Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Breslin POV
T he doctor placed me on rest for three days. And Milline's story, while enticing to think about, did have one drawback: I had 'crossed the line' and shared details of my (fictional) sex life with my coaches.
Crusty, salty Coach Schorr gave me this indescribable look. He opened his mouth, closed it. Scrunched his face into a cascade of greyish pink wrinkles, with lips. Took off his hat, scrubbed a hand over his 'ever growing forehead'. “The whole time?”
“Sorry what?”
He replaced his cap, shook his head. He pursed his lips together and made a face like he'd just sucked on a lemon. “Never mind. Don't. Just don't tell me a God-damned thing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away muttering under his breath. I sighed.
“You get her pregnant?—”
I lifted my head and found him pointing at me. “There won't be enough of you left for a funeral.” He shook his head and left.
I rubbed a hand over my still-numb forehead.
“Look, I get it.” Eberhardt spoke up. “She's attractive and smart, and I still say she's way outta your league. But if there's any woman that gets baseball and what it takes to make it at that level, you found her.”
I frowned. What?
“But you've got a lot of years left and not going to the hospital so you could, uh, make it with your girlfriend.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “One day you're going to realize you're not invincible. But either way, be safe.” He held out a foil packet. And a part of me cratered and wanted to die as I took it from his hand.
“Yes, sir.” I tried to keep my face neutral.
“You look good together.”
I held my breath. Maybe we do, hell if I know. We sure as shit don't get along . Well, that wasn't entirely true. The naked, fantasy version of her got along with me just fine. And I'm still an idiot.
“. . . remember when me and my wife were still kids. Kaitlyn, well, she was a sassy spitfire, too. A bit like Liv.” He chuckled. “Still is. Still makes me want to go all night in the bedroom. Mmm, I am proud to have earned every one of my sex trophies.”
I tried not to shudder. Was this really better than jail time? I laid down on the exam room table and wished the man would take a hint.
“Liv's a good one. Got a bit of growing up to do, still. But I see it in her—that loyalty, the way she fights for you. Should've picked up on it before.” He pulled on his Strikers cap. “She's a for-a-lifetime kind of woman. Don't fuck it up.” He turned and headed for the door.
I stared at the ceiling, unable to breathe. The way she fights for me? I swallowed, lifted my head and managed: “Thanks.”
He paused, one hand on the door frame. “Or Schorr's right. There won't be enough of you left for a funeral.” He slapped the metal. “Good talk.”
He moved out into the hall. But before the door shut all the way, he poked his annoying nose back in for one last word. “Oh, and 'on rest' means no using that for the next three days either.” He pointed at the condom packet I still held in my hand. “Get well soon!”
I shut my eyes and let out a very un-manly whimper. “It was a good life. Mostly. Maybe I can just die now.”
As far as girlfriends go, I don't know that I'd ever had one that lasted much less veered into serious enough territory to include caretaking. One of the girls I, ahem, overnight 'dated' early in my junior year of high school, brought me soup once when I was ill. Which was definitely not on the same level as driving my half-conscious, somewhat nauseated carcass to the hospital. telling two coaches, a doctor, and the sheriff that we'd been too horny after our Friday night 'date' to take my bumped head—with makeshift stitches—seriously. Staying with me in the ER for several hours on a Sunday, and then dragging my sorry butt back to campus.
The fact that she still held all the appearance of maintaining her dignity throughout the awkward scenario that she cooked up to save my ass-bacon, when I felt like, well, a moron of epic proportions . . . Was all the more impressive.
She steered her small sports sedan into a parking space behind my dorm. “How do you feel?” She moved the shifter into park and turned off the engine.
A phantom force pounded an extra-large set of drumsticks on the back of my skull. “Physically?”
A sidelong glance in my direction. “I think we should stick to that. Don't you?”
“Things are still a little fuzzy. But not like they were. Definitely only one of things, now.” I still ached all over, didn't trust my stomach to handle food, and was seriously beginning to wonder if this chick actually . . . liked me.
“You're supposed to take it easy for the next three days.” She unbuckled her seatbelt. “Do I need to set up reminders for your meds in your phone?”
I sighed. “I can manage. But for the record, rest means I can't use this for the next three days, either.” I held up the condom packet. Because really, if I had to suffer . . .
She grimaced and looked away. “None of my business.” She pushed open the drivers' side door and exited the car. I blinked. My door sprung open. She ducked into the car, one arm slid around my ribcage and the scent of orange blossoms drifted around my head.
“Coach gave it to me. I think it says it's 'for her pleasure' on the back.” I tried to look at the print on the foil packet, but letters swam in front of my eyes.
I want you to sit in my lap. Did I just say that out loud?
My seatbelt retracted. She held out her hand and helped me to my feet. I liked the feel of her hand in mine. “We could try it out on day four.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“If I'm going to do the time. Might as well do the crime?”
