Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Olivia POV
A ntonio laid down a bunt, slow-rolling down the first base line. He raced with those crazy long legs toward the bag. But the catcher . . .
He grabbed the ball and lunged at Coop. As Pereira swung his mitt, he smacked the side of Coop’s face—whipping his head to the right.
The tag arrived too late.
“Safe!” The umpire gestured with both hands as the crowd stomped collective feet in the stands—like the sound of thunder. They screamed and cheered.
My own heart beat wildly. I could barely breathe. If watching Coop play on recorded video had been something . . . This. Seeing him play in real life was nothing short of exhilarating.
Or maybe it was that I felt to some small degree, that I knew him.
Coop rose to one knee, pulled the helmet from his head, and removed his gloves. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the way he moved seemed stiff and strange. I made my way to the field.
Antonio jumped around slapping high fives to bemused teammates. He paused, placed his palms together for a second then pointed at the sky. I tapped him on the shoulder.
“Reporter Chica! You came to interview?—”
I pointed at home plate. Eberhardt spoke to Coop, who had made it to his feet. Helmet tucked under his arm, I would not have vouched for him being “practically perfect” right then.
“He took a pretty solid blow to the jaw.”
“Shit.” Antonio nodded at me before jogging off to check on his teammate. I glanced around, looking for Remi, the trainer.
I found her packing her small duffel in the dugout.
“Can you hang around for an extra few minutes? I think he needs to be looked at.”
“Who?” She tugged her bag onto her shoulder and climbed the steps. Her dark ponytail whipped around her in the wind.
“Coop. The winning baserunner. He just came off concussion protocol and took a pretty solid blow to his head.”
“Yeah, of course. Let me grab?—”
“Oh. Maybe he’s ok. Did he hurt his ankle?” Coop moved with a mild limp. Eberhardt and Antonio flanked him. The coach paused to take a clipboard from the ump.
Coop and Antonio continued toward the dugout. The team spilled out of the box and into foul territory on the field. Jumping and hollering.
Arizona had exited the field in a rush. Grounds crew members raked at dirt and pulled up bases.
I took my eyes off Coop for that long: long enough to register the other team had left, the groundskeepers had taken over. The rapid exit by fans seated on the lower level.
That long.
When I glanced back, it was too late. To move, to shout!
Coop folded and dropped to the ground like lightning had struck and turned him into a lifeless rag doll.
I screamed.
Breslin POV
Light blared as someone pointed the sun directly in my eyes. I winced and tried to block it out. Something wouldn't let me push it away.
Fingers pressed at my right eye. “Can you tell me your name?” A woman’s voice spoke. Cold pressed against the left side of my face.
Livvie? A name, but . . .
“Yo, come on, Coop. Snap out of it.”
“You’re not supposed to tell him his name.” Another voice spoke. Everything was blurry. I didn't want to open my eyes. Ice shifted over my jaw. “Defeats the purpose.”
“Who the hell’s this guy?”
“I’m helping Remi.”
I tried to see . . . what was going on.
“Can you focus?” The woman's voice again. “Look at me.”
I tried to open my mouth and speak, but my face felt like it was stuffed with cotton. My body drooped from my bones. I just needed to lay down and?—
“Hey, nope, you’ve got to stay upright.” The ice disappeared and a blurry face I didn’t know hazed across my vision.
“Want to sleep.”
“No way, 'mano. Soccer-man, don’t let him fall. I've got his stuff. Coach’s bringing the car.”
“Where am I?” My head whirled. It wanted to lay down. My eyelids weighed at least fifty pounds.
“You tell me.” That female voice spoke again. I dragged my lead-filled head up and found myself staring into the v of a woman’s low cut shirt. Smooth, round breasts stared back. They were nice. I wondered if I could use them as a pillow.
“Eyes up or I’ll dropkick you into the next county.”
I tilted my head to glare at Soccer-man. The leaden thing was too heavy for my neck. And her chest looked so comforting . . . Comfortable. Something . . .
“Let’s try this again.”
A sharp odor burned my nose. I jerked away. But it was too late. The stuff stung my brain, buzzing and aching. Ugh. That light again. I growled. “Turn that off.”
“There we go. Some dilation. Can you tell me your name?”
That sounded easy enough. I blinked and words formed on my lips. “Breslin Cooper.”
“Good. What number are you wearing?”
Number. I lifted my head and glanced around. A dugout. Baseball. I scanned my shoulders, chest. Sure enough, a maroon jersey. I was wearing my uniform.
“Ten. Wait, no.” Ten was my number. My real number. But I thought I remembered not having my usual number . . . I just couldn’t remember why. “I like ten. But that's not . . .” I pulled at my shirt, looking for a patch or raw digits sewn on the front.
“Hey. It’s a cooper hawk.” I pointed at the hawk on my shirt. “Like me.”
“You’re not a bird.” Soccer-man was the worst stick-in-the mud since that annoying reporter. Where was she? Wasn’t she supposed to interview me?
Maybe that came with other benefits . . .
“I think he means his name is Cooper. Like the hawk.” Dark eyebrows furrowed as the trainer studied my face. “I don’t see any swelling. It’s likely bruised, though. You should take him to the ER, just in case. Clearly has concussion symptoms and needs to be under observation.”
“Thanks Rem.” I recognized that voice. Fendleman. Third base.
“Don't leave me with him. He said he was going to kick my ass.”
A few chuckles. “That's how you know Fens likes you!”
“You’re supposed to be keeping an eye out for the fish. Not beat up on them.”
“I’m finding out this one’s extra trouble. You should probably have a name plate made up for one of the cots.” A hand patted my shoulder. He was a little blurry and my head throbbed. My eyes didn’t like looking at things anymore.
“You can’t sleep, yet, Coop.” Fendleman knelt down in front of me. “You took a wallop.”
“My head hurts. How'd the game go?” I pointed to my shirt. “Did we win?”
“Yeah, buddy.” He grinned. “We won. Come on, you get to go for a ride.”
A shoulder dug into the space under my arms. My body rose without much effort. I focused on my feet.
“If you’re gonna call people by their occupation, we’ll just call you Ass-licker.”
“Dude. You got cotton in your ears. That’s ass kicker . Something the soccer team had a lot of experience with last season.”
“Oh my god, are you two seriously playing whose balls are bigger right now?”
“Rem?”
“Sender, you?—”
I was propped against something metal as my human crutch turned away. I chuckled and caught myself sliding. “Whose balls are bigger.” I laughed harder. I couldn’t help it. “Soccer balls are huge compared to baseballs.” I doubled over on the ground.
“Well, he doesn’t know his name, but he knows that.”
“I’m a Cooper hawk. Storm Cooper. Coop.” I was up on my feet again. Sender the soccer-man scowled at me. I'd never seen someone with white-blond hair and dark eyebrows.
He helped me balance as we walked toward a minivan parked on the dirt—behind home plate. “I hate that fucking name. Cooper’s my asshole father.”
The minivan door rolled open. Sender half picked me up, half shoved me into the vehicle then climbed in after me. “I get it.” He moved me where I could lean against the window, then wrapped the seatbelt around me.
“What's that?”
“I happen to know a few things about asshole fathers.”