Page 47 of Chasing Headlines

I took a breath, but didn't exhale so much as had the air crushed from my lungs. I took another one.

“That's good. Breathe man. Just breathe.”

I took another breath as the pulsing room faded. My heart stopped sprinting and settled into a jog.

“That's it. Better? You ok?”

I managed a nod. Jimenez had one arm over my shoulder. His other hand gripped my elbow. “You need a hug, man?”

“Fuck off.” I shook him off me and sat down on the bench in front of my locker.This is not improving my mental health.

He just grinned that megawatt smile. I hated it. And Meyers. And the article I hadn't even read, but fuck Rally Girl for writing it. And?—

When did I start hating everyone in the world and everything in it?

I hung my head. I didn't even feel like practicing anymore.

“You are so much like my little bro back home.” Jimenez sat next to me. He grasped my shoulder and jostled me back and forth. I closed my eyes. The light, driving adrenaline rush started to fade.

“Chin up, 'mano. As they say: 'no hay mal que dure hundred años.'“

“I don't know that much Spanish.” I grumbled and pulled from his grip, again.

He laughed. “I'll teach you, 'mano. That's short for 'brother' by the way. Just lighten up a bit, will ya? Maybe learn to smile?”

I glared.

“Well, let's just hope Reporter Chica likes the sullen, brooding type.” He chuckled as he rose to his feet. “I hear that's a thing.”

Chapter Twelve

Breslin POV

Practice over and crisis temporarily averted, I guess. Meyers spent the entire afternoon in the bullpen—a first since we'd started camp. But I didn't question, mostly because I didn't give a damn. Was just grateful not to have to look at his face.

I did have to look at Jimenez's, who had decided to mother hen me. Which was irritating enough during practice, but then he started asking questions. Why didn't I go to study hall? Had I made any friends in my classes? Why don't I just ask “Reporter Chica” to hang out or grab dinner?

I mostly ignored the barrage of nonsense as I packed my shit and changed to go to the Senior Center. It was inevitable, probably, that my new teammates would find out . . . everything. The terms of my probation, my anger management sessions, everything that was currently 'restricted', but not yet 'expunged' on the US government's version of my “permanent record”.

“Look man, I get it.”

“What?”

“This is, well, not exactly where I wanted to be. But it's Coach Schorr. Only a handful of guys graduated from his program in the majors and all of them,all of them'mano—when announcerstalk about them? They're considered future hall of famers. Can you imagine?”

Yeah, I could.

“I want it so bad, I can taste it. Every morning's like a new challenge, and I thank God above that I'm alive.”

I glared at the locker across from me. This guy had done me a solid, had my back when I was being a fucking idiot. But Jesus . . . I took a breath and imagined lying at the base of the tree in my father's cornfield. My dog Merc resting at my side as I stared at the clear blue Oklahoma sky.

“Hey, you in there?”

I blinked and focused on . . . Jimenez.Ugh.

“You still look like you could use a hug, 'mano. I know it's kinda weird and I didn't know you then, but sorry about your mom.”

My heart dipped, and that stab of pain punched me in the gut with a sharp knife. I grabbed my duffel and hauled it over my shoulder.