Page 114 of Chasing Headlines
“That is typically how they get the girl pregnant.” Eberhardt chuckled. “How it worked with Kaitlyn.”
Coach shook his head. “Good thing she kept your sorry butt. You and your stupid over Maisy Sue or whatever.”
“Forgot about her. Oh wow.”
“You were a mess back then.” He threw his hat on his desk and sunk down in his chair. “So many have come through here, not just ballplayers but young men, trying to find their way in life.”
“You've made a real difference. You have.”
I cleared my throat. Both coaches turned to look at me. “Am I . . . Bases?” I couldn't form coherent thoughts.Pregnant?I pointed at the door. “Um, can I?—”
“Go!”
They didn't have to tell me twice.
Chapter Thirty
Breslin POV
Friday Afternoon Practice
Air crackled through the fieldhouse. Bright sunlight bathed the ballfield even as a crisp breeze bit at any bare bits of flesh. Late autumn days in West Texas were only less-hot than summer, but nighttime temperatures swept in before sunset. Something about a crisp but-bright fall afternoon screamed baseball weather. And we were only a few weeks away from our exhibition game.
“Look alive out there. Look alive.” Ping! The ring of the bat. A pop fly, an easy out to the short stop. I raced toward second. Planted my foot in the center of the bag. Dereks pivoted and slung the ball at me. I whipped my glove up and snagged it from mid-air.
A small hop off the base, avoiding the cleats of a phantom baserunner. I threw to Fendleman, covering third. He batted at it, but managed to hold onto the ball. Bad form. He launched a rocket at first. Stanton lifted his glove, plucking it out of the air.
“Sloppy.” I grumbled under my breath.
“Too slow.” Coach Eberhardt bellowed from the batter’s box. Fungo slung over his shoulder, he kicked some dirt. “You guys want to play or what?”
“Yes coach.” Voices piped up, out of sync.
“Yes coach!”
“Damn right we do!”
“Then get your heads out of your asses, right now. Exhibition game’s a week away, and not one of you looks like you belong on the field come game time.”
I wasn’t in the mood for this shit. This was our starting lineup? I should be in centerfield. Or at short. What the fuck was Fendleman doing batting at my throw like a middle schooler?
Garbage.And I was fuckin stuck at second. I punched my fist into my glove. And an extra time just for good measure. I crouched into my ready position.
Ping! Coach sent the ball sailing into short centerfield. Kinsley tore through the outfield as Dereks, shielding his eyes from the sun backpedaled from the basepath toward the grass. I covered second, a growing sense of alarm churning in my abdomen.One of you has to call it. Come on, you idiots. Call it!
Kinsley had the better line on it, but unless he could pull off some kind of amazing dive, he wasn't catching up with it. Dereks, pretty sure he lost the damned thing in the sun.
Sure enough, the ball dropped to the ground. And then it was like collegiate athletes got replaced with t-ball toddlers. Kinsley dove, sliding across the ground. He took out Dereks from behind. The ball settled into the grass. Both of those guys groaning and completely outside of the play. I ran to the ball, scooping it up. I pegged it at Fendleman—a perfectly reasonable throw. Maybe a bit too hard, but on target. He couldn't hold onto it. Batted it onto the basepath. Fumbled and tripped. Picked it up. Overthrew Jimenez at home plate.
Eberhardt pulled his cap down over his face. His complexion an angry, mottled red. Jimenez threw his helmet at the ground and started swearing in Spanish.
“Hijo de puta, a quién diablos le estabas lanzando la pelota? Tu abuela en las gradas? Estúpido, mi hermana lanza mejor que tu.”
Fendleman, like most of us, probably didn't understand much Spanish. But the rapid pace of syllables dripping from Jimenez's salty tongue said everything. Between the 'estupido' and the hand gestures, we got the gist.
“Fuck you, Jimenez,” Fendleman snarled and pointed his glove.
“Hey, we're a team.” I called out. Someone had to, they were behaving like children. “Shake it off.”