Page 4 of Chasing Headlines
“That's what made, makes Coop . . . special.” I took a deep breath and sighed. “He was surprising.”
I'd hoped to see him in a Carolina Sabers uniform next year. Dreamed of meeting him in person. Of looking into those deep blue eyes when I told him my name, shook his hand. Maybe got to see himoutof that blue and silver uniform.
“I mean it, Olivia Aster Milline!”
I pressed my eyes shut as the broken record that was my dad's angry ultimatum yelled in my brain.
“They’re practically animals. . .”
Shouts and gasps erupted from the bleachers. I blinked and the ballfield came back into focus. The centerfielder backpedaled as fast as his feet could go. He neared the fence.
“Get out!” The lady beside me beat on the backstop. I shuffled a few steps out of her way.
Excited much? Hope that's her kid.Centerfield caught the ball, and the uproar waned. Some disappointed “ahs” battled audible sighs of relief.
Coach clapped the hitter on his shoulder. “You'll get 'em next time.” The kid pulled off his helmet, and, head down, returned to the dugout.
My heart could empathize. If the right wind had blasted through, if the centerfielder had been just a half step slower—this kid could've been rounding the bases like a champ.Poor guy.
Life can be critically, undeniably unfair.
“I swear to you, Olivia . . . that’ll be the last time you walk through the door of my house. The last time you say the words, ‘Furston Milline is my father.’”
I rubbed at my forehead trying to get the voice to relent. Fifteen hundred miles away and I still could hear and see his angry tirade.
This was a level-nine problem on the seismic scale because I’d never been interested in a guy who didn’t wear a jersey, take the field, and run bases like his life depended on it.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed back to my car.
Who knows? Maybe I'll find a criminally attractive, baseball-loving accountant with a penchant for sabermetrics. I'm sure he'll ride a unicorn, too. And slay dragons with spreadsheets and decimal points.I sighed.
Yep. My life was critically, undeniably . . . unfair.
Media & Communications Hall, Texas State Tech University
I found the door marked “Mrs. Poggio” on the nameplate and knocked.
“Just open it,” came the reply. I turned the knob and peeked inside. The office wasn't large—just wide enough to shove a desk and a chair into, with a single seat for a guest.
A tall woman wearing a blouse and slacks in the middle of a Texas heatwave motioned me in. I worried my lip between my teeth and gripped my backpack strap with both hands. I'd chosen a tank top and tennis skirt with sandals and was pretty sure everything was as rumpled and sweat-soaked as my hair.So gross.
“You must be Olivia.”
I winced. “Liv. Please. Only my dad calls me Olivia.” I perched on the edge of the guest seat and dumped my bag onto the floor beside her desk.
“Got it. Everyone calls me Mrs. P.” She glanced around, placed her hand flat on her desk. Shuffled some papers. Grey strands of hair threaded with honey brown into a messy bun on top of her head. “Too many mispronunciations. Makes me nuts.” She sunk into her high backed office chair and rolled her eyes.
I giggled. A faint brush of cool air touched my cheek and fell over my shoulder.Beautiful A/C.I hadn’t been on campus twenty-four hours, but I already knew that air conditioning would be my bff for the next few weeks.
Mrs. P settled a pair of red-rimmed glasses on her nose. “So, remind me?” She scribbled something in her notebook.
“Ah. Baseball?” I stared at the top of her head. What could she be writing down?
“Oh, that's right. The family business, I believe you called it.” She flipped pages in her notebook. “Your dad works for the IML and your brother's a scout.”
“Curt used to pitch for the team. Go Strikers.” I held up a fist like the enthusiastic fan I was.
“Nice. Good.” She nodded. “So your family has ties to the university.”