Page 71 of Chasing Headlines
“. . . as if you're the only person in the whole world . . . Like you were so entitled.”
My blood pounded in my ears. “I've never?—”
“You stand here, even now, acting like you're somehowentitledto play major league baseball and the whole fuckin world didn't get the memo that Breslin Cooper walks on water and is a baseball god descended from heaven.”
“Yeah, sure sounds like me.” I snarled as I turned away. I was going to get in my truck and I wasn't coming back any time soon.
“Your mother.” His voice lowered. “She believed in every cell and every breath in you.”
Something invisible sliced through me, bruising everything from my ribs to my stomach.
“She knew you were, are, a talented ballplayer. But she wanted you to have a greatlife. She gave that to you, she nurtured and held you.” A choked sob rang out. I stared at the door handle on my truck.
“I can still see it all happening like it was fuckin’ yesterday. The light in her eyes when she'd look at you. Her son.Our. . . son. There's a whole world out there and she thought you could do great things. And all you see, all you want, breathe, sleep and eat isbaseball.”
“I was her son more than I was ever yours.” I wrenched open the drivers' side door, tossed my bag inside.
“Breslin?”
I glanced back at the old man. My father.
“You're no longer welcome in this house.” He drew himself up, and gone was . . . any hint of emotion. He was ice cold. A man I didn't know or understand. “Get the rest of your shit and don't come back until you grow the hell up.”
My hands shook all the way back to school. I don't even remember most of the drive. Just pushing past him to grab the rest of what I could think of to take with me: some old t-shirts, the sport jacket she picked out for a banquet I never went to. The fuckin’ letter she wrote me, to say goodbye. The vacuum-sealed blanket she'd crocheted for me, and insisted I keep—for my kids someday.
God, mom. Why the hell did you have to leave? I wasn't even . . . I'm still not the man I want to be.
I sat in my truck on the far edge of the parking lot, staring at my shaking hands. When I glanced up at myself in the rearview mirror.
And again those words echoed in my head.
“. . . if someone like me could be this disappointed. I wonder what would she think of you?”
Chapter Nineteen
Breslin POV
Monday morning came on like a hangover. I spent my lunch with Doc Hamer, trying to tape and glue the still-shattered pieces of my life back on. My entire nervous system felt like a continuous mis-fire. Strung so tight, the smallest bump might cause me to snap.
“You're visibly unwell.” She folded her hands over her desktop. “And you don't even want me to start on your?—”
I shook my head. “Stress and anxiety scores? No, not really.”
“Let's do some breathing exercises. Have you been practicing mindfulness and the exercises?—”
“Sure.” I bit out. “When things are normal.” I hunched forward and hoped the longer pieces of hair might block her view of my eyes. No amount of eyedrops or cold compresses could make me look like I had my shit together.
“When what things are normal?” Her voice hit a nauseatingly patient tone that chafed my eardrums and tromped on nerve endings.
“Nothing. Never mind. Nothing's normal.” I ducked my head, resting my forehead on my fingertips. “It's all fucked up and has been for months.”
“Grief is like that,” she said.
I'm sure she had a speech for every situation. I'm positive, in fact. Oh, just turn to page nine of the 'losing your mom to fucking cancer' handbook. Fuck me. I stared at my hands and remained silent.
“Deep breath in.” She inhaled with her breathing hand gestures.
I hated this. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to relax or release or any of that shit. I wanted to punch the crap out of that punching bag at the training center, drink a case of beer until I passed out.