Page 23 of Chasing Headlines
Motherfucker.I willed my legs to move faster. I huffed. My quad muscles sizzled.
I caught up. By then, Meyers was only a few steps behind.
We turned the corner to the last stretch. I accelerated into a full on sprint. Meyers matched my pace. We hauled ass in a dead heat.
Then Jimenez found some rocket fuel or some shit and blew by both of us to the finish.
“Jesus fuckin Christ.” Meyers puffed.
“That guy's an asshole.” I tried to grumble, but couldn't get enough air. I sunk to the ground on one knee.
“I love this heat!” Jimenez pumped his fist in the air. “Woo! Let's play some baseball!” He hopped around. His foot caught on something and he fell. Meyers snickered.
“Up yours.” Someone griped at him as they jogged by.
“Ya'll suck. Buncha pricks.” More grousing from passersby.
I sat back on the grass and wheezed for air. Jimenez was back on his feet. He offered high fives to the other players as they passed. A few scowls. Knox-out looked ready to slug him.
“He drinks rocket fuel for breakfast,” I wheezed.
Meyers shook his head and stood up. He glanced down at me. Took a deep breath and extended a hand.
No way. Not a chance. I stood on my own. I rose to my feet and glared down at him.I'll always stand on my own.
Meyers retracted his hand, running it through his 'flow', and let out a sigh. “Got work to do.”
Yeah. We do.
Chapter Seven
Olivia POV
“You’re outta your damned mind.” A loud, irritated voice announced that Coach Schorr had found me sitting in the bleachers over the home team dugout. I winced. But wait, I'm allowed to be here. Ha ha!College Olivia - 1, NBfO - 0.
I glanced up at weathered features and grey-green eyes. The man didn't look anything close to refreshed after his afternoon nap. I had no idea how old he actually was. Only that he'd been un-retired for the past, well, this was his second season back. A few coaches had come and gone since the days when Curt and his two-time national championship team walked the quad 'as legends' or whatever. And when the University got tired ofnotwinning national baseball titles, they rather predictably dragged the old guy out of retirement.
I shielded my eyes with my hand. Not sure why I bothered. I was already a melted, simmering version of what was once a college student. “What’d I do?”
“Got off the phone with Curtis.”
I frowned and bit the inside of my lip.
“I don’t need a reporter around who’s gonna aggravate my players.”
“Aggravate? I didn’t?—”
He spit at the bleachers. “If you weren’t part of the Striker family, I’d hand you your walking papers.” The skin of his cheeks seemed to be a collection of greyish lumps. And the bags under his eyes drooped. “. . . your brother’s a legacy. A damned fine ballplayer. One of the best I ever saw.”
I smiled. There was a heart in that weathered grump after all. He lifted his hat and ran a hand over his balding head.
“Stubborn pain in my ass the full four years he was here.”
I laughed. “Sounds like him.”
“Gave me God damned hives. Lost a good amount of my hair.”
Ok? So maybe a level up from grump. What was the perma-irritated old person hierarchy? Grump, then grouch, maybe curmudgeon?