Page 103 of Chasing Headlines
“Ok. Um, I'll see if maybe I can see my phone. Maybe it dropped near enough?—”
“It's got a seal on the door. They have to keep count of the stuff in this closet for a state grant or some shit.” I ran a hand over my forehead. “Maintenance guys lectured me and they were calling the Director, so they'll find us. Or Dotty will break down the door.”
“She won't think you just bailed?”
“No chance.”
“I can't see anything. I thought my eyes would've adjusted by now, but it's just dark. I swear I'm going to start eating carrots with every meal.” A soft thud. “Ow. Where are you?”
“Here. I'm here,” I said and drew out the words for her. A shape moved, just outlines.
“I swear it's pitch black in here. How can you—” I caught her arm and pulled. She stumbled forward, into me. No longer holding that wad of fabric, one hand gripped my biceps. Her thigh pressed against mine.
“I'm right here,” I said.
“Oh.”
Several heartbeats rushed by, but she didn't move. Her breath on my neck, the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her shirt. “You're . . . you're still holding onto me. I mean it's ok, I just. I don't know why you would and it's?—”
“Ah, uh, yeah.” I let go of her, but the feel of her remained. Like she'd been etched into parts of my skin. “Blame my mental health specialist.” I huffed out a breath and would have stared at my hands, but I couldn't see them. “Didn't expect her to be right.”Idiot.
“What's that?” Her hand wrapped around my forearm. “Your therapist or something?”
“Or something.”
“You don't have claustrophobia right?” She released her grip on me. “Not that there's anything wrong with it and I might even empathize. It's kinda weird because I used to find them safe, I think. Or at least I remember hiding in closets when my parents fought. But, uh, sorry. We were talking about you. And blaming your mental health person?”
My back found the wall. “Said I needed to hug people or some shit. Probably the magic eight ball diagnosis. Delinquent kid's acting out because? Shake. Your answer is: not enough hugs.”
She let out a giggle. “Sounds like a true-life documentary. Not Enough Hugs: The Storm Cooper Story.”
“Yeah, wasn't sure what to think about that nickname.”
“It was inventive. But you might run into trademark issues eventually.”
The darkness wasn't completely quiet. The din of the kitchen clattered and clinked faintly through the walls. Her breaths shushed. When I closed my eyes, the air crackled.Don't remember the shower. Talk about something else.
“That was the first and maybe last time playing baseball for a crowd that size. Couldn't even enjoy it.” I lowered myself to a sitting position.
“That's a hard one.”
“Every move felt like I was running on nails. My whole body ached like I could've been a million years old—at seventeen.”
“You played pretty well. I mean, considering. Tanner shut you down at the plate, but your team rallied. Once they knocked him out . . .” She puffed out a breath, and it sounded like she was sitting, too. “Well, you were there. You lived it. I wasn'tallowedto go.”
“Most people couldn't.”
“Yeah, you know, just meant that, um, hey, did you skip training this morning?”
I stared into the dark, but could barely make out the outline of her shoulder. I let out a long breath. “Schorr told me not to show up unless I changed my attitude.”
“Oh. That's, hm. He was in a real mood. Guess he feels entitled to be a stubborn mule since he's old or something. Maybe he just needs to cool off? He didn't cut you, right? That wasn't?—”
“Not sure.” I folded my arms on top of my knees and shook my head. “He said I was just out for myself. I'm not sure how that's even possible in a team sport.”
“Hm.” A drumming, tapping sound erupted from her ‘side’ of the small room.
“What're you doing?”