Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Olivia POV
I paced outside the Silverado Senior Living Center, phone ringing as I tried to get ahold of Curt. I caught myself biting at my thumbnail and dropped my hand. Dammit.
“Milline.” Curt's gruff voice still managed to soothe at the churning acid occupying the space where my stomach should have been.
“You don’t have me programmed in your phone?”
“Liv, uh, yeah, just habit, sorry. You ok?”
“Sure. Just excited about the exhibition game. Finally. Some real baseball.” I cringed. I was sure he could tell how forced and terrible that sounded.
“The World Series ended two whole weeks ago.”
I scoffed. “I couldn’t stand to watch either team. That smug bastard—” that knocked you out of your last game. “You know. A whole team of them. Rotten birds.”
He chuckled. “They’re not my favorite either. Couldn’t cheer for the Mountaineers?”
“They have teal as a uniform color. And their coach stinks, literally stinks.” I sagged against the outside wall of the building. “He gets grabby with women, too.”
“Wait, what? Did you?—”
“I hear things, geez. Wasn’t me.” I grumbled. “One of these days, the three of us need to have a talk about this 'No baseball' rule. I’m an adult, already. Legally, even.”
“One of these days. But not today.”
I stuck my tongue out at the receiver.
“What are you really calling for?”
“Well, you know Schorr wants to see you. He’s special . And a half.” I tapped the back of the receiver.
“Crusty as they come.” He huffed an amused breath. “Yeah, I saw your text. Don’t have a date lined up yet, but I’m sure I’ll be down in the spring.”
“The earlier the better. He seems to have gotten nostalgic about yelling at Milline’s all of a sudden.”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with the stubborn youngest one causing trouble.”
“Doesn’t sound anything like me.”
“But that’s not why you called. Your jokes are a little too sharp, today, so what is it?”
“I have jokes? Who are you and what have you done with Curt? My real brother takes great delight in telling me how un-funny I am.” I rubbed a hand over my forehead.
“And you just proved my point. What's going on?”
I stared at the phone. Why had I called? Except out of habit. “You don't have to have a college degree to be a baseball scout, right?”
“It's too early to give up,” he said with a sigh. “I thought you were doing well. Hilda's there. I'm sure Dublin's haunting nearby.”
“She's not a ghost.”
“True. But you've never proven she's not a ghoul.” He chuckled at his own joke. Lame.
“Ugh. Moving on. Hilda and I aren't getting along too well. She thinks my baseball ambitions are a bad idea or something.”
“Finally, someone else agrees with me.”
I hung my head. “Yeah, I shouldn't have bothered. I'll let you go.”
“Don't be like that, Livvie. I'm here. What can I do?”
“Never mind. I'll be fine.” My fingers trembled against my forehead. “Bye.”
“Hey, wait.”
“Yeah?” I took in a shaky breath, held it. Breathed out.
“The Exhibition game. How's the uh freshman catcher looking, Jimenez? You know him?”
Is he serious? “I know all the players on the entire roster. It's my job, Curt.”
“So? How's he looking?” His voice took on that peppy, eager tone that said he was excited about a prospect.
“As a reporter or a scout?” I took another breath, but it burned all the way down.
“Livvie . . .”
“As a reporter , he looks dynamite in baseball pants. He's definitely got a heart throb vibe, but he's only interested in one woman.”
“Oh please don't say?—”
“Not me. His family is baseball through and through. Two brothers in Dominican baseball camp. Dad played a couple of seasons in the majors. Spent several years in the minors.”
“That's not?—”
“Not what you wanted to know?” I was full on seething by now. “He gets along with most of the players, has quite the gregarious attitude and winning smile. He even managed to befriend that-that menace Cooper. For what reason, no one knows.”
“Liv.”
I muted my mic. Heat surged inside my abdomen, stirring ash over hot, sparking embers.
“Liv? Come on Livvie?”
I hissed through the phone. “You don't get to have it both ways, Curtis. You can't expect me to give you inside baseball on the team if you're not going to treat me like a scout. Even Schorr treats me better than that.”
