Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Olivia POV
T his was bad. Like epically bad. I should not, could not, would not let this guy, man, man-shaped frog have an effect on me. Yes, Coop was, had been, maybe would still prove to be a truly great baseball player. Yes, I had crushed on him in the past. That was before I knew him, in my defense. Because to know him is to hate him.
You don't hate him. You've never hated him.
Ah, but it was safer to pretend like I could. Because, well, shouldn't I? There were at least a million reasons to dislike, detest, despise . . . I'm sure there were plenty of other words in the thesaurus for how I should feel.
Instead of the fluttery, practically electric— Nope. Not going there. I do not get pathetically wanton around that man. Even if he does have the most amazing dark blue eyes, and his kiss—Stop it. No brain, that's a no no, brain. Ugh!
My Instagram notification pinged on my phone. I unlocked it and instead of it being a comment on one of my baseball reels, the notification said I’d been tagged in a reel from Girl-Boss Power. I groaned out loud.
“Repeat after me: Cinnamon rolls over Alpha-holes. Because really, who needs this?” A ridiculous, curated slide show of grumpy, dark, feral things swept by at a dizzying pace.
“When you can have this?”
The mood changed to warm, sunshiney images with cuddling, baking, and a man on his knees proposing . . .
I scoffed and closed the app. Marriage. Yeah, right. What a joke . My parents both went through marriage partners the way other people snacked through Doritos. Who needed that?
Maybe instead of NBfO, the new rule should be “No Coop for Olivia”, and I could just ratify that one as a solid foundational principle of life.
I needed to write my article on Dotty. I needed to get ready for the Exhibition game. I needed to figure out what Hilda’s deal was.
Hilda. My heart squeezed and a hollow ache burned inside my chest. We didn't often fight. She'd been the one person over all these years who even tried to understand . . .
I knew I messed stuff up sometimes. Geez, even with Coop, I managed to open my mouth and say things I regretted later. But Hilda's lecture about chasing after baseball scouting . . . it reeked of Dublin Serra-like shallowness. Not at all like the best friend who'd always had my back. Listened when I got so frustrated I could scream. Took my side, even when I maybe didn't deserve it.
Taught me to correctly pronounce: careverga.
If I didn't know what her deal really was, there was no way we could rectify it. And if she was really going to complain that I 'had everything she wanted', then I wasn't sure there was much to say. I would listen . . . I'd always listen. We'd been friends since the day she patched up the scrapes on my arms and legs after I went the hard way into a sewer to rescue a kitten.
The cat and I ended up both needing to be fished out. And thanks to my new friend, we were. She liberally applied ointment and bandaids after flagging down a passing Amazon driver with a crowbar and an extra-sized first aid kit.
Hilda still had that cat: Amilo. He was eight and loved to nap on the windowsill in the afternoons. Our junior year, he'd sit on his mom's computer when she was trying to fill out college applications—as if to say: no way, mom, I won't let you leave.
He was her solace when she and her dad fought. Not sure anyone told Amilo that his mom's officially been kicked out. I don't think I'd want to be the one to explain it to him. Let's just say the scratches I got for my rescue attempt weren't all thanks to skin vs concrete.
Which brought to mind the one other thing I didn't want to think about: what I was going to do about going home for the holiday . . . Curt wasn't going to be there. He and Lucy were visiting her family. Hilda would be staying here.
Which just left me and my dad. And I'd take a hard pass on that.
Wednesday, Coop made it back on the field. Mostly jogging and light drills. Not that I was paying that close of attention. Until I found out the suddenly promoted social hacker had thieved my press pass to the exhibition game.
I’m sure it was an accidental oversight. Or at least that’s what I told Coach Eberhardt when he asked if my boyfriend had been behaving, following his rest instructions and remembered to give me my badge.
It’s not like anyone else on the team was included in these little chats. But it was more than a bit disconcerting to have to pretend like we were practically living together—the way Eberhardt carried on about it. Schorr just looked . . . sour. Same as always.
There was one lecture that the old guy had for me, though.
“I don’t give a shit if he is your old man.” Schorr groused from under his hat.
“Oh, you're awake?” I closed the large file drawer that was starting to fill up. “Thought maybe this was where you slept.”
“Coop’s gotta pass concussion protocols.” He sat up and rubbed a hand over the side of his face. “And I’m still not starting him.”
“My old man?”
“If Furston’s gonna have a beef about it, I need you to tell him it’s the right thing.” He stabbed his finger into the top of his desk. “For Coop. God dammit, I’m doing this for his sake!”
I wasn’t really sure what to say. Or what the hell was going on. “So, you want me. To tell my father? That it’s OK . . . not to start Coop?” I went total 'game face' on this one. They had taken my second base suggestion seriously enough to run the numbers, at some point. And when Coop tucked his tail between his legs and came back to practice with a refreshed attitude—post our closet fiasco—Schorr and Eberhardt had decided to give him a chance to start. Just the Exhibition game, as a trial.