She scowled. “Worst pickup line in evolutionary history. Truly proof you never evolved past neanderthal.” She shut the door. I leaned back against her car.
“Why'd you pick that excuse?”
“What would people believe?” She stuffed her hands in her jean pockets and shrugged. “The only thing that fit was we were too caught up in each other and spent the night. Anything else was borderline negligent. The shock value of my confession got them to stop asking questions about how you injured yourself in the first place.” She shook her head. “Something I picked up from Dublin.”
“Ireland?”
She let out an amused breath. “No, friend of mine. Well, sorta. Mostly? Her parents are the type that?—”
“Name their kid after a city?”
“Yeah.” She tilted her head down to one side.
“There's a lot of blurry since I left practice.” I ran my fingers lightly over the stitches in my forehead.
“Sorry,” she said in a soft tone.
“My own fault. If there's one thing that's less hazy, it's that I may not have deserved . . . what happened. But my attitude hasn't been making anything better.”
“Only took headbutting a mechanical bull to knock that kinda sense into you? Imagine what an aluminum bat in the right hands could do.” She met my gaze with that smart, smirky little grin. The one that made me think of what I could do to her on day four—in my bed.
“You have a really smart mouth for a reporter.”
“Ah, but I'm not just any reporter. I am the official baseball reporter for the Van Weekly. Maybe. Comes with its own punch card.”
I chuckled. A bit. My head ached with the movement, and so did my whole body.
“Do you need me to help you to your room? Or are you going to be a tough guy?”
I grinned. “And miss my chance to have your arms around me? I'll let go of my pride. And if you decide to get handsy, just remember: not until day four.”
She groaned. “You're the worst. Really. But come on.” She moved beneath my shoulder and let me lean on her. “At least your story is heroic.” She gave me a sidelong glance that was sexy as hell. “Going all night, even with a head injury, just to please me.”
“Practically the stuff of dating legend. At least my reputation is safe.”
I leaned on her maybe a bit more than I needed to. But she smelled nice, she felt nice. The idea that I could make her feel more than nice cleared its own space and pitched a substantial-sized tent in my brain. And drove some pretty deep-rooted stakes into the synapses that ultimately controlled the rest of my body.
Yep, it was completely her fault that all I could think about was making her plead and scream my name. I was just a reporter-hating bystander.
Oh. Yeah. Speaking of which. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She paused outside my dorm room. I steadied myself as my head and stomach decided to do a synchronized flip. “You have your key somewhere?”
“A key to my place? That's a pretty big commitment. You sure about this?” I fished the key out of my pocket and held it out to her.
“You're all jokes today. You been saving them for a rainy day?” She rolled her eyes. “Not used to your sass. You usually only growl and complain. Maybe a bit of spewed bile here and there.” The lock clicked and she swung open the door.
I grabbed her arm. “Why'd you do it?”
“Do what?”
“You could have dropped me off and let me fend for myself. Instead of . . . what you did. What you're doing.”
“Do you remember anything from yesterday?”
“Um, not really. Not much before the hospital, to be honest.”
Her mouth turned down and she blinked. Her eyelashes fluttered, but her eyes changed . . . like she'd mentally wandered off. Far away from me.
“Why?”
She stepped through the door into my dorm room. Thankfully I hadn't left it a complete disaster when I'd left Friday morning.
“Wow, I should have tried out for the track team.” She stopped just inside the doorway, craning her neck to see around the place. “You don't have to have a roommate and you get a kitchenette area?”
“Eh, community showers.” I shut the door. “Win some, lose some.”
“Ew. I'll take communal kitchen over showers, then.” She remained in place near the door. She wouldn't look at me.
“Thank you.” I managed to say the words aloud. They didn't taste like poison. They didn't melt me and my self-respect into goo when they left my lips. I just wanted . . . to hold her, again. To remember the taste of her lips.
“You're welcome.” She crossed her arms over her stomach and ducked her head.
“I know we?—”
“There's no 'we', right?” Her voice turned sharp. “We're not on the same team. I'm barely even human.” Her mouth twitched, and the image of her in the locker room with tears in her eyes taunted me.
“I'm sorry. I've been taking my bullshit out on you.” On lots of people. But you, maybe more than most. Pain tightened its grip on my ribcage. But you make me feel more than most. And I hate it because all I should feel is pain.
“Yeah. You have. And I know I have a habit of saying insensitive things from time to time. But I did try to apologize.” She lifted her chin. “I don't think I deserved . . . most of what you've said to me. Over the past few months.”
I closed my eyes and nodded. Wavered on my feet. Felt like dropping to the floor. Her arm snaked around me again. “You ok?”
“Hm? Yeah. I think.”
She pulled away. “I'll let you get some rest.” She retraced her steps to the door. As she opened it, I called out after her.
