Page 135 of Chasing Headlines
A tomato who needed to get dressed and grab coffee before she was late to her first class. Monday morning had won again.
By the time I gave up on my hair looking decent and put it in a ponytail, I only had time for instant coffee with a splash of creamer. I poured myself into the back row of my world history class and wished I had toothpicks to keep my eyes open.
I caught my mind wandering to the events of the weekend. And if a person could actively build mental walls, I would have done so right then.No.I told myself.Don’t think about it.
And every time I found myself picturing his face, I punished my brain with reading world history facts and figures in the back of the textbook chapter. Do you know how many tons of Manganese are exported from the Netherlands every year? Really, why was this in a world history book? World Geography would have made more sense . . .
I made an absolute idiot out of myself.No, don’t think. It’s fine. It was just the coaches. And Coop. And he won’t say anything.Or else.
Why did I even get involved?
His lips were sweet and salty with the tang of bitter hops lacing the rapid puffs of his breath. Thick and whisper-soft, his mouth caressed mine.
No. Those memories are strictly off limits. Never again. Or I mean it, I’ll subject you to the full text of War and Peace in a weekend. I won’t . . . think about him.
I can’t. It was a fluke. A, um, forced proximity Stockholm Syndrome thing. I’m definitely not now and never will be in love with Breslin Michael Cooper.
In love with?I forced the thought from my brain. La la la la la. Of all the stupid hormonal—he doesn’t even remember. Remember?
Yeah. He doesn’t. So you won’t either. Just forget it. We should . . . go on a date with someone else. That will work. Anyone else. Ok, not anyone.
But, uh, Tanner asked me to lunch. That sounds harmless and promising, right? Ok, objective of the day: plan a date with someone. Tanner. Yes, definitely Tanner.
Good plan.
“Hey, you ok?”
I turned my head and looked at the person next to me. A gentle face behind oversized glasses. “Uh, yeah, sure. Fine. Um, why?”
“You plugged your ears a few minutes ago and started rocking back and forth in your chair.”
Maybe one reason I wasn’t at the top of most guys dating calendars? Probably. Gah.
“This unit is a far cry from fascinating. But you seem a little . . . frazzled. You know we have mental health coaches available to us on campus if you’re feeling overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed? Was I feeling overwhelmed? Underwhelmed? Apparently, no matter what I could tell myself, I was alarming strangers in my class. Maybe this was a warning sign?
I smiled and thanked her for her concern.Just need to focus on a date with Tanner.Yep, that would solve everything.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Olivia POV
Nothing about 'date with Tanner' was a solid plan. Unless I add “stupid” into the mix. Itwasa solidlystupidplan. Maybe misguided? Either way. There’s a reason pitchers aren’t my thing. Arguably, no one could ever convince me they’re “better” than Curt. So, sorry non-existent boyfriend, you'll always be second best.
They also have a bad habit, usually, of being players. Not of the baseball batting and fielding variety. They think they’re kings of that pitching mound—the kind of kings that have . . . harems. Not that pitchers have a lock on that kind of behavior. Or maybe Tim Gratton didn't get the memo that starting shortstop wasn't the same 'king-like' caliber.Ass.
You tell the guy the truth: sorry, a .220 batting average is barely even considered mid, much less scholarship material, and no, my brother won't be coming to the game to 'scout' you.The next thing I knew, dearest not-quite-boyfriend was sucking face with Madison Castelhoffer behind the bleachers. I rolled my eyes and groaned out loud. I was proud of junior year me, though. I'd put on my game face and said in the most calm voice a sixteen year old could muster: “You should've told me, Tim. I'dhave gotten you a nice parting gift.” I didn't waste one tear on Tim Gratton.
I tried not to look like I was waiting outside the locker room while . . . waiting outside the locker room. I still hadn't had my 'chat' with Coach about whether I was still interning as a scout. As if printing off and filing emails—Nope, it counts. The same as scrubbing grass stains and fetching lattes counted during my summers with the Sabers. I took a deep breath and wandered toward the exit.
So far, Tanner's the only one who knows about my family connections to baseball.
As if those were the magic thoughts that could conjure the man himself, I caught sight of him—the left-handed pitcher could apparently use both arms to keep his little harem close. I held onto my gag reflex, glancing around for a place to hide? I didn't want to be there. Or found there. Or have to—Ugh, I darted across the hall and pressed my back against the wall. Waited a couple of breaths. I peeked around the corner just in time to see him lean down and—Nope. Time to go.I shoved open the exit door, ready to leap through it, intent on my escape. It came to a jarring stop.
“Ow! Fuck.”
I collided with the door and almost fell into Breslin, er, Coop, oh hell, Coop. I seethed and cringed. “Did I hit you?”