Page 17 of Chasing Headlines
His eyes drifted down to my chest again.Really?I sighed inwardly. Locker room. Yeah. I glanced at the windows of the coaches’ office. Eberhardt sat on the edge of his chair, eyeing something on the whiteboard.
And my new ‘buddy’ was still checking me out.Dammit, Ted!
Chapter Five
Breslin POV
Strikers Baseball Locker Room
Ileaned against my locker and sucked in a deep breath, trying to quell the acidic churning in my stomach. My new teammates crowded the space between bench seats and lockers. The stench of ammonia hung in the air.
I tipped my head back and stared at the ceiling.How much longer? Let’s go. I need to get back on the field.My arm muscles tightened and released. I'd never gone a whole summer without playing. Not since little league. But there'd been no time, with the legal shitstorm I'd stirred up.Don't think. One foot in front?—
“And you’re Hester.” A female voice caught my ear. Someone let a chick in here? She'll regret that.
“Ellis, ma’am.”
“Don’t have to call me ma’am. Liv is fine. Ellis Hester, infielder from Spring, Texas. Nice RBI stats.”
Wait. Was that Rally Girl? I glanced around, but couldn’t see her through the throng of uniformed and sweaty dudes.Couldn't be her. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander off to an image of her half-naked. The soft feel of her skin. The scent of cinnamon and flowers?—
“She’s a reporter, dude. Ya gotta say something impressive.”
The enticing image of Rally Girl disappeared. An icy sweat pricked my skin.They let a fuckin reporter in here?I slammed my fist into my glove. The pool of acid in my stomach churned and sloshed. I needed out of there. Where were the coaches? I glanced at the door leading to the practice field. It was closed. There were nine, ten, eleven guys to my right. A fuck ton of them crammed everywhere else.Dammit. Fuck me.My breath came in gasps.Don't need this. Can't get out, either.I took a breath, held it. Closed my eyes again and mentally counted the stitches on a baseball.
“And you’re the former number three, Meyers.” The reporter's voice rose. Grated on my nerves.
“Tanner. Ms. Reporter.” His accent was a syrupy Southern drawl. Made me want to throw up.
“Tanner Meyers, left hander, Xavier High, Louisiana. High strikeout to walk ratio.”
“You uh, quoting Wikipedia, now?”
A few chuckles erupted.Traitors.Not like my teammates back home. Not a one of them gave an interview after we won. I glared at the back of Meyers.My team beat you.
“IML scouting reports,” she corrected him.
How the hell'd she get those?
A couple of low whistles.
“Says you gained some hefty velocity on your fastball senior year, topping out at ninety,” she said.
“In high school?”
“Never played Xavier.” A guy with a buzz cut shook his head to my left.
Means you didn't rank.
Voices, side conversations all converged at once.
“Shit, ninety? How'd he only rank third?” A voice rose above the hum.
A metal locker creaked and slammed shut. The entry door opened. “Hola!”
I glanced that way, hoping it was a coach, trainer, someone who'd let us do something already. Instead, a dark-haired guy with a grin like he paid a monthly fee to his dentist turned my way. He tossed his giant game bag to the floor.
“You have quite the legacy to live up to.” Miss Reporter's voice held a bright, challenging tone. “Schorr's program has produced some top tier IML pitchers.”