Page 26 of Chasing Headlines
What kind of threat was that? If he complains again, what? Wait, again? “He complained about me?”
“. . . real rock and a hard place. Jesus H Christ. Millines. Four more years?” He shook his head. “Knew I shoulda stayed retired . . .”
Really? Coop? God, life was so unfair. The number one ballplayer for the past two years . . . I’d watched tape and network access channel “coverage” in the middle of the night. Read every article that held his name. Even had his national championship replica jersey in my dorm room closet.
Having him and Tanner standing up for me to that toad Knox . . . Almost made me feel like a princess. But I couldn’t justgush over him and seem like a total idiot fangirl. I needed to earn their respect. His respect. “I’m not some kid sister, now.”
I found Coop with my eyes. He stood apart from the rest. Head down. Sun bronzed arms glistening . . .
Damn, the world was unfair. My baseball crush. I was finally in the same zip code, able to watch him practice in real life. I glanced over my shoulder, but Schorr had disappeared.
Curt did tell me Coach had always been hard but fair. Guess that was still true.
I arranged my shorts so that I could manage to sit on the bleachers, again—without suffering second degree burns.
The team lined up for a new set of drills. They had to run backwards to the first cone, turn and sprint. The whole lot of them look winded. Heads down, drenched in sweat. Coop and Antonio were the only ones still running with any speed.
He complained about the reporter, not the person. “Avoiding him would just be ridiculous. Right?”
“You on the phone?”
I started. A guy with glasses and spiky hair held up a hand. Ah he'd been in the locker room earlier. The trainer, uh, what was his name? Did I know it? “Hah, um, no?”
“You just talk to yourself, then.” His mouth tucked up on one side.
A sigh escaped. So much time spent in empty rooms at ‘home’, I’d picked up a habit of talking to myself. Out loud. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Sure.” The trainer nodded but wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Coach told me to bring you these.” He opened his duffle bag and pulled out a ginormous stack of paper.
“What isthat?”
“Scouting reports. He's got some manilla folders in his office. Likes them alphabetized by high school.”
“There's this somewhat new-ish device, only been around for like, my whole life.” I punctuated the three words with abrupt hand gestures. Dad referred to it as my ‘campaign attitude’. I dropped my hands back to my sides. “It's called a computer. Pretty handy.”
“Coach Schorr’s old school. He likes paper. Doesn’t trust the computer not to eat his data.” Trainer guy shrugged. “Whatever that means. He basically uses the computer as memory for his printer.”
A heavy, dark thing sat on my chest. What was I going to do with . . . paper? “Any chance I could get a soft copy?” I was probably whimpering. Whining. Pathetic. But so was not using a computer.Dammit Schorr!“I can’t make up tracking spreadsheets from hard copy data?”
“Eh, I don't know. Was just told to give you these and have you make files.”
“And I will, one hundred percent, make the files. But I'm also supposed to 'keep his calendar' and make tracking spreadsheets. Which require, er, not this.” I waved a hand at the block of paper.Whatever this is.Was it a punishment? I fought against the dark, suffocating panic squashing my insides.I can buy a scanner. Or take pictures with my phone. And I'm still copying and pasting for days.
He sat down on the bleacher seat across the aisle and crossed his arms. “I mean, I’m not supposed to. But.”
“But? There’s a but. What is it? What can I do for my new best friend?” I gave him a hopeful grin.
He rolled his eyes. “Hah. Right.”
“Ah come on. We can at least commiserate as new friends. Fellow hostages to the hard copies of impending doom?”
“Yeah, this is the worst.” He blew out a breath. “I’d probably get my ethical hacker cert pulled for even being in the same room with this fiasco.” He ducked his head with a groan.
“You sound like my roommate. She says she's a white hat, though? Tinged with grey or something.”
He laughed. “Only tinged with? Funny.”
I tried to look like I had some clue what I'd just said—instead of repeating the phrases from memory. “So, what do you need, a month’s supply of Star Struck amped up sodas?” Cathy drank those like it was a religious belief.