Page 157 of Chasing Headlines
“It's adorable.” She sipped her tea. “You're adorable. Cooper should eat you up. But I have two of you that are as stubborn asmules. How is even a certified busybody supposed to Hallmark-ending you two?” She narrowed her eyes as a smile slid across her lips.
“That's it, I'm adding a serger to the list. Yep, quilting lessonsand a serger.”
She moved her seat next to mine, motioning at my computer. “Keep typing.” She rested her chin on her hand. “My new ambition in life is to be found dead quilting your first baby blanket. It'll be glorious, with kids' baseball fabrics.”
“Sounds nice?” I glanced at her out of the side of my eye. “Except for the dying part.”
“And Coop, Jr. emblazoned across the top. Ha!” She slapped her palms together and stood up. The old lady chuckled.
I groaned. Now she was writing real person fanfic of me and Coop—having a baby? Right.That would require the two of us not arguing long enough to get naked and . . .
The image of him shirtless, fire alight in his eyes as he stripped me of my bra—taunted and tantalized my brain. Heat flared low in my abdomen. I closed my eyes and tried to shift my focus.Right, typing email on behalf of the residents.Not mentally undressing the fictional father of our nonexistent child.
I tapped out the next few lines:Mr. Cooper has been lending his time, even on weekends, to help out a number of the residents. It's not often that young people?—
A door creaked on its hinges. “You can't leave.” I glanced up and found her, oh, at the closet door. “I'm still typing the email.”
“Gotta find my seam ripper.”
“You're not allowed to have weapons in here. I'm pretty sure.” I continued typing:make an effort to turn off their technology and engage with their community?—
“And no dying. You've got to make the game tonight. And run interference with Coop when he sees my article. I really don't want him to hate me . . .”Any more than he already does.
“Now that.” She held a seam ripper in one hand and the head of a doll in the other. “Is the first honest thing you've said in at least an hour.”
“Are you beheading dolls with that thing?” I shook my head. “Not sure grandma should be left alone with Coop Junior.”
I stopped by the journalism room, but Mrs. P had already left for the day. I sent her an email with the doc attached, complete with read receipt. So, at least I had the bit of relief knowing my article had been received.
I figured she'd make me wait until the newspaper hit stands in the early hours of morning. But although I was still concerned, at least she couldn't remove me officially from the baseball beat until Monday. By then, the Exhibition Game would be over. And even if I had to go suffer through some hockey games or cover the men's soccer tournament, as long as I still had a chance to cover baseball . . .
I took a deep breath, but my fingers still shook, even though the email had long been traversing the intranet in bits and bytes. Deconstructed and reassembled, and geez, but my stomach was one giant, angry knot.
I was hopeful. Wound up. Anxious. I was a lot of things . . . and something was really bothering me about the game that was about to happen. Or maybe it really was the still-looming and dark, churning feeling of impending doom, that Mrs. P and TSTU would fully adopt Furston Milline's rule about No Baseball for Olivia.
Or maybe it was really that I hadn't ingested anything but caffeinated beverages in the past twenty-four hours. And the shaky, jittery, quasi-queasy knot that had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach was just my body crying out for real food.
I raided Dotty's fridge for a quick snack, cheese and crackers seemed to be the most filling thing I could find. She gave me this look as I stuffed a few crackers in my face.
“Help yourself.”
I grunted. It wasn't the best manners, certainly Furston would've had a few words to say on the topic of manners. “Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”
After my rushed snack, we climbed into my car and headed out to the stadium. I had, in exchange for my extra special interview help, arranged for Dotty to have primo tickets and agreed to be her personal chauffeur to the game.
I would finally get to use my newly minted press pass that my not-even boyfriend “delivered” before yesterday's practice—the one that led to his stomach pyrotechnics.
Coop held up the card with my picture, like he was studying it. “Been trying to decide what I want in exchange for this.”
I reached for it, but he held it up higher. Freakin giant. “I can get Eberhardt to make me a new one. I'll probably have to pay for it, but I'll just tell him myconcussedboyfriendmust have had a dizzy spell and misplaced it.”
I jumped to grab the lanyard. Coop raised his arm. I puffed hair from my face. “Last chance to get something you want.”
“You seem pretty confident for someone so short.”
I considered punching him in the stomach. “You’re not winning any brownie points with your girlfriend.”
“You said we needed to breakup.” He leaned into my personal space. “That’s not in my best interest.”