“See you Wednesday?”
She tipped her head to the side. “Huh? Wednesday?”
“Day four.”
She gasped and blushed that light pink color that said I needed to try harder to embarrass her. “Ugh. You're such a ballplayer.”
“I am, aren't I?” I lifted one eyebrow and smirked. “You want to cum over here, or should I cum at your place?” I winked for good measure.
And she turned into a sputtering tomato.
“Argh! You're the worst, Breslin Cooper.” She stomped out the door, but paused long enough to flip me off before slamming the door on her way out.
The sound irritated my aching head. Something sharp poked at my brain again, smushy and sore. I closed my eyes and relished the darkness. Sleep coaxed at me and I trudged my way to my bed. I lay across it, closed my eyes and hoped I'd dream . . .
My mind drifted somewhere warm. An image of her materialized like so many grains of sand pieced together. Liv, half-naked her pink lips rubbed red and raw. She panted my name as I pressed her into her couch. Arms around my neck, I swept my tongue into her mouth . . .
I surfaced long enough to hallucinate a soft look in her eyes, a breathy moan as I sunk into her warm embrace. Mmmm . . . Maybe I could beat my fictional record, lasting all night and into the next day.
A last thought pulled at my brain as the current pulled my body out to sea . . .
What the hell's a sex trophy?
I woke to darkness. My heart pounded in my chest. My head throbbed a kaleidoscope of sharp pains. I panted and gasped for air, but some phantom force bore down on my lungs.
Mom's hand trembled against my cheek. I covered it with mine. A soft, glassy look in her eyes. “I remember when your tiny fists could barely fit around my finger.”
Why was this happening? God, I'd do anything. Anything you ask. Just please. Please don't do this. I pressed my eyes shut and clamped hands over my ears.
“You'll be.” She paused to breathe in. “A good man, Breslin.” Her eyelids drooped. “Don't get lost in . . . your dreams.”
“Mom?” I wiped a tear from her cheek.
Starlight streamed in from the windows. So thick and bright it seemed like its own nebulous form. It hazed, darkened, then grew brighter. I blinked and it changed again.
I'm still dreaming. Or my concussion is messing with me.
I sat up. The strange, amorphous mist continued its cycles—dimming and fading, shifting then brightening. I found my feet.
I could hear her voice, in my mind. “Breslin, don't make that face. Breslin, you're far too serious for such a little boy. You keep it up and you'll be gray by the time you're sixteen.”
“Breslin. Smile for me. I love you . . .”
“I love you, honey.”
“Your mom will always love you. And the good news is? That's me. And I will get to love you the whole rest of your life.”
I stared out the window. The quiet of night, how long had I been avoiding it? Running myself ragged until I passed out cold as soon as I made it through the door. Or drowning it out with alcohol.
Even listening to my father cry . . . meant I didn't have to. The dark shadow of my face appeared in the glass. The bloodshot eyes, puffy bags, and even the new gash on my forehead. None of it looked like me.
“Is this all I'm meant to be? Half-assing it through college. Through baseball. Through life?”
I closed my eyes and leaned my left temple against the windowpane. The day of her funeral had been cold, for late April. Grey clouds had rippled the horizon, like quilted fabric holding back the tears and the rain.
I'd stood there, in my black suit, fists shaking in my pockets and blood thrumming through my veins like I'd been sprinting the length of the cemetery grounds.
I didn't cry then.
I didn't cry when they told me my “legal troubles” changed conversations about my future from “where do you want to play” to: “you should take some time, give college a try. This was a tough blow for a kid . . .”
I didn't cry when I packed my shit in the car and took off to Vanquer, dustbowl-nowhere TX. I didn't break down until . . .
“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.”
I almost lost it, then. But held on until Dotty told me what I needed to hear . . . my mom say before she . . . went. Hell, maybe she’d been trying to. Maybe it was me who couldn’t hear.
I’ve been lost without you, Mom. You don't know how many times I've wished it had been Dad instead of you. I took a shaking breath.
Silver tears tumbled from my reflection's eyes. I traced them in the glass.
Drip. Wet spilled onto my shirt, and the back of my hand. Drip. Drop. I choked on a sob.
Why couldn’t you stay? I still need you. It’s not fair.
The sobs razed the back of my throat. My head pounded.
I didn’t want you to go. Why did it have to be you? I slammed my fist against the glass and sunk to the ground. Doubled over, my abdominal muscles contracted so hard it felt like they might never stop.
Don't go. I never said that to you. For a long time, I couldn't face things. I kept thinking, believing, you'd beat it. And then I didn't want to make things harder for you. Sometimes, I still feel like a God-damned kid who doesn't know anything. You always . . . kept me grounded.
I struggled for air as another wave of pain broke though me. Don't go. Why did you have to go? I sobbed into my palms like a broken child.
I didn't want you to . . . go.