Page 95 of Chasing Headlines

“Uh, friend, coach?”

“Milline. God damned Millines making my life harder than it has to be. And I came outta retirement for this shit.” He threw his hat down on his desk. “Jesus, Cooper. One of my players paid the trainer to steal tests for Chrissakes!”

“Not worth spitting on.” I reached for something my dad would’ve said and that’s what came out. Must’ve satisfied Schorr because his features finally relaxed and he sunk into his chair.

“How’s the head shrinker lady? That doing any good?” He leaned back, steepled his hands and frowned.

“I'd rather play baseball.”

“Yeah.” He made a harsh sound that wasn't quite a chuckle. “And I'd rather have a head fulla hair. But you boys, every season my forehead grows higher. I'm pretty damn sure that if I have to deal with four years of your shit, Cooper, it's all gonna be gone and I'll be one bald sonofabitch.”

I let out a long breath. Wait, if? “Coach?”

“You’re not there yet, Cooper. I need to know the Captain’s behind you. That you’ll be part of a team. I don’t see it. You’re talented. But talent only gets you so far. Your team spirit sucks. I can’t have lone wolf assholes who think their shit smells better than the rest.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’ve got two weeks left. Make ‘em count or start looking in the trade portal.”

“But my scholarship. And my legal crap. All of that took sponsored petitions, and?—”

“So you’ll sit out a season. Not the end of the world.”

“The hell it’s not. I’m here for one reason: to prove I can still play. You can’t take that?—”

“And that’s your problem, right there. We’re nothereto be your supporting cast. You’re here to be part of this team because you want to wear the uniform and do your part. When you’re ready to be a Striker, door’s open. If you’re under the mistaken impression this is the Cooper show, where you play some games and prove you’re still a talented asshole that belongs in the draft? Then get the fuck outta my office. And don’t darken my door again.”

“I just want to play ball, coach.”

“Then get over yourself. Learn to be part of the team. Or pack your God damned bags. I’ve won this university six national championships, and you know what they all had in common?”

“I don't . . . know?”

“None of them included Breslin fucking Cooper on the roster. Yet somehow? We still won.”

My insides turned into a numb, wobbly gelatin.

“Don’t come to practice tomorrow unless you’ve changed your attitude. Furston can suck an omelet full of eggs.”

This wasn’t happening. That’s what I told myself as my legs lifted me from the chair, moved me through the door, out of the fieldhouse . . . to my truck.

I sat there, in the driver's seat for God knows how long. Staring. Replaying Schorr's words in my head.

“Don’t come to practice tomorrow . . .”

“You’ve got two weeks left. Make ‘em count or start looking in the trade portal.”

Fuck. Not this. Not this! What do I do? How do I fix this? Mom would?—

I glanced down at my phone. And it hit me all over again.

Mom was gone. Dad and Declan, out of my life.

There was no one to call.

And if I lost my scholarship, if I lost this place, this chance, I was legally an adult. With no real money. No place to go.

Chapter Twenty-Five