Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
Olivia POV
S ender and Lee deposited Breslin on his bed, like those moving guys who drag antique furniture the wrong way over traffic spikes, throw what's left into a room and declare the job done. The poor guy's head lolled back against the headboard at an awkward angle, body stretched out in a pair of borrowed sweats, and plain t-shirt.
I stared at him as he hazed in and out of focus. He looked uncomfortable and yet so comfortable at the same time. No, Liv, bad idea. “I can just sleep standing here.”
“What’s that Liv?” Remi asked as she followed the Breslin-movers into the Cooper-Milline honeymoon suite.
I giggled. Husband’s being brought home drunk, again .
“Hey Liv?” A voice in my ear. My shoulders shook.
“Ah, yeah.” I blinked sore eyes. “What time is it?”
“Three AM. I’m about dead on my feet.” Remi yawned and wiped a hand over her face.
“I could sleep on a bed of nails. Always wondered: who could do that? And why?” I'm pretty sure the sound that escaped my lips qualified as a whimper. “I would sleep so hard on a nail bed.”
She patted me on the shoulder. “Sen’s in the same dorm. A few floors up. I’m, ah, not far either.” She flushed a deep pinkish color as her boyfriend slid an arm around her.
I couldn’t relate. Could I? No, this isn’t the same thing.
“If you need anything, just text.” She gave me a heavy-lidded smile. “I’m sure you can, ah, handle it, him. But we’re here, too.”
“Sure he just needs a little TLC. Fix him up good as new.” Lee winked at me, but I just stared at him and tried to keep from falling over. I’d received a lot of that in the past four hours. Eddie and Fendleman thought they were so clever. Ugh, even Eberhardt.
I was pretty confident I knew which of those jerk-faced coaches let it slip. I would’ve thought them above that kind of thing. I did think them above that kind of thing. But then Dotty and Schorr got into some bizarro pissing match at the hospital and the next thing I knew: I was Breslin the Storm Cooper’s girlfriend, nurse, and sneaky link extraordinaire.
I glanced at Remi in a silent plea. I wanted to be able to confide in someone. I couldn’t talk to Dublin, because she’s . . . Dublin. Cathy was too logical. And blunt.
And Hilda and I weren’t speaking at all.
But, Coop wasn’t out of the woods on the probation and community service front just yet. Dotty had the sheriff driving up to the great metropolis of OKC to deliver paperwork drawn up by her son, the county judge. Between that and the old lady’s campaign to have her fellow senior center residents write letters of recommendation—topped off with an endorsement by the Sheriff’s department—the hope was, at the very least, a few months' extension.
“You ok?” Remi tilted her head as she put a hand on my shoulder. Hazy grey eyes glinted in the stark lighting.
I glanced at Coop, Breslin, lying there in his bed. His dark hair tousled over his forehead, dripping into his closed eyes. My heart hurt to look at him.
“He’ll be back to himself in no time,” Remi's said. And it was like I blinked and all three of them disappeared . . . The door shut with a loud click. I started, caught myself against the wall, and peeled my eyes open. I'm so tired . Three AM was not ok.
I just wanted to sleep. In my bed, in my home. Where was home anymore?
I blinked my eyes wide open and patted both sides of my face. “Almost there. Just need to find someplace to sleep.” I pulled tired legs through the small study area—containing a desk fixed to the wall, and his massively heavy game bag.
And then there was the doorway to his room. No door, but a space large enough for double doors. Breslin lay on his back amidst dark-colored sheets and a fuzzy blanket—his features smooth as he breathed. Must be nice. I grumbled and wished I had a pair of his dirty uniform socks to ball up and throw at him.
I glanced around his room, but there hadn't been any other 'place' to sleep in the single-athlete dorm. No couch or even a stuffed chair.
And I sure as hell was not getting in that bed. Nope. The guy was already a giant forced into a standard-sized mattress, no-doubt made of ultimate cushy memory foam wonderfulness worth basking in. And definitely beat wavering on my feet like I might topple over any second.
Nope. Not happening. I’d go sleep on the tiny window ledge first. The closet floor. Hot coals and simmering embers. I sighed. The floor right here wins. A small amount of light filtered in from the window, and a charging cable already plugged in, next to his built-in nightstand. I stared at short, bland carpet.
He could at least donate a pillow and blanket to the cause, though. Hard headed jerk. I should still be mad at him for hiding his injury and letting the coach put him in the game. Yes. That was it. I was mad. Would be mad . . . tomorrow at some point.
I found a clean-enough looking blanket in the closet. Spread it over the small span of floor between the bed and the window. The bottom shelf space of his nightstand did not look like a suitable pillow, but there hadn't been anything pillow-like. I lifted to my knees beside his bed—my eyes so desperate to close.
Ah-ha . He had a second pillow on the other side of his double-bed. I rose and reached over him. The warmth of his skin hovered in the air, saturating the space with: his spicy, earth-flavored scent, his quiet presence, his?—
Open eyes.
He stared at me. Electric, hot-cold shivers zapped me to life. “Ah. You’re awake.” I scooted back to the safety of my floor blanket, holding the pilfered plush softness. “Are you ok? How's your head? Do you?” My breath came in pants and gasps.
“Need me to make room?” Those dark eyebrows lifted and so did the corner of his mouth.
“What?” My heart tried to leap from my chest. “No! I just wanted a pillow.” I held it up as if its existence explained something. “See?” I hugged it to me and studied the door frame. What's not interesting about basic white trim around double doors? A lone picture hung on his wall. An older woman knelt beside a young boy in a baseball uniform. Probably his mom.
