Page 44 of Chasing Headlines

She lifted and pulled a sheet of paper from the coach's chair. Her body stretched, her right leg fully extended. Then she sat back on her knees. Her ponytail swaying . . .

Then that ass was in the air again, and I didn't want to just pull her hair. My mouth watered, thirsting to sink my teeth into?—

A hand smacked the back of my head. I leapt to my feet. “The fuck?”

Eberhardt pointed a finger at me. When did he come in? His weathered face scrunched into a dark glare.

Ah shit. Caught. Dammit.

“You'll treat members of the staff with respect. All members of the staff.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes sir.” Wait, she's staff? Since when? I moved my chair around to face his desk. It scraped loudly across the tile floor. The Coach spoke, and Rally Girl popped her head up.

“Hey, can we have a moment? I'll tell Hank you'll finish up tomorrow.”

She tossed a small set of pages into a wire basket, bent to grab her bag and water bottle. She pushed her feet into wedge sandals that . . . did things to her calves and lifted her rear. In those shorts. Without a second glance, those long legs strode toward the door, paused. She shimmied her backpack onto her shoulders. Her rear wiggling as?—

Smack!

The door clicked shut at the same moment I ducked my head. “Ow. Seriously? They allow this?” I grumbled.

“Who?” Eberhardt's mouth tightened and he frowned.

“The administration. Seems a bit—” I caught the narrowed eyes, the set of his jaw. This was a man who had offered to help me. I swallowed. “Sorry, coach.”

He pointed at me, again. “Commit these words to memory. They will save you a lot of trouble and heartache.”

I stared at the man. What was this, some sexual harassment speech?

“I mean it, Coop.”

I shrugged and held up my hands. “I didn't do anyth?—”

“That one? Forget it. She isout of your league.”

I don't remember much of my meeting with the coach after that. Got my report from the therapist. She hadn't been overly positive. Mentioned my “reticent” behavior. Said she would stick with bi-weekly meetings pending my efforts at making friends and being more “open” about my struggles. Whatever. Was probably doomed to weekly meetings either way. That's how she got paid, right?

Deputy Reegan told Eberhardt my community service application had been approved, so I could start serving my sentence at the old folks' home. Schorr okayed a semester-long reprieve from nightly study hall, even sorting out an appropriate 'cover story'. Didn't want the other players to think I was getting special treatment or whatever.

How was Rally Girl the reporter out of my league? What'd that even mean? Is her dad rich or something? Like that mattered. Gimme a break. When I made it to the majors, I bet he'd be all: take my hot daughter, please. Forget her attitude problem and that she was ever a reporter . . .

Out of my league? Out ofmyleague?

I stared at my phone. I could look her up, if I knew her name. Which I'd heard people say a time or two. Hell, she'd introduced herself to Meyers. But did I listen? Nope. No. She was Rally Girl, the hot chick in the fountain. That was all I'd wanted to know.

Well, I'd wanted to get to know a few other things . . .

Dammit. I'm sure that jerk Jimenez knew. