Page 43 of Chasing Headlines
Thirty-five players made the final roster. But about half of those would be pitchers.
“Hey Coop, you're up.” Fendleman held out his batting helmet. I palmed the heavy plastic thing, then worked it onto my head.
I took another few swings, the helmet strange after all these months. Narrowed my field of vision. The sound of my breathing echoed in the confined space. I bent my knees and measured the distance across home plate with my bat.Keep loose.I shook out my arms and legs. Dug my cleats into the dirt. Found my stance.
Jacobs stood behind the protection screen on the mound. He faced third, but looked at me. Jaw tight, narrowed eyes. He wound up, kicking out his leg as he lunged forward. Theball screamed straight at me. Red stitches moved and rotated. Curveball. I swung. Ping! The ball flew, arcing high into far left field. Knox, backpedaled a few steps then sped toward the warning track. He leapt and caught it at the wall.
I sent the next one into shallow left-center. I couldn’t help but grin as Knox-out raced forward and couldn’t get there in time. I settled into my batting stance. The jackass needed a good workout.
And to be taken down a few pegs.
He stood up, shirt stained grass-green. He flipped me off and moved into position. I grinned.
Should change his name to Knox-gonna-make-the-roster.
I entered the coaches' office and froze. A heart-shaped rear in cutoff shorts bobbed in the air above long, familiar legs. I blinked. Shook my head. Nope, still there. I eased the door shut behind me. No need to disturb Rally Girl from . . . whatever this was she was doing. A low muttering sound from her lips—nothing I could make out. And I couldn't have cared less.
She shifted.
Damn. I wanted to feel those muscles move against my thighs. My fingers digging into her hips—her bare hips skin to skin against my?—
She popped up, her head whipping that ponytail around. I wish I knew what made my fingers itch to pull that thing . . .
“Don't you look like the cat who ate the canary.” She arched an eyebrow at me. I found a chair and sat before she could notice how much I'd been enjoying the show.
I shrugged.
“I'm filing,” she said and twisted one way then the other—like she was stretching. “Ugh.”
“It's a wonder you have time.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts. Like I needed to be reminded how round and needy and wonderful those things were, uh, could be. Potentially. Dammit.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Figured being a reporter, your schedule's crammed full of causing havoc and mayhem.”
“Sounds like a buddy cop movie.” She snarked and rolled her eyes. “Havoc and Mayhem ride again. Lame.” She turned back toward Schorr's desk. Her hand rubbed at her shoulder. “You're so predictable. Boring. Uninteresting in the slightest.”
“Thought you covered that with 'lame'.”
“You're right, I did. Boring old yesterday's news.”
I gritted my teeth. A tight band pushed against my chest. Then she knelt down, brought her thumb to her mouth, drawing it across the tip of her tongue. She flipped through a series of pages.
“At least Coach found something useful for you to do.”I could find something better.
She tossed her head and shot a glare in my direction. “Wow, talk out of your ass much?” She shoved folders around in the desk drawer—with emphasis. “Don't know why I asked. Everything you've said, since the moment we met, sounds like it comes straight from a giant ass.”
“Since wemet?”
She shot me a black look.
I glared back. “You were . . . more enthusiastic before you were a reporter.”
“You were less of a horse's backside before you became . . . his royal Coop-ness.” She flipped me off. And went back to hercrawling-filing show. I moved my chair to the left so I could watch the lower, crouching rear . . . wobble.
“Sex between two consenting adults can improve your mental health.”