Page 22 of Chasing Headlines

I rubbed a hand over my forehead. I was afraid I could guess.

“Because none of you are in D1 shape.” Coach continued to holler.

Ah shit. Not conditioning practice.

“It's a hundred and ten degrees in the shade out there, hotter than the seventh level of hell. For those who do not know me, I am Coach Eberhardt, you can call me Coach or you can call me Sir.”

Sweat dripped down both sides of my face.

“Consider me your official Welcoming committee. Welcome to Texas. Welcome to Strikers baseball. Welcome to Hell Week.” Coach shoved his hat on his head and crossed his arms.

I squared my shoulders and put on my game face.This is it. A new beginning.

“Aw I’m sorry, I know,” Coach said with a 'so sad' tone. “It’s a new team and a new season and there’s a lot going on for you fish. But we don't make excuses here. So move your asses, now! Ten laps! Let's go!” The man's face turned an unhealthy shade of red.

The knot of ballplayers passed through the doorway. I took off at a jog behind them. I made a small salute to Coach as I went by.

“You'd better be first, Cooper!”

I let out a grunt and picked up speed.

Thanks for the welcome, but I'm just passing through.

The Texas sun blazed heat over the fieldhouse stadium, lighting the world in stark contrasts. Deep green-colored grass, bright orange dirt. Sharp white chalk lines.

“Move it, boys!” Coach bellowed. The group of players jogged in a small herd formation along the wall of the outfield. Ten laps wasn't a small feat, but if my teammates were keeping up with their summer training, it shouldn't have been extraordinary.

I focused on the sound of my breathing, the crunch of my shoes in the dirt. I kept my head up. The biggest problem was really the boredom of it all. Run a lap. Run the same circle. See the same sights, nothing to keep your mind off the heat, the fatigue.

After seven laps, most of the team lagged behind. Just Meyers and that Jimenez guy kept pace with me. I had no idea what it would be like, trying to be on the same team as Meyers. We'd competed our entire high school careers. Pitcher versus batter. With any luck, I'd caused him some nightmares over the years.Smug, arrogant windbag. Always preening.

I wiped at the sweat on my forehead.Gonna keep rising. Whatever. Sure looked like he wanted to fall into bed with Rally Girl back there. She seemed to be into baseball players.Maybe he'll get lucky.I snarled as a dark pit opened in my stomach.Don't go there. Keep focused. New team. New start.I picked up my pace moving into the eighth lap. My thoughts drifting . . .

I picked up the bat and sucked in a breath. Seventh inning, I had to get on base. My body felt like lead. Every movement like . . . I was watching someone else.

His first pitch blew right by me.

I shook my head. Blinked and wiped away the sweat stinging my eyes.She had to be a fuckin reporter. Damn.

“You have something for me or should I put you down for ‘flow’?”

I could have kissed her for that.She won't go for Meyers.She knew our stats by memory—barely looking at her supposed scouting reports.IML teams don't release reports on current prospects.

I darted a glance over my right shoulder. Dammit, Meyers. He was still keeping up. A quick look over my left shoulder, and there was that Jimenez guy.

The hell'd he come from?Yeah, he said he'd spent the past couple of seasons in the Dominican. But couldn't he find someone else to bother? So much talking. And grinning.

“Hey.” Jimenez huffed as he matched my stride. “Is coach trying to kill us?”

I grunted my reply, hoping he would take a fuckin hint and just run his legs and not his mouth.

“I'm not going to make another lap.”

“So don't. But.” I tried to get enough air in my lungs. “If you can talk that much. You're not—” I gulped down a breath. “Working hard enough.”

“Don't know what else I expected from number one.” He threw his head back and barked out a laugh.

And then that asshole picked up his pace.