Page 15 of Chasing Headlines
“What? Granite? Ha ha.” I rolled my eyes. “What can I say, I learned from the best.”
“I'm serious right now. You've asked me before about what it takes to be a scout. I'm trying to tell you.” He stopped.
My heart felt like it stopped, too. I swallowed, and finally managed: “Tell me what?”
“You just.” He paused. A second ticked by, then, finally, he said, “you don't always think things through.”
“What?” I sunk down onto the bench seat. “I thought I was planning and looking ahead. Trying to learn on my own. Not relying on you for everything . . .” I pressed my face into my palm. My stomach churned and ached.
“Livvie, you're completely set on what you want to do. And Lord help anyone who doesn't think you should do that particular thing, and actually has the wherewithal to say so. But here goes: you being a baseball scout is a terrible idea.”
My heart contracted out of turn and dropped to the floor. I hit the mute button as I gasped painful breaths.
“Hear me out. Liv?”
I sucked in air, defying the tight, burning sensation in my chest.
“Liv? Come on, just listen.”
After a moment, when I had control back in place, I unmuted. “Why?”Why would you say that? Why would you let me intern with you if you felt that way? Working with you all summer was like . . .I put myself back on mute before I said something out loud.
“Just listen for a second.”
No.I scowled at the phone. Hot acid burned in my stomach. “Not when you have an attitude, I won't. What is this, anyway, your idea of?—”
“You're horribly biased,” he said in a clipped tone.
I blinked. “Wow, because I said you have an attitude?”
“No, that's why you being a baseball scout is a bad idea: you're horribly biased. You have your favorite players, and it's not that they don't have talent. But you need to be able to evaluate the whole player—not just what you see on the field.”
I opened my mouth to protest. Glanced at the check-in counter.Dammit, Ted.
“Or what fills out his baseball pants.” Curt grumbled. I could picture him giving me the human version of “grumpy cat” face.
“If the IML paid more attention to how their players looked in tight pants, maybe even regulated tighter pants, ticket sales would spike. Some marketing genius will come up with it someday, and you’ll realize I was a visionary ahead of my time.” What could I say? Baseball pants were kinda my favorite thing.
I glanced down at my Rally shirt.Second favorite? Maybe.
“Visionary? The sun really is baking your brain out there. You may need some brain sunscreen.”
“Just a hat.”
He huffed. “Look, when I'm not being your brother, and just being objective, I don't believe you could scout a player you, for whatever reason, disliked. You do a great job with the stats work I give you. Motivated. Thorough. But when it comes to moving into solo evals, like what we want to see with our apprenticeships. You couldn't pass on a playeryoulike, even if they didn't meet theclub'scriteria. You get crushes. Or whatever you want to call them.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I really need your teenaged years to be over.”
The hot acid simmering in my stomach hit boiling and began to churn. “My so-calledcrushespass. What you're talking about is fan loyalty. Why should I apologize for it? Even the IML Major League scouts have their favorites, I've seen it. Coaches have favorites, too.”
“Yeah, but. It's different. When it comes to their paycheck, they don't bet with their feelings. They bet on the stats on the page, and experience when it comes to player performance.” He cleared his throat. “That's not you, Liv. And that's OK.”
I pressed my fingertips against my forehead and shut my eyes. Yeah. Sure. Clearly it was fine. I was just a stubborn, over-emotional child. So what else was new?
“The reporter gig, it could really suit you. Or, you know, if you wanted to be like a sports agent, I'd have a momentof silence for all the team managers who'll never have another moment's peace. But you'd probably be damn good at that, too.”
“Sure. Top sports agents all have law degrees. Would Dad pay for that? He hates lawyers.”
“Livvie . . .”
“Don't “Livvie” me, Curtis. I'm sick of this. No one believes in me. And you don't listen. Not really. You say words like you will this time or like you already do. But no matter what I say, or no matter how I try . . .” I shook my head and scowled against the warmth in my eyes. “You don't evenhearme. Or you don't care that scouting is what I've dreamed of doing for years. Why doesn't that matter?”