Page 21 of Chasing Headlines
“But I . . .” She rubbed the tail of her shirt over the device screen. “It's not like . . .”
She looked up at me again, but this time . . . Her eyebrows lifted and her mouth turned down in a pained expression. All the over-the-top bullshit from that hack Knox-out or whateverthe fuck his name was, and she'd cry cause I won't talk to her? Gimme a break.
“I know you've had your differences with the press?—”
A phantom force punched me in the gut. I lost my ability to breathe. The memory of ice cold rain. Cameras flashing. Too many questions.
“Coop, Coop! Over here!”
“You still think you can go straight to the draft?—”
“. . . a devastating loss?”
“. . . what would your mother have wanted?”
I don’t know. And I didn’t. I still had no idea.
A chorus of groans erupted in the locker room. Light flickered. Too bright.
“Get her outta here.” Someone called out.
“She’s not wrong.” Meyers shot back.
I whirled around. A loud bang. My hand, my knuckles throbbed. I gasped for air.Can't breathe.Ihad tried to prepare for this. I thought I had. But one reference and I’m breaking down, again.Fuck!
“No fuckin' comment. Not now. Not ever.” I gritted out through clenched teeth. The edges of the room pulsed in living color. According to my ‘anger management’ therapist, this was a warning sign. Too much adrenal reaction.
Calm down.
Employing every ounce of willpower I could summon, I straightened, drew in halting bits of air and held on for dear life. I needed to find a way to calm down. Let go.Get it together.
I let out a shaking breath and counted. Took another shuddering gulp, and breathed.Focus. Breathe.
Another breath. A slow countdown. Had the whole place gone quiet?
Ignore her and she'll go away. And then you can watch those long legs leave.For some reason, that idea got my breathing into a better rhythm.
“Hey, Reporter Chica! Forget him, and interview me!”
Another round of groans. I turned and got caught in her gaze. Soft eyes glimmered before she glanced away.
“Antonio, I already know your story.” She patted him on the arm on her way to the door. “You’re my go-to guy.” She tossed over her shoulder and disappeared around the row of lockers.
“Heh. Did you hear that? I’m her go-to guy. You know what this means, 'mano?”
That you’re a suckerandan idiot?I focused on my breathing and kept the commentary locked inside.
“I’ve got an in with an influencer! I’m gonna be?—”
“What the hell are you ladies doing, getting your nails done?” Coach Eberhardt's voice echoed through the locker room. “I sent the trainer in here twenty minutes ago to get your asses on the field.”
The doors leading to the ballfield banged open. Sunlight streamed inside, like clouds parting after a hurricane.
“We are now behind schedule. I hate being behind schedule. I hate being behind in the score. And I hate being behind in the win column.”
The churning acid settled. My cramped quads practically hummed, primed, ready to burn.Finally.
“This week is not the start of baseball season. Not yet. This week is lovingly referred to by those who have survived it as: Fry the Fish Week. You know why?”