Page 30 of Chasing Headlines

“Ugh, Breslin. Your room smells like dirty gym socks and I swear there's something molding in here. Honey, you're practically an adult.” She bent and started throwing my laundry into a basket. Her face paled beneath that scarf over her head. “I can't pick up after you when you're away at college.”

Away at college had become her euphemism for 'after I'm gone.' I sucked in a cold breath. My feet moved. “I've got it, Mom.” I pulled the basket from her. Felt her sag against me as I wrapped my arm around her.

I rubbed a hand over my face and blinked away the memory. Acid churned inside my abdomen. It grabbed my stomach and wrung it out to the point of pain. Food. Student center. I needed to eat.

I stood in line and grabbed stuff to go. The open section of the student center held some combination of amped up footballers and wilted baseball players. The difference, most likely, was that we were freshman. The entire football squad was here, had been here for a couple of weeks.

“You're baseball, right?” A voice barked over my shoulder. I blinked and turned my head. A guy about my height lifted dark eyebrows.

“Yeah,” I replied.

He flipped up a hand and held it out. “You're holding up the line, Ace.”

I moved. He didn't.

“You look a little lost.” He squared his shoulders and squinted at me.

“Tired.”

He smirked. “Sure. Well, you get used to it.” He turned back to his tray and pushed it along its rails-- toward the cashier.

“Used to what?”

Hazy eyes stared at me for a moment. A hollow smile. “Anything. Everything. Whatever it is. You can get used to it.”

He moved past me and I finally remembered myself enough to nod at the cashier, and swipe my ID to check out.

“Yo Seager, over here man.” Someone shouted from a large table teeming with small giants. Offensive lineman. Probably.

“I'm not sitting with you fuckers.” The guy who spoke to me, Seager? Roared back.

“Yeah, whatever, asshole.” A guy with red spiky hair griped back. “You gotta tone down that attitude if you want us to have your back, man.”

“. . . living in Sack city.” A deep bass voice practically sang.

Some blond guy with a man bun threw a french fry across the table. “Notice we didn't say 'be nice'.”

“Keep wishing.” Seager laughed and sat down with his team. “Maybe a unicorn'll show up and shove a rainbow up your ass.”

I took my to-go bag and passed by several tables with faces from this afternoon. No one I could say I recognized. Just . . . faces. I attempted to jog back to my truck, but my legs wouldn't go. I'd overdone it, competing with Jimenez. He'd been killing me by the end, but I wouldn't give in. Couldn't. After everything it took to be here, I had to get back to the 'number one' everyone expected me to be.

He'd spent the summer training in one of the Dominican pro baseball camps. I'd spent it in anger management sessions, courtrooms, and to be fair, I did stick with my weight training. But running on a treadmill was clearly not the same as sprinting in a hundred- and ten-degree heat. I groaned as I lifted myself into my truck. I'd have to get to training early to stretch, and then go light on my legs—or I'd risk tearing a quad or hamstring. Couldn't afford that.

“Whatever it is. You can get used to it.”

What had that been about? Probably just a guy tired and hungry to the point of being lightheaded like the rest of us—not really a life lesson worth thinking twice about. But his teammates . . .

I used to have that. My entire high school team showed up at her funeral. Several even attended my arraignment. Wrote letters to the judge. What Knox had said wasn't fair, it'd neverbeen the Coop show or whatever. There's no one person who can carry an entire team.

I bit into one of the chicken sandwiches I'd chosen as 'dinner'. The bread felt dry as cotton in my mouth. I downed more water.

“You get used to it.”

This place was hot and strange. The only people I could claim as acquaintances were the coaches, Meyers and Jimenez—if I had to. Andher, Rally Girl.

“I'm glad you were here.” Her gaze lowered but her smile . . .

Fuck. Why’d she have to be a reporter? The fact that in hindsight, it was the only thing that made any sense—why she was here—just. Aggravated the shit out of me. I let out a frustrated groan and choked down the rest of chicken sandwich number one.