“That's all?” His sleep roughened voice stoked a small flame near my heart. I glanced his direction and got caught in his gaze. “You could just admit you like me, it’s not like I mind.” He gave me a bleary-eyed version of that smirky grin that made me want to hit him with his pillow—seventeen hundred times.
“That’s it.” I stood from the floor. “We’re going back to the hospital. Clearly, your brain was damaged.” I fiddled with the edges of the pillow. “Those helmets don’t do enough to protect people. I’ll lodge a complaint with the college. The NCAA if I have to.”
He sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes wide and seemingly focused on me.
“And-and what the hell were you doing out there anyway?” I hit his shoulder with the pillow. “You jerk! You knew you weren’t ok.” I threw the thing at him, but it just fell to the floor. “And you still!” I sniffled. “You could've been really hurt.” The room wobbled and distorted. “I don't like you, I'm mad at you, and I?—”
He reached up and wiped away a tear. More fell, trickling down my skin. I couldn’t stop. Idiotic, stupid, overly-tired Liv. You’re such a fool. I shuffled backwards, glancing at the door. But I promised to stay with him. I sunk back down on the blanket, grabbing and hugging my new Breslin-scented pillowy bff.
“I don’t think anyone has ever . . . cried.”
I sat back on my heels and wiped at my eyes. He rose. Always so much larger. You’d think I’d be used to it. He was probably the exact same height as Curt. Or close to it.
Ballplayers. They’d made me feel accepted when I was anxious. Abandoned. Small.
“There you go, little Livvie.” A mostly faceless blur in my memory placed his hat on my head. “Can’t be part of the team without a hat.”
Oh no. Why now? No, no. It’d been short lived, anyway. Mom still hadn’t been there when we got home that night. I’d woken up every evening for months, sobbing, aching, begging a strange man who wore my father’s face but never smiled, anymore—for my mother to come home.
“What? Bruise your ego to have a girl crying in your room at night?” I wouldn't look at him. The great Breslin Cooper was certain to be exactly as my brother claimed his teammates were. The kind-faced ones who were so accepting to a child. Played baseball like they were born for it. And traipsed on women’s hearts because they could.
“Coach said I couldn't use this for at least three days.” He held up the condom packet and gave me a dangerous look.
I turned away. “None of my business.”
I couldn’t reconcile it. I’d never been able to. Baseball and the people associated with it—my brother, his teammates, coaches, the scouts I interned with . . . Antonio, Fens, Eddie, Jacobs, even Eberhardt. That fieldhouse felt more like home than my father's mostly-empty and somewhat occasional residence.
“Not what I meant.”
“What kind of mess are we in? This was a bad idea. We both got you into this and now everyone on your team thinks we’re dating. So they think you want me here. Taking care of you. When I’m the last person.”
He lowered himself to the floor. “You’re the last person, what?”
“You'd want. Here, now . . .” My voice ran out. Ever. I wiped at my eyes again. “Aren’t I?”
A small frown pulled at his eyebrows. “Depends. Are you here to interview me?”
I let out some combination of a sob and a laugh. “No.”
“Then you’re not the last person I'd want.”
“Second to last, then.” I tried to smile. I'm sure I was just a watery mess.
“No, but you do talk a lot. When you’re nervous or upset. You just say . . . some jumble of words. It's hard to keep up with, or know which ones you mean.”
I swallowed the urge to speak. Wiped at more tears. I didn’t even know why I was crying. I was just so tired. And everything in my head and chest was all mixed up.
“Look, I . . .” He stopped and let out a long breath.
My heart thudded out of turn. My head quieted. Everyone had a story. What could his be? Did I know it? Was it what the world had already witnessed . . . an angry child striking out at a cold, heartless world?
I met his gaze. His eyes were warm, almost dewy in the moonlight.
“My mom wasn’t someone you messed with. She could turn a person to stone with a look. Even when I knew she was in pain, and I could see it plain as day on her face. She didn’t cry. Not really.”
Oh. My heart squeezed and my lungs, I couldn’t get enough air.
“Except the time she took me to the ER after I crashed my bike. I needed stitches, but was fine. Just a kid trying to do stupid tricks on my bike.”
I could picture it. “How old were you?” I breathed. I wanted to know . . .
“Eight, I think.”
I closed my eyes and imagined him at eight. Bruises and a few cuts on his smaller face. A black eye, maybe. His mom holding him.
The way my brother held me when I woke from a nightmare.
“There’s a man in your room. A human being. Intricately fashioned . . .”
“It didn’t make sense. I was the one all banged up. And like a stupid kid with my father’s ‘boys don’t cry’ speech ringing in my ears, I sniffled but held it all in. The doctors called me brave. And there was my mom, always so much stronger than the rest of us. So why was she the one in tears?”
The small hitch in his voice spoke volumes. My heart panged. I knew the sound . . . the ache of loss. The need for a person who was no longer there, or capable of giving what he, what I . . . longed for.
I opened my eyes and shifted to sit beside him on the floor of his room. I heard him. I strained with every part of my body to listen, to catch every syllable. To understand. And yet I got the feeling there were layers to his narrative. Did he grasp them all? Or was he still discovering pieces of his own story? What did he want me to know?
My face warm and wet with tears, I leaned my head against his arm.
“Coaches, friends, girls, teachers. Even my father, they’ve come and gone throughout my life. My mom, she’s the only one who cried for me.”
And in the space, the quiet of Breslin Cooper’s room in the middle of the night, with only a hint of a moon as a witness . . .
He found me.
“Until you.”