Page 147 of Chasing Headlines

The mood changed to warm, sunshiney images with cuddling, baking, and a man on his knees proposing . . .

I scoffed and closed the app.Marriage. Yeah, right. What a joke. My parents both went through marriage partners the way other people snacked through Doritos. Who needed that?

Maybe instead of NBfO, the new rule should be “No Coop for Olivia”, and I could just ratify that one as a solid foundational principle of life.

I needed to write my article on Dotty. I needed to get ready for the Exhibition game. I needed to figure out what Hilda’s deal was.

Hilda.My heart squeezed and a hollow ache burned inside my chest. We didn't often fight. She'd been the one person over all these years who even tried to understand . . .

I knew I messed stuff up sometimes. Geez, even with Coop, I managed to open my mouth and say things I regretted later. But Hilda's lecture about chasing after baseball scouting . . . it reeked of Dublin Serra-like shallowness. Not at all like the best friend who'd always had my back. Listened when I got so frustrated I could scream. Took my side, even when I maybe didn't deserve it.

Taught me to correctly pronounce: careverga.

If I didn't know what her deal really was, there was no way we could rectify it. And if she was really going to complain that I 'had everything she wanted', then I wasn't sure there was much to say. I would listen . . . I'd always listen. We'd been friends since the day she patched up the scrapes on my arms and legs after I went the hard way into a sewer to rescue a kitten.

The cat and I ended up both needing to be fished out. And thanks to my new friend, we were. She liberally applied ointment and bandaids after flagging down a passing Amazon driver with a crowbar and an extra-sized first aid kit.

Hilda still had that cat: Amilo. He was eight and loved to nap on the windowsill in the afternoons. Our junior year, he'd sit on his mom's computer when she was trying to fill out college applications—as if to say: no way, mom, I won't let you leave.

He was her solace when she and her dad fought. Not sure anyone told Amilo that his mom's officially been kicked out. I don't think I'd want to be the one to explain it to him. Let's just say the scratches I got for my rescue attempt weren't all thanks to skin vs concrete.

Which brought to mind the oneotherthing I didn't want to think about: what I was going to do about going home for the holiday . . . Curt wasn't going to be there. He and Lucy were visiting her family. Hilda would be staying here.

Which just left me and my dad. And I'd take a hard pass on that.

Wednesday, Coop made it back on the field. Mostly jogging and light drills. Not that I was paying that close of attention. Until I found out the suddenly promoted social hacker had thieved my press pass to the exhibition game.

I’m sure it was an accidental oversight. Or at least that’s what I told Coach Eberhardt when he asked if my boyfriend had been behaving, following his rest instructions and remembered to give me my badge.

It’s not like anyone else on the team was included in these little chats. But it was more than a bit disconcerting to haveto pretend like we were practically living together—the way Eberhardt carried on about it. Schorr just looked . . . sour. Same as always.

There was one lecture that the old guy had for me, though.

“I don’t give a shit if he is your old man.” Schorr groused from under his hat.

“Oh, you're awake?” I closed the large file drawer that was starting to fill up. “Thought maybe this was where you slept.”

“Coop’s gotta pass concussion protocols.” He sat up and rubbed a hand over the side of his face. “And I’m still not starting him.”

“My old man?”

“If Furston’s gonna have a beef about it, I need you to tell him it’s the right thing.” He stabbed his finger into the top of his desk. “For Coop. God dammit, I’m doing this for his sake!”

I wasn’t really sure what to say. Or what the hell was going on. “So, you want me. To tell my father? That it’s OK . . . not to start Coop?” I went total 'game face' on this one. They had taken my second base suggestion seriously enough to run the numbers, at some point. And when Coop tucked his tail between his legs and came back to practice with a refreshed attitude—post our closet fiasco—Schorr and Eberhardt had decided to give him a chance to start. Just the Exhibition game, as a trial.

Becausethe numbers said so, not me, of course.

“I figure you-you! I know how you can be!”

I stared at Eberhardt and pleaded in the back of my mind for something to make sense.

“You’re a little headstrong, Liv. This can’t come as a surprise to you.”

Eh, yeah, that was fair. “Ok. And this has what to do with, ahem, my boyfriend?” God I should wash my mouth out with soap after having to pronounce those words. Except that I'dfinally had a taste of post-apple-chomping Coop, and dear God, that man could kiss . . .

“That’s what I’m talking about right there. You probably went and told daddy that he needs to make sure Coop gets to start.”

Oh, shit. They don't know about the NBfO rule. Hah!I tried not to do a joyful happy dance right there in that office. I rather sedately crossed my legs and smoothed my skirt over my tights.Game face.“Imighthave mentioned we were dating, but daddy rarely takes much interest, you know.” Oh, did I need to play ‘mini-princess’?I can play mini-princess. I blinked my eyelashes. “Why?”