Because the numbers said so , not me, of course.
“I figure you-you! I know how you can be!”
I stared at Eberhardt and pleaded in the back of my mind for something to make sense.
“You’re a little headstrong, Liv. This can’t come as a surprise to you.”
Eh, yeah, that was fair. “Ok. And this has what to do with, ahem, my boyfriend?” God I should wash my mouth out with soap after having to pronounce those words. Except that I'd finally had a taste of post-apple-chomping Coop, and dear God, that man could kiss . . .
“That’s what I’m talking about right there. You probably went and told daddy that he needs to make sure Coop gets to start.”
Oh, shit. They don't know about the NBfO rule. Hah! I tried not to do a joyful happy dance right there in that office. I rather sedately crossed my legs and smoothed my skirt over my tights. Game face. “I might have mentioned we were dating, but daddy rarely takes much interest, you know.” Oh, did I need to play ‘mini-princess’? I can play mini-princess . I blinked my eyelashes. “Why?”
“Keep it that way.” Schorr groused.
I shrugged. “I don’t understand. I thought as your scout, my position was clear. He's the best second baseman you have on the roster.”
“It’s my team . He’ll get his shot in due time. But right now, he needs to recover.”
“Oh, one hundred percent. But, you know, if he were at least eligible ?” I shrugged and gave an imitation-Dubby pouty face. “He’s been passing all his check-ins with flying colors.” With the nurse at the Senior Center, who might be hard of hearing and in need of new glasses . “If Breslin got to dress out and was cleared to play. I’m sure everyone would be satisfied for the time being.”
Schorr glanced at Eberhardt. Raised eyebrows, and closed lip mouth twitches ensued.
“He’s been fine?” The less-curmudgeonly-oriented coach shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Practically perfect.” I smiled without batting an eyelash.
The two exchanged glances. Schorr nodded. “Deal.” Eberhardt grinned.
“Amazing.” I moved across the office and shouldered my backpack at the door. “I’ll let daddy know how supportive you are. I think Breslin’s you know, 'the one'. Daddy will be so proud. Maybe even call him ‘son’ someday.” And that may have been a bit over the top.
“Oh Lord, girls.” Schorr lifted his hat and scrubbed a hand over his head. “Nineteen and think you know everything. Let me tell ya something. I don’t give a rat's ass how good a baseball player he is, if he doesn’t treat you like a God damned Queen, you should dump his rotten kiester faster than Meyers can throw to third.”
Eberhardt chuckled. “He has four daughters. If you couldn't tell.”
“And a granddaughter on the way. You hear me, Milline? God, reminds me of all the times I yelled at Curtis.” He pointed at me. “Your brother better come see me.”
“I’ll shoot him a reminder text tonight.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and held it up . . . like a complete dummy.
“Great. Now get the hell outta my office.”
“Ah, yes, Coach. I’m gone. Just, ah, forget I was even here.” I shuffled out the door and pulled it shut behind me. No really, never mention it. I booked it to the locker room exit, hustling out of the building, trying to make a clean getaway. I made it to the parking lot and stopped. Why did I do that? Idiota, estupido, why why why?
Was it some kind of bizarre sense of remorse? Or just because I wanted to see if I could get away with it? Maybe a little of column A. Some column B. But wasn’t I just making things worse?
What did it really hurt? Coop would dress out and ride the bench like a normal freshman with a better than average chance of making the team come Spring. And other than that, I needed to text Curt and tell him to visit Schorr.
He should probably wait until February or March . . . By then, Coop and I could have arranged a perfectly plausible “breakup” story—so no snoopy, overbearing coach would slip and accidentally tell big brother we were ever dating.
“It’s too painful! Never mention it again.” Wouldn’t that be just typical for a nineteen-year-old girl? Ugh. Terrible.
And in the meantime, I was going to use Dad’s Prime account to stock up on baseball scout memoirs, and rewatch Moneyball and Trouble with the Curve. Rent a hotel in the nearest actual city and spend my Thanksgiving holiday figuring out the recipe for a scout’s big break.
Cool. I had a plan.
The door slammed open. Coop took bounding steps around the side of the building and proceeded to make some of the worst retching and heaving sounds any perfectly healthy person . . . shouldn’t be making.
A sickening heat swirled in my stomach. I broke out into a cold sweat. “Oh no.”
He emerged a minute or two later. His pallor in the streetlamp lighting . . . entirely too pale. Oh God.
“Are you? Are you ok?” I moved closer.
He seethed and stared up at the sky. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“It’s just a stomach thing. Probably ate something in the student center that didn’t agree with me.” He ducked his head and took gasping breaths.
