Page 124 of Chasing Headlines

With no destination in mind, I walked. In the chilled November morning air, hoody clutched close, a baseball discovered in the side pocket of my backpack. My feet carried me across campus to the open practice field.

No one would be around on a Sunday morning, which was . . . exactly what I needed. I had a habit most people didn't know about. Only my brother knew that when I was anxious or pissed off, I would pitch.

There was something altogether perfect about pitching. I could understand why my brother had fallen in love with it. Although I'm sure he had to get away from the anger-fueled power at some point.

Or maybe he didn't, and that was his problem.

I couldn't pitch like him. Hell, I could barely pitch reasonably close to the speed a competitive fourteen-year-old boy could. But the power let me work through the anger.

And then the desire for control would take over, forcing my brain into a more logical space. When I achieved the command over my pitch that I wanted, that's when I knew I was 'better'. I was past the surge of emotional upset, could think and see at least somewhat rationally, again.

I only had one baseball and a backstop, but I could make do. “I need to get my own bucket of balls to keep, somewhere.”Wouldn't have helped right now.I stretched and loosened my shoulder, arm. Air ruffled the neck of my shirt. I stood with both feet on the rubber. A deep breath in, I stepped and raised my arms toward my shoulder, lifting my left leg at the same time. I balanced for a brief instant, went back to starting position. Ireally needed to get back into the habit, I was rusty. And after I'd spent so many years perfecting my curveball . . .

I breathed, raised my arms, drawing up my leg at the same time. I didn't think, just stepped long, whipping my arm through the air to deliver the pitch. It was stupid high and absolutely horrible. It clanged against the backstop and dropped.

I jogged to pick it up, then back to the mound.

Setup. Eyes closed as the wind swept across my cheeks. Hilda's face swam before my eyes. I snarled as I wound up, stepped and threw. Retrieved the ball. I shouted as I released the pitch. High and outside.

Again.

I went through my mechanics, until it was almost as natural as breathing. The windup, the grip. My step. The release. And in between it all, I shouted and screamed and raged—at Hilda, Schorr, my father, the universe. Coop.

And then it was there. That crystalline moment of clarity. I threw and watched it break across the strike zone. Threw again and hit the low outside corner.

Hilda was right about Coop, but she was wrong about me. And no matter how Coop, Breslin, had treated a reporter named Liv Milline—he'd been rude and abrasive, no lie. But when we had just been strangers, and even when I was hurting, he'd been kind.

The truth was: I wanted to know him. Not just stats about some amazing ballplayer, but who Breslin was.

I wound up and threw a sweeper. It dropped low and exited the strike zone before it crossed the plate.Damn.

“That was a solid break, Miss Reporter. Dropped a bit low, but the mechanics are there.” A deep voice materialized behind me. I spun around and found: “Tanner Meyers.”

A strange, lopsided smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Liv Milline. We have met before.”

I forced a laugh. “It's Sunday. Aren't you supposed to be resting the arm?”

“Resting is relative. But you know already know that.” He tugged at his ballcap. “I don't think I've met anyone, aside from a coach or a scout, maybe? Who knows so much about all the aspects of the game.”

I squirmed inside my own skin. “Thanks?”

“Catch a few?” He threw me his glove.

I held up the well-worn black leather pitcher's glove. “I'll pass. I like having all the bones in my hand, you know, unbroken.”

“I just need the mobility work.” He rolled his left shoulder in widening circles. “I won't hurt you.”

I shrugged. “You did your warm up already?”

“While watching your pitching exhibition? Sure did, coach.”

My face burned and I was one hundred percent positive I was a tomato. “You can just call me Liv you know.”

He grinned and tapped the rim of his cap. I hurried over to home plate, picked up my ball and turned. I couldn't help but feel a teensy bit giddy. I hadn't played catch since my internship ended, months ago. I'd watched, “judged” even, but not picked up a ball in so long.

He pitched from the stretch. Left foot on the rubber, facing first base. His movements crisp and powerful, he went through his delivery, but held back on his extension. I winced. Something about it was wrong. But he didn't ask for pointers.

He threw a handful more, no more than a dozen total pitches. I met him on the first base line and handed back his ball and glove. “This was enlightening, we should do it again sometime.”