Page 16 of Chasing Headlines

“I'm not saying you can't.” His voice rumbled. “Just trying to get you to be a bit more open-minded. You have four years to try other things. Almost anything you want besides scouting. Maybe give something non-baseball-y a shot?”

My lungs squeezed until my insides burned. “No.”

“Well, I tried. When you see Schorr tell him I said hello. And that I apologize in advance for my kid sister.”

I put myself on mute as I sniffed and grabbed for a tissue from the countertop box. Caught movement in the corner of my eye. Ted had returned. Deep breath.Game face.“I'll let him know,” I said and hung up.

“Olivia Milline?” Ted held up a card and looked around like there was a waiting room filled with people. The plastic thing had faded blue letters that read “Temporary” across it lengthwise.

I waved a hand.

“Coach Eberhardt says to come on back. You'll have to talk to him about your access credentials.” He shrugged and threaded the card onto a maroon lanyard that said: Strikers Baseball. “Kinda different from the usual process.”

I nodded and reached for the badge. But he moved the other direction.Come back?

“I'll escort you.” He stepped through the half door separating the office from the waiting area. “Only way in is through the locker room. Just had a fresh coat of paint and new carpet installed.”

“That's it? That's all that's changed in ten years?” Wait, did he say locker room?Oh no.

“Hmm? Ah, not sure really. Said he'd won six championships in that office, and seven was his lucky number. Superstitious old man.” He held out a clipboard. I glanced down at the sign-in sheet, picked up the attached pen.

“Whatever works.” I shrugged and signed the form.

“That's what the season ticket holders said, too. Some of them are as crazy as the football boosters.” He handed me the lanyard and card.

“Thanks.”

A thin-lipped smile. His eyes drifted down to my chest before rising again. Great. Fantastic. He deposited the clipboard onto the counter, then turned and headed for a door in the opposite corner of the waiting room. “This way.”

He made it almost to the exit before I managed to un-stick my feet from the floor. I stifled a groan.

It'd been several years since I'd faced a men's locker room. They typically smelled musty and old with the stench of days-old piss. It was a place where men turned into childish pig-faced morons with towel snapping and male-bonding rituals such as insults, your mama jokes, general one-upmanship, and viscerally crude blather and behavior.

When I was Curt's little sister or Furston's daughter, they were all perfect gentlemen. But I'd snuck in a time or two . . . OK, twenty-two. Literally twenty-two times over the years. It's where I saw a penis for the first time in the flesh. Really, I'd seen atleast one every time I'd been. Different sizes, colors and states of erection. The bare ass cheeks were more fun. Some were pure muscle, others had a pillowy-like softness to them. The urge to reach out and just . . . touch. Ahem. Right. Baseball pants looked good coming and going.

So did no baseball pants.

I followed Ted through the door to the hallway. He pointed to offices and said words. But my brain was still remembering my locker room escapades from years' past.

My hiding place was so good, I'd snoop and hear all the trash-talking, in multiple languages . . . First time I heard the word “cocksucker”.

The multi-lingual trash talk prompted me to beg my best friend Hilda to teach me what I referred to as “colorful Spanish”. This added another level of amusement to my visits.

I caught a guy DIY-ing his urges, once. A fascinating thing to watch. His face when he was done was not attractive, but he wasn't my favorite player to begin with.

There had been a time, way back when, that several female reporters had gotten together and filed a complaint against the Sabers' organization. I was too young to understand what was happening, but that's the beauty of news archives and the internet. Apparently, the reason my stuffy NBfO father took me to the very testosterone-laden locker room was some publicity stunt to demonstrate that the complaints were unfounded. Such a wholesome place, he could take his nine-year-old daughter.

Having snuck in twenty-two times over the years, the real story was—I wouldn't take my grandma into a men's locker room.

And she's not your typical grandma who bakes cookies and smiles a lot. She's the kind that raised six sons and two daughters. And even she would be appalled. Most likely, she'dtake a rolling pin to several heads—both kinds—and call the rest of their mothers. Grandma was no joke.

Ted threw his back into the door labeled “Locker Room”. I followed him into a court of jock straps and menthol. The door eased shut behind us, and my guide pointed to the glass windows off to the side. Inside was, indeed, a bullpen-style office. The window glass had blinds, which currently hung open. One guy stood at the white board, hat in hand and scratching at his head. The other rested black orthopedic shoes on his desk. His chair reclined all the way back, his ballcap balanced on his forehead and chin.

“Coach Schorr,” Ted said and pointed to the possibly-napping man in the chair. “And that's Coach Eberhardt, the assistant head coach. He wasn't here during Coach's prior win streak. But the idea is Coach'll bring him along over the next couple of years. Hopefully, we'll have eight or nine championship titles by then,” he said with a grin.

I found myself grinning back. “Heck yeah,” I said. “Victory Tech rides again.”

Ted’s entire face brightened. Yep, me and the sour-faced admin were off to a great start. Being buds. Compadres. Respected colleagues. Mutually enthusiastic ones at that.