Page 138 of Chasing Headlines
I stared at him.I think he's actually serious.
His face dropped. “Too much?”
“You had me up until the ‘shine’ part. You’ve got work to do before hitting the motivational speaker circuit.”
“Well, either way. Come on, I’ve got practice. And you have to go do your whatever thing with Coach.” He yanked my arm. I stumbled to keep upright and sputtered as I tried to protest. But the man was too fast and he had a grip on my arm that was no joke. We finally halted at the window to Schorr and Eberhardt's bullpen office. The blinds open, both men huddled over a desk.
I hissed at Antonio. “I take it all back, you're a traitor.”
He grinned and gave me a quick, two-finger salute. “You'll thank me later, chica.”
Before I could kick him in the shins, he knocked on the window and took off.Oh that sonofa?—
“Milline! Get your keister in my office, now, missy. Jesus, Milline's. What is it with?—”
Several pairs of eyeballs turned my way. My entire . . . everything ducked inside my stomach. I fortified my game face, squared my shoulders and grabbed the doorknob.
“Ain't getting any younger, Missy. And we've got a fuckin' problem?—”
I pushed open the door. Those piercing hazel eyes in leathery skin met my gaze. “With my four.” His lips curled up into a sneer. “You may have heard about it.”
Yeah, may have . . .I glanced away. Then stopped.Wait, what?“You were planning to start Coop at second?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Breslin POV
If my weekend trip to the ER hadn't been punishment enough, I won the free prize for an eval by the borrowed football trainer, some really short dude with a permanent scowl. I'd had to answer all the same questions we answered before baseball camp, underwent some basic balance exercises. My head ached a bit, but ibutab was still keeping most of the pain at bay. Angry-guy wouldn't talk to me, so I got to hang out in the comfy couch while waiting for Coach.
“Tests came out all right.” Coach glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Still on rest, though. Light exercises tomorrow. Bands and jogging if you're up for it.”
I let out a breath. “Sure.”
“Any issues with pain, nausea, light sensitivity, you raise your hand, got it?”
I nodded.
“It's more important that you make a full recovery.” He clapped me on the shoulder as he walked beside me, following the path from the training facility to the locker room. He opened the door, stepped inside and leaned against it. “Go ahead and head out.”
“What?” I stopped short. Blinked. My forehead itched like a sonofabitch under the gauze and tape.
“You can't practice. Like I said, bands and jogging tomorrow. But for tonight, just rest.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, sure.”
“Oh, you'll need to get checked by Doc Hamer, too. Part of your concussion protocol.” He nodded at me, like I was supposed to just go away.
“Is that it? If I'm off for the night . . . can I get caught up on my hours? I missed my weekend shift, and I?—”
“Oh, shoot.” He rifled his pants pockets, patting and pulling them inside out. “One sec, need a favor.” He inclined his neck toward the locker room. I followed him inside. He led the way to his office door, opened it, ducked through the opening, then handed me a plastic card. On a lanyard.
“A badge?” I flipped it over and saw her face. She smiled at the camera with perfect teeth and symmetrical features. Blue-green eyes . . .
“Can you give her this?” Coach extended a plastic badge clipped to a lanyard. “Her official Strikers Baseball press pass. She was here earlier, but it hadn't come in, yet. Or more likely, Ted's been sitting on it.”
The badge read: Van Weekly Reporter—Olivia Milline.
“She'll need it for the Exhibition game.”