willed my brain to focus on moving my feet and legs. The rhythmic crunch of dirt beneath my cleats. Breathe in through my nose, one two, out through my mouth, three four. The scent of grass and dirt jogged with me.
“I'll save you a seat.” Jimenez picked up his pace, moving ahead of me.
“Motherfucker.” I spit and swore at him. Willed my body to move faster.
There's no way I'll let him beat me.
Hoppers Dance Hall and Bar
The place was crammed on a Friday night. A ridiculous, oversized cowboy boot hung from the ceiling in the entrance. Shouting and jeering rang out and Jimenez stopped. “Woah, we gotta do that.” He pulled my arm over to the bizarre inflated flooring that surrounded a mechanical bull. Two people sat back-to-back, one holding on for dear life and the other laughing like a lunatic.
I groaned. “Terrible idea.”
“They gave it horns. And red eyes like a demon.”
“I'm starving. I need real food, not student center rations or senior living leftovers.”
The bull picked up speed, bucking and spinning. One person slid off the back landing on her back. She laid there, laughing while the mechanical 'animal' swung over her. It stopped short, sending the other one flying. The first one rolled just as her friend landed. I winced.
“Oh, dude, d'you see that?” Jimenez grabbed my shoulder. “That's brutal!”
“The one looks like she knocked her head on the other girl's shoulder.” I shook my head as both riders rose, giggling like mad as they tripped over the uneven mat. “Looks like a mess.”
“We're doing that, 'mano.”
“No, we're not.”
“We'll eat, first.” He clapped me on the back and steered me toward the bar. In the center of a . . . track?
“What the hell's that? More laps?”
“Dance floor. You get Reporter Chica to wear her short shorts and some cowboy boots and take her here as an excuse to put your hands all over her.”
I started to tell him to fuck off, the words were on my lips. And then a couple came whirling around the bend—the woman had one leg around the guy's thigh as they spun. Another couple appeared and that chick had her back flat against her partner. His hand glued to the bare skin beneath her ribcage. It looked like her ass was grinding into the front of his jeans. “In public?”
“Could be you, and Liv.” That asshole sang her name.
Oh God, I did not need more images of Milline implanted in my brain. I had zero desire to try dancing, but my body was all-in on . . . And they were not continuing around the dance floor. He maneuvered her into the bar . . . where they began to suck face.
“He's gonna get her pregnant in the parking lot.” Jimenez pointed after them.
“And you'd better not get anyone pregnant!”
I groaned. What had I done to deserve—Nope. Food. I scooted across the polished dance floor, intent on food and a 'recovery drink', or five. Whatever it took to get Coach's voice out of my head. He'd made it clear I was on the thinnest ice in existence. One wrong move and I was cut. This wasn't where I expected to be . . . I'd been at the top. How'd it get like this?
I zeroed in on a couple of open seats at one end of the bar. Cowboy hats with jeans and boots seemed to be the dress code. And we were here in ballcaps, t-shirts and sneakers.
“I think I'm getting old.” Jimenez groaned as he slid into the bar stool next to me. I chuckled. He held up two fingers at the bartender and pointed at something.
“Sucks to be washed up already. Me, I'm just getting started.”
“You were sucking wind like a hoover, pana.” Two bottles of a pale-colored lager slid across the bar surface.
I took a sip from the bottle. Cool liquid, like bubbling relief flowed into my mouth. “Still beat you.”
“My knees hurt being stuck behind that plate for so long. Fuckin Latske. Cheating pindejo bastard.” He spit the words from his mouth, then took a drink.
“Yeah.”
A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “You ever thank your Reporter Chica?”
“She's not my . . . anything.” I looked at the bottle, turned it around.
“Eh too bad.” Jimenez leaned over the bar, he reached for something. He tossed a laminated menu at me. “Guess Meyers will have his chance after all.” His eyebrows dipped and he smirked.
“Couldn't care less.” I tamped down the strangely sharp pain nudging me in the ribs and took an extra-sized pull at my beer. I can't stand that guy.
“Whatever, man.” Jimenez shook his head.
“She didn’t do me any favors. I wasn't guilty.”
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Sure seemed like she went out of her way to me.” He dipped his head to the side. “She's ok, you know.”
I shot him a glare.
“Seriously. She and Hilda go back to middle school. She’s ya know, how do you put it in Oklahoman?” He rolled his eyes. “She's 'good people', ya'll.”
“…do you think you can, like Tanner over there, keep rising?”
I scowled and downed the rest of my beer.
“You haven't eaten yet. You wanna slow down?”
“No.” I snarled.
“Ok.” He shrugged and sipped at his lager. “None of my business.”
“Sure as hell is.” I signaled the bartender to bring me another. “You're the one buying.”
Warmth bubbled and fizzed in my chest. The world grew louder, clashing and clanging. Light smeared bright colors in front of my eyes. I squinted, trying to keep the chaos contained.
“I should leave your ass here.”
I stood up and almost fell down. Gravity or something had changed. Pitched me forward. Jimenez grabbed me around the ribs and pulled me upright. I chuckled. My abdominal muscles stung. I laughed some more.
“I'm glad you think this is funny, cabron.” He huffed and growled at me. The world tilted sideways. Such strange angles. Faces changed then blurred together. I walked forever.
I stumbled, fell and tumbled. This place was comfy. Strange vibrations scattered around me, and I laughed. Did I bounce? I heard someone shout through a tunnel. So many voices. I struggled to sit up.
A flash of red, glowing eyes. What the—pain struck light lightning, screaming and fracturing into jagged pieces. I clutched at my head to keep it from breaking apart.
Oozed dripped down my face. I want that hug . . .
She held me in warm arms as the world slid to black.