Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
Breslin POV
T he bottom of the Arizona order had been up to bat. It wasn't a one-two-three inning, but it wasn't far off. Meyers returned looking triumphant, if exhausted. The female trainer on loan from the men's soccer team settled a heat pack on his shoulder and began to wrap it in place.
“Oh man.” Ryles nudged me in the ribs. “Get a load of her.”
I shook my head. The tall brunette's form held an athletic build. Her hair tied up in a ponytail, she wasn't exactly giving Meyers attention . He was paying attention to her, though. She was hot, definitely. Couldn't deny that.
But her sharp, no-nonsense look wasn't nearly as exciting as the mischievous spark that Milline liked to turn my way. Oh hell.
I just like blonds . . . better. With a sense of humor. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about her? Baseball game. Rally caps. Sold out crowd.
“Coop, I'm worried.” She bit her lip and tugged at a piece of hair. I fought against the spinning haze and queasy stomach. I didn't want her to see me like this.
“Don't.”
I shoved the memory away.
“She's normally the soccer trainer, right?” He grinned with raised eyebrows.
“The facility is for all sports. It's rally time. Mind on the game.”
“What about: do I have to get injured to see you again, or can I just call you?”
I elbowed him, hard. “Knock it off. If you want a chance to talk to her, pitch longer next time.”
“Ouch.” His face fell. “Deserved, though.”
“Rally time, Ryles. Meyers is done. Toast. Yesterday's news.”
“Fuck you, Coop.” He bellowed from the back bench. “And fuck this long reliever shit. Rylander, clean up your own damned mess next time.”
“Yeah yeah yeah.”
Stanton led off. Arizona had brought in their closer. Third pitch, and our guy crushed the ball into right center. He took off at breakneck speed, tagging first and rounding toward second. He didn't let up. The fielder hurled the ball toward the infield. Stanton dove into second base.
“Safe!” The umpire gestured with both arms.
The loudspeaker amped up the fanfare. Screams and cheers resounded through the stands. Come on Fens. “Hit him home!” Teammates drummed impatiently on the rail. Others paced. Jimenez jumped up and down like he was three years old.
“Quit.” I griped out of the side of my mouth.
“Trying to stay warm.”
Another recorded trumpet blast. Shouts of “Charge!” echoed through the stadium.
The pitch to Fendleman. Stanton broke from the base. He sprinted to third. The catcher's throw didn't get there in time. That's the kind of shit we needed: lights out baserunning.
A flash of lightning. Pain screamed through the center of my head. It pounded and ached. I shut my eyes, ran a hand over my forehead, pressing my fingertips into my temples in an attempt to stop the torment.
The clank of the bat. “Get down, get down, get down. Woo! Yeah!” Claps and cheers and the roar of the crowd. Fendleman's base hit brought Stanton home.
“We're tied!” Jimenez jumped up and down again and jostled me. I breathed and closed my eyes, pleading with the pain to relent.
It did. I let out a deep breath. Those field lights were doing a number on me. I needed to spend the rest of the evening in a dark room. And sleep in tomorrow. Too bad my fake girlfriend wasn't real.
And that I didn't have her number. How was that possible? And why was it occurring to me now?
Fendleman leapt from first base. But the timing was off. He didn't get enough of a jump on the catcher. Maybe he can beat the ? —
“Out!” Ump jerked a thumb toward his shoulder. A loud 'Boo' ripped through the crowd. Replays on the large screen showed the tag, millimeters before Fendleman's hand grazed the base.
I winced. Dammit. We needed baserunners. Fair enough we needed good ones. We'd tied things up. Just one more run. I could taste it. We all could. I saw it on their faces. The dark, pinched brows. The fidgeting. Pacing.
Fendleman stumbled down the step into the dugout. Nearby players slapped him on his back for the RBI. Some grumbled: “bad calls”, about the tagout.
Then, a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You ready to go?”
Go? I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “Still need a run.”
“Yeah, I heard.” A smug-looking grin tugged one side of his mouth.
“I'm not leaving till the game ends.”
“Not what I meant.”
I shot him a look that was meant to be a question, but he just turned away. Dereks battled at home plate. Ahead in the count, he fouled off another pitch that was too close to the strike zone. And it was three and two.
“Let's go!”
Graphics on the stadium monitor—supposedly a noise-o-meter tried to keep the audience in the game. They jeered at the pitcher, trying anything to support Dereks.
The Arizona pitcher wound up, and delivered the pitch. We held our breath as Dereks stopped his swing.
“Ball.” The ump signaled toward first base.
“Yeah. Good eye. Good eye. Let's gooooo!”
Eberhardt turned toward the dugout. He signaled at Fendleman. Dereks touched the bag.
“Time out.”
Fendleman tossed a helmet at me. I caught it. Stared at him. Glanced over at Schorr . . . who might have been taking a nap. Nevins waved. Dereks stripped off his batting gloves.
It felt a hundred pair of eyes turned to stare right through me.
Then finally, the world moved again. “Cooper, get your ass on that base!”
Helmet crammed onto my aching head. A heavy tap. Fendleman shoved me out of the dugout like my first at-bat in little league.
“Pinch running for Edward Dereks is number twenty-seven, freshman Breslin Cooper. Breslin Cooper.”
My stomach pitched and churned. I'd wanted to play, but fuck . . .
This was a bad idea.