A long, loud sigh came through the phone. “I'm sorry. I am. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”
I curled one arm around my stomach, but didn't speak for a moment. Silence stretched through the phone line. I swallowed. “Yeah, ok. Sure.” But it wasn't. This was the problem—with him and my dad. Arguing about it wouldn't solve anything. I just needed to prove I could do the job.
Some muttering I couldn't make out, like he went into a faraway tunnel. Then the line became less garbled. “. . . Coop's still not gotten his act together?” He groaned. “Dammit.”
“What? Who? Coop?”
“You know we wanted him. Everything, every interview, every meeting we had with that kid. He was a solid bet. That last half of the season, he wasn't the same player. Obviously, his mom's illness took its toll. I can't imagine what he went through. It was hard enough keeping my shit together when our mom left.”
I frowned, but kept silent. I'd never considered what life would have been like for him. He was just . . . there. Like a big brother should be, right?
“Dad pushed hard during the championship run. Said Coop would bounce back, and was practically a poster child for the sport. I think if our dad had been within a city block of that reporter, he would've punched him in the nose for Coop. But there wasn't anything we could do. Too much of a liability.”
“What do you mean, Dad pushed . . . for Coop? To do what?”
“You know he still works with the Sabers. It's unofficial and all, but he built that board. They were his board.”
Oh.
“At this rate, doesn't look like he'll ever make it back. Didn't want to ask Schorr. I know Dad made promises. Like he does.” A heavy breath blew into the phone. “I hope it doesn't bite us.”
“Wait, you mean like Coop wouldn't get to play in the majors? Ever?” I sunk down into one of the iron benches near the front of the building. My heart clenched. Curt's voice faded. Yeah, I was mad at Coop, Breslin, but I still hoped?—
“. . . you pull something like that once you've made the team? Ten years ago, it wasn't that big a deal. These days, the public outcry over violence like that gets ugly fast. Next thing you know he's being arraigned for domestic abuse and we've got a PR nightmare and a hefty suspension on our hands. Can't risk shit like that disrupting the team.”
“Oh, I forgot how much I've missed yours and Dad's crazy leap of nothing-close-to-logical nonsense. Breslin may be a lot of things, but he's doing his therapy sessions. He's volunteering with old people. He can't be out of the game. He can't.” It's completely unfair on the level of crimes against nature. Well, not quite, but still. It can't be over for him.
“You called him, what, a criminal earlier? I thought?—”
“I called him a menace because he aggravates me to death. He hates reporters. Hates them. And guess what I do?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, so, he makes my job difficult every day. All the other players are fine, even the seniors who think the freshman Reporter Chica—thanks Antonio—is just so adorable.” I huffed. “They call me short.”
Curt chuckled. “You are short.”
“You're all giants, shut up. Anyway, his current reign as the royal pain in my backside aside, I hate for anyone to be told they can't achieve their dream.”
“Well, he's got three or four years. Who knows? There's a reason they call it scouting and not fortune telling. No crystal balls.”
“But if the scouts and back offices all consider him toxic—He knows he's not on anyone's radar. And he won't be.”
“There is one guy who could help change his fate. He even happens to kinda like you.”
I growled. “Yeah, but he's the same guy who came up with the rule: No baseball for Olivia. And I'm done living by that mandate.”
“Liv . . .”
“Done, Curtis. I'm flat out done.” And with that, I hung up. Suck on that. You and Dad both.
With not many options left, I chose to rewrite my Founders’ Day article featuring Dotty's friendship with Coop—an unlikely pair to be sure. But Dotty didn't mind. She provided me with an excellent quote, a mostly acceptable photo. Dublin cropped and enhanced it a bit. Even provided a caption: The Vachon Family and their Legacy of Chasing Victory.
Was reminded that Dotty's son was a judge in nearby Lubbock. Which meant she knew the sheriff. The real sheriff, not the deputy with the RBF expression I could only dream of possessing.
I wasn't sure what Coop would say about the article . . . Who was I kidding? I knew exactly what he'd say. And how he’d sound when he took out the restraining order, got me kicked off my baseball beat, and generally buried us both in our respective baseball-less coffins.
“If he weren't so damned stubborn . . .”
“If he wasn't, he wouldn't be Coop. And you probably wouldn't like him half so much.” Dotty gave me a cheerful, if smug-looking grin. “More tea, dear?”