My chest tightened. The acrid smell of . . . grossness did nothing to help the hot, churning feeling inside my abdomen. “You’re sure that’s all? Not the?—”
“I was cleared to play. Coach wants me dressed out. Only three other freshmen made the early roster. Can’t start but I at least.” He pressed his eyes closed. “I get a chance.”
“That’s really, ya know, great. Fantastic, truly. Is a fake girlfriend allowed to be proud?”
He huffed and panted.
“Want to give me a small quote for my article on the Exhibition game?”
He gave me a black look.
“Just a little: 'I’m excited to take the field this Saturday.' Or maybe something about your first time in a Strikers uniform. A teensy quote for your favorite fake girlfriend? On the record?”
His only response was to turn away and heave his guts up again.
Oh this is bad. I’d done the research. This was a textbook symptom that he was not “practically perfect” like I'd just said to his coaches. My stomach wrung itself out like a giant, acidic sponge. God I'm such a— no point in going over that again. I could chide myself later. A person needed medical care.
“Can I get you anything? I have a bottle of water. Here.” I dug it out of my backpack and handed it to him. His arm reached back while he remained turned away.
I slid the bottle into his grip. He sipped at it. I stroked the middle of his back.
“Are you dizzy?”
He took another sip and gasped out. “No.”
I breathed a relieved sigh. “Headache?”
“Took some ibutab. Been fine.”
I nodded. “How many?”
“Four.”
“A day?”
“Every four hours.”
“Oh God.” I caught myself on the wall next to him. Well, wait, he was a big guy. It had to be different than me or Hilda taking that much. Maybe?
“Doctor said I was fine. Trainer, too. Don’t need your help.”
I nodded and just stayed quiet for a moment, listening to him breathe, drink, fight for control. “I’m not leaving until I know you’re ok.”
“I’m fine.”
I tried again. “Breslin, I, I’m worried.”
“Don’t.” He lifted his chin. His jaw tight, he closed his eyes.
“You can’t play like this.”
“I didn’t ask you.” He winced and seethed. “Go bother someone else for a change.”
“But I . . .” Just talked the coaches into clearing you. Before you're ready. Didn’t I? Wasn’t this my fault? Not the original injury, but so much of what came after. Why did I do this? Why did I keep getting involved?
Why did my heart hurt to think of him suffering? To see him in this kind of pain?
“I’ve got to show people. I can still play.”
“Everyone grieves in their own way. Their lives aren’t over because of it. It’s not like?—”
“You think reason or fairness actually matter. It doesn’t. All it takes is some bored, soulless asshole to ruin everything I’ve worked for .”
“Nothing’s ruined, you took a step back. Sure it wasn’t planned but didn’t you need this? This time?” The major leagues, even the minor leagues, they would've chewed you up and spit you out if you weren't ready. “Isn’t it better?—”
“Better? The scouts don’t even have me on their lists anymore.”
My heart sunk. He was right about that.
“I’m standing at the back of the line with everyone around me treating me like I’m still some fuckin kid.”
I bowed my head. This was the die-hard baseball player I’d never be able to reach. I’d seen it on my brother’s face a number of times: the determination, the will to put everything on the line to compete. Curt had changed after his surgery. Breslin . . . still had something to prove.
“I was gonna make my own choices. Fuck what my Dad wanted, and Mom and her great college plans. No one believed I could do it—except the IML. And then one mistake, and!” He dropped the water bottle to the ground and caught himself with his hands on his knees. “I can’t let them win.” A tremor ran through him. He rocked back and forth a couple of times, then lifted to his full height. Shoulders squared, he didn't look at me. But his jaw flexed and his features turned white. “Don’t stand in my way, Liv.”
Of all the—! But the pain in his voice. It reminded me of that day, in the rain.
“Get away from me!”
Could I stand in his way? Possibly? But he didn't know the extent I could really ruin his life. Maybe I didn’t know . . .
He moved to go around me, back into the building. I threw my shoulder into his ribcage as he passed. I couldn't say exactly why. Maybe because he annoyed me. Maybe because he was telling me what to do.
Maybe it was the only way I could think of, to try to get through.
“The hell?” He scowled at me.
“You need a doctor. You’re being stupid. Didn’t you tell me you’re more than stats on the page?” My heart hammered in my ears. But all I could think of was how Curt was done before his time. And maybe if he’d made different choices. Maybe if he hadn’t pushed himself so damned hard . . . “Concussions can lead to serious, life-altering injuries. And you’d risk your what? Your future, who you are, everything you could be capable of—for a stupid exhibition game?”
He drew himself up. “Isn’t that a better storyline? Just perfect for a reporter.” He spit the words at me like the time he called me a snake in the grass.
“You know what, Cooper?” I pointed at his chest. “I’ll stand wherever the hell I want. Maybe you should learn to get out of my way.”
I didn't stick around to hear his retort.