Page 89 of Chasing Headlines
Chapter Twenty-Three
Breslin POV
28 hours later . . .
The locker room churned with the same chaos roiling inside my mind. Doors slamming. Rising voices. My last nerves . . . the ends had been cut, pulled apart, and left in a fried sense of disarray.
I'd been threatened, then bodily removed from the girls' dorm. For a time, I'd remained resolute. Glued to the outside wall, determined to be part of solving whatever this was. Or at least, the first to know when an answer appeared.
And thensheshowed up—with barely a glance thrown my way. As if I didn't matter. Or worse: like I'd actually had something to do with . . . cheating. I wanted to shout at her, at all of them, that I hadn't done anything.
What’s wrong with them? How can they think I’d cheat?Assholes.
But even with everything going on, there was no skipping practice.
Yesterday’s afternoon drills rushed by on auto-pilot. Hitting had been decent. Still sucking wind on conditioning sprints. Eberhardt had given me that tight look, again. But I didn’t havetime, then, to sit down with him. I hadn’t been in a good head space, either.
I stumbled forward as someone pushed past me. I blinked and found myself standing a few feet inside the locker room entrance.Spaced out?I turned to pretend like I was reading something on the bulletin board beside the coaches’ office.
I darted a glance into the bullpen, a group of people I didn't recognize—No, wait. There was Milline up at the whiteboard, drawing lines and boxes? And the hacker chick with her laptop sat at Schorr's desk.
I turned the other way and a suit-wearing someone who didn't belong here hovered by my locker. I sucked in a breath.
She promised me. With those eyes . . . That reminded me of the many times I'd imagined her—on my lap, wrapped around me in my bed.
Lying on her back atop Schorr's filing cabinet, legs on my shoulders and . . .
Yeah, I had a problem.
“Think carefully. Was there any time you didn't have your phone in your locker or in your possession?” Her brow formed deep creases.
I stared at her. “I'm thinking.”
“You leave it in your locker. But there was one time. You took it with you somewhere and you left it unattended.”
“You know who did this?”
“I have a guess. Cathy's trying to get him to make a mistake, but a witness. Someone who remembers leaving their device where only this person could have accessed it. This person who knows athletes and their schedules . . .”
Present-tense Milline gestured with a marker at her whiteboard drawing. Her audience consisted of an odd assortment: the scowling Dean in his brown-colored polyester suit pointed at something, an older woman crossed her armsand shook her head. Coach Schorr stood near his desk, his head dipped so far forward, I couldn't see his face under his hat. Some greasy dude in a faded plaid shirt creeped near Cathy. She brushed hair off her shoulder and snarled at Creeper.
“Look, we get it. It's been too much for anyone to handle.” Meyers’s ugly-assed reflection appeared behind me in the glass.
I turned to look him in the eye. What was this, some 'let's be friends' speech? Fuck him. I caught sight of an open locker. Empty. Latske’s nameplate had been pulled off. The guy was nowhere.
A few players leaned against the far wall. Loud banging, the locker room door opened. Fendleman peered into the hall. He waved us over.
“This is bullshit! It said it was a practice test.” Lan the trainer whined. “Between my job and the hours here?—”
“Keep going.” The football manager nudged Lan’s shoulder.
“What the hell's wrong with you people?” Lan shook as he acted out some role he chose to play.
Pretend all you want. You got caught.
“Yo, asshole!” Seager tromped through the hallway in his cleats. His Strikers football uniform and pads made the athletic guy from the student center look like an overpowered monster. “You’re lucky they’re just walking you out. I would’ve murdered you!”
“Not now.” The much smaller football manager stood in his way. “Let us handle it.”