Page 152 of Chasing Headlines
“Why? Just because your dad got rich off the sport?” She threw up her hands. “Because you're trying to live up to some shadow behind your brother?”
Not sure that last analogy made sense, but I got the point. “It's the family business, right?” The words sounded hollow and lame even to my ears.
“The family business that your family begs you not to?—”
“They don’t beg, they just leave me behind while they—" My chest squeezed to the point of pain. “They practically forbid it.”
“And because it’s forbidden, it must be theonlything you can think of to do. Did it never occur to you that they have their reasons? Like: Hey, Liv, don't touch the hot stove or you'll get burned?”
I laughed. It echoed, harsh and hollow, in the small dorm room. “Really? Coming from you, that's . . . rich.”
“Yeah. I guess it is, huh?” She crossed her arms and let out a sigh. “I want to support you, but it just feels like it’s not something you really want. Just like you're desperate for something. Their approval?” She frowned and tipped her head.
“Just quit. I don't know what your endgame was, but apology not accepted.” I spun on my heel and headed down the hall.
“Your mom's the only one who wants nothing to do with baseball. Isn't she?”
I swallowed against a raw, sore lump in the back of my throat.
“Come on Olivia, let's go. We'll go have a girls’ night. We don’t need baseball.” She held out her hand. I wouldn't take it.
“But mom, Curt's pitching tonight.”
I shook away the image. I didn't go with her that night. My brother had always been amazing. He'd play music in his room and tell me silly jokes . . . when Mom and Dad's arguments got so loud, I couldn't sleep.
Then he'd tuck me into bed when it was finally over.
“Leave me alone.” I grumbled under my breath.
“Livia, don't be like this. I care about you. I don't want to see you chasing after something that's just a substitute for?—”
“What, my absent mother?” Heat washed over my skin as I whirled around to face her. “Yeah, there's a real missing piece in my life. Mymom.”
“I don't pretend to know or imagine I know what it's like. My family, we had four of us, my parents, and grandparents all in one house. But the way your mom bounced in and out of your life. It makes sense—why you'd chase after the ambitions of the men in your family. The only way you know how.”
Ice dripped down my spine even as another wave of heat breathed across every fiber of my skin. “Wow, thanks for the family therapy session.” I spit out and turned away. Numb feet moved toward the stairs.
“Liv, don't?—”
“She's not a Milline.” I seethed through clenched teeth. “I'm nothing like her.” I crammed my hands in my pockets as I walked away. “I will benothinglike her.”
Friday buzzed with excitement throughout the campus. Founders’ Day, the Exhibition game, the ice-boxing legend on campus. There were no shortage of newsworthy stories, but I had the best one.
My phone chimed an email alert. I opened the message to see a note from Mrs. P asking me to come by and check in.I'm probably overdue for taking on another layout or graphics assignments.I changed direction to head toward the Media and Communications building, then beelined straight for our working room.Hopefully it's not already my turn, again, for ad sales.I paused and eyed the door for a moment.I hate cold calls. But it’s all part of the reporter job . . .
I entered the Journalism workspace. The place was empty except for Mrs. P, sitting at the center table. Which made sense, her team should all be out writing stories. So why was I here?She didn't look up from her laptop. “Liv, good. I received your Founders’ Day interview.”
“Oh, yes. Dotty’s a real character. She has a lot of . . .”
Mrs. P held up a printout and proceeded to tear it into bits.
My heart sank.So, that would be, not good. And . . . kinda unnecessary.
“Your baseballadjacentreporting is top notch. You know the sport. You can write. But tomorrow’s game aside, as we've discussed a few times over the past semester, there’s no baseball for three more months.”
“But there’s?—”
She held up a hand. “For the forty-first time, I don’t have the luxury of an only-baseball reporter. I’m not running the Times.” She bent her laptop screen and glared at me over the rim of her glasses. “I need your article for Founders’ Day. You’re going to nod your head, swear to me that you’ve done the interviews, and rewrite this, borderline biography.”