Page 48 of Chasing Headlines
“If you ever need a good lecture with a bunch of Spanish swearing, though, I'll let you borrow mine. Her tostones are the absolute best, too. And she gives great hugs. Especially after a long, bastard of a day, like today. Just brutal.”
“Thanks.” I mumbled as I started toward the door. This exchange was also going on my “not improving my mental health” list.
“I bet Reporter Chica gives nice hugs, too.”
Asshole. But it did bring up a good point, so I stopped. “Why do you think I'd care?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“I hate reporters. I just want to be left alone. And play baseball.” I held up the stupid paper. Why was it even in my hands? “She wrote some fucking article, after I told her?—”
He ducked his head, scrubbing a palm over the back of his neck. “You are one stubborn asshole.”
“She has no respect for—” I spit the words out. “She just needs to fuck off.”
“Not buying that one. I saw it on your face that first day of camp.” He grinned with a cocky tilt of his head. “Just for a split second.”
“I told her to get lost, once. Looks like I’ll have to do it again.”
“Nah, man. So far, in the month that I’ve been trying to figure out how to get through all your brooding teenaged-angst bullshit. Your snarling barbs.” He wagged a finger at me. “Endless whining. And I do mean endless?—”
“You don’t take a hint, either. Jackass.”
“Thick skin, ‘mano.” He patted his chest. “Raised with three brothers.”
“Don’t care.”
“Try as you might, you can't bullshit me. I saw you, man.”
Whatever. I didn't have any fucking clue what we were even arguing about. Idiot. Why couldn't he just go bother . . . anyone else? I flung the locker room door open. Fuck, I'd literally pay someone to deal with?—
“Reporter Chica made you smile.”
Silverado Senior Center
I sat at the front desk, chomping an extra protein bar post some kind of meat in gravy with instant potatoes mish-mash that the kitchen crew handed me. They served me double of everything, even the apples. It was free and it tasted a hell of a lot better than the shit they fed us in the student center.
A stack of Vanquished sports journals sat on a nearby table. I couldn't get away from the damned thing. Orher.
“She made you smile.”
The fuck she did. Her see-through shirt did. The way she told Meyers to basically fuck off, she could handle herself—while wearing the shirt I gave her.
“Rivaling Freshman Life by Liv Milline”. Well, at least I knew her name, now, and could stop calling her “Rally Girl”. I didn't feel like reading the rest of it. Blah blah blah Meyers led the Xavier High Privateers to the national championship. Ranked third . . . Breslin Cooper, the number one ranked player two years in a row . . . Top of the scouting rosters . . . chose Texas State Tech?
“Tanner and Coop clearly respect each other as competitors and now teammates.”
I stared at the page. Nothing about my mom or my arrest or . . . anything? I folded the thing back together. If she'd included that picture of me in handcuffs, probably could've made the front page. I crunched the last of my protein bar and swallowed it. Dusted off my hands. Chugged water. Had to wonder if my new teammates would buy any of it . . . when I sure the hell didn't.
A dull thump. I glanced up as a fake Ficus tree in the hallway leading to the residential wing tumped over and smacked against the wall.What the hell?
“Ohhhh.” Someone groaned. I looked around, but didn't see any other personnel. “Uhhhhh.”
I jumped to my feet and hurried toward the felled tree. An elderly lady kneeled with one leg stretched out at an odd angle—her blocky shoe toed the wall. Her arm rested on the upturned edge of the pot containing the Ficus.
“Excuse me?” She reached out a weather hand. “Can you?—”
I grasped her fingers as I knelt beside her. “You ok?”