And I'd said the thing out loud. “Like him? Pbbft. Did they put the crazy stuff in your tea, again?”
“Oh dear. Seems we're not as grown up as we pretend to be. Emotional intelligence, Olivia. It's the gift that keeps giving.” She sat down and settled a new tea bag in my cup, pouring piping hot water after it. One eyebrow arched high. “You stopped typing my email ages ago.” She tapped the flat of her hand on the table. “And if you want to get that Sheriff to do something useful, you'll need to stop daydreaming about the boy you're writing the letter about. And actually type the damned letter.”
“I'm not daydreaming—Oh, you are a!” I groused at her over my mug. “What did you call Martha last week? That's right, a certified busybody!”
She straightened her shoulders. “I am no such thing. You take that back.”
“I won't.” I placed my mug on the table. “And to top it off, I'm getting you quilting things for Christmas.”
She gasped with widened eyes. “You wouldn't dare.”
“Topped off with quilting lessons. And then I'll provide your schedule to Becca so she can make sure you get there.” I hissed over the top of my laptop. “The very definition of 'captive audience'.” I went back to staring at the email I'd started.
To The Honorable Judge Tyrick:
We are writing to you on behalf of Breslin Cooper, a young man who works at the Senior Center where we live . . .
“Diabolical. You're a scoundrel in tasteful athleisure wear.”
I grinned and stretched my arms. “Isn't this jacket cute? I really couldn't pass it up.”
“It's adorable.” She sipped her tea. “You're adorable. Cooper should eat you up. But I have two of you that are as stubborn as mules. How is even a certified busybody supposed to Hallmark-ending you two?” She narrowed her eyes as a smile slid across her lips.
“That's it, I'm adding a serger to the list. Yep, quilting lessons and a serger .”
She moved her seat next to mine, motioning at my computer. “Keep typing.” She rested her chin on her hand. “My new ambition in life is to be found dead quilting your first baby blanket. It'll be glorious, with kids' baseball fabrics.”
“Sounds nice?” I glanced at her out of the side of my eye. “Except for the dying part.”
“And Coop, Jr. emblazoned across the top. Ha!” She slapped her palms together and stood up. The old lady chuckled.
I groaned. Now she was writing real person fanfic of me and Coop—having a baby? Right. That would require the two of us not arguing long enough to get naked and . . .
The image of him shirtless, fire alight in his eyes as he stripped me of my bra—taunted and tantalized my brain. Heat flared low in my abdomen. I closed my eyes and tried to shift my focus. Right, typing email on behalf of the residents . Not mentally undressing the fictional father of our nonexistent child.
I tapped out the next few lines: Mr. Cooper has been lending his time, even on weekends, to help out a number of the residents. It's not often that young people ? —
A door creaked on its hinges. “You can't leave.” I glanced up and found her, oh, at the closet door. “I'm still typing the email.”
“Gotta find my seam ripper.”
“You're not allowed to have weapons in here. I'm pretty sure.” I continued typing: make an effort to turn off their technology and engage with their community ? —
“And no dying. You've got to make the game tonight. And run interference with Coop when he sees my article. I really don't want him to hate me . . .” Any more than he already does.
“Now that.” She held a seam ripper in one hand and the head of a doll in the other. “Is the first honest thing you've said in at least an hour.”
“Are you beheading dolls with that thing?” I shook my head. “Not sure grandma should be left alone with Coop Junior.”
I stopped by the journalism room, but Mrs. P had already left for the day. I sent her an email with the doc attached, complete with read receipt. So, at least I had the bit of relief knowing my article had been received.
I figured she'd make me wait until the newspaper hit stands in the early hours of morning. But although I was still concerned, at least she couldn't remove me officially from the baseball beat until Monday. By then, the Exhibition Game would be over. And even if I had to go suffer through some hockey games or cover the men's soccer tournament, as long as I still had a chance to cover baseball . . .
I took a deep breath, but my fingers still shook, even though the email had long been traversing the intranet in bits and bytes. Deconstructed and reassembled, and geez, but my stomach was one giant, angry knot.
I was hopeful. Wound up. Anxious. I was a lot of things . . . and something was really bothering me about the game that was about to happen. Or maybe it really was the still-looming and dark, churning feeling of impending doom, that Mrs. P and TSTU would fully adopt Furston Milline's rule about No Baseball for Olivia.
Or maybe it was really that I hadn't ingested anything but caffeinated beverages in the past twenty-four hours. And the shaky, jittery, quasi-queasy knot that had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach was just my body crying out for real food.
I raided Dotty's fridge for a quick snack, cheese and crackers seemed to be the most filling thing I could find. She gave me this look as I stuffed a few crackers in my face.
“Help yourself.”
I grunted. It wasn't the best manners, certainly Furston would've had a few words to say on the topic of manners. “Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”
After my rushed snack, we climbed into my car and headed out to the stadium. I had, in exchange for my extra special interview help, arranged for Dotty to have primo tickets and agreed to be her personal chauffeur to the game.
I would finally get to use my newly minted press pass that my not-even boyfriend “delivered” before yesterday's practice—the one that led to his stomach pyrotechnics.
Coop held up the card with my picture, like he was studying it. “Been trying to decide what I want in exchange for this.”
I reached for it, but he held it up higher. Freakin giant. “I can get Eberhardt to make me a new one. I'll probably have to pay for it, but I'll just tell him my concussed boyfriend must have had a dizzy spell and misplaced it.”
I jumped to grab the lanyard. Coop raised his arm. I puffed hair from my face. “Last chance to get something you want.”
“You seem pretty confident for someone so short.”
I considered punching him in the stomach. “You’re not winning any brownie points with your girlfriend.”
“You said we needed to breakup.” He leaned into my personal space. “That’s not in my best interest.”
“Stupid ball playing jerk.” I muttered under my breath as I pulled the car to a stop a few blocks from the stadium.
“Sounds like sweet daydreams of your beloved beau.”
I snorted. “Hardly.” Dammit, I really needed to stop saying these things out loud. Especially around Dotty.
“No, that irritating friend of yours .” A crowd of maroon and silver mixed with people streamed across the street. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and sighed.
“I figured.” Dotty folded her hands on top of her purse. “You really can't stop thinking of him, it's understandable. He's very handsome.”
Most especially around Dotty. “Why do you insist that—Nope, we're not doing this. I am dropping you off here. Deputy Reegan will be along any minute. He’s sharing his extra special box seat tickets.”
“Have you seen that man's face? If it's not fashioned out of cement that would crack if he smiled, then I'll hand over my Jello to Nelson for the next week.”
“We call that 'resting bitch face'.”
“Ah yes. I can see that.”
I glanced around looking for Reegan. “It's a terrible condition that affects?—”
She smacked my arm. “Give it up, blondie, you've never been that amusing. But it does entertain me to see young Coop react to you.”
I caught sight of Reegan's cowboy hat. I waved through the windshield then honked. He spun toward my car, leaning down to look in the window.
“All that's on TV is reruns, anyway.”
What was she saying? How Coop reacts to me? “Well, enjoy the game. I'll check in with the deputy to make sure one of us gets you home before you turn into a pumpkin, or a mouse or something.”
Pretty sure that he only reacts one way at all times.
His tongue darted into my mouth, stroking, deepening, striking flint against steel . . .
I clutched him tighter. His shirt bunched beneath my fingertips. And the hidden dark part of my brain wanted to know what it would be like to feel every inch of his skin against mine.
Damned traitorous brain. And why did I have to remember we had a steamy make out session on the floor of my dorm, but he didn't? Life was critically unfair.
Reegan pulled open the passenger side door and helped Dotty out of the car. He tossed a grey coupon pass onto my dash. “Season ticket holder lot's to the left. Better hurry.”
“Thank you!” I called out. But he'd already whisked Dotty away.
I officially take back anything negative I ever said about you, you wonderful generous man and your beautiful, face.
I parked, jogged, ran stairs—in that order—and had just made it through the entrance bag check and metal detectors when the announcers came on over the loudspeakers.
“Ladies and gentleman, please rise for the national anthem.”
It’s time! I stood at attention and turned toward the flag waving on the jumbo monitor. As soon as the anthem was over, I was off to grab my special press-only seat behind home plate.
I did have one question, and I realized entirely too late that I had no one to ask: were the press attendees allowed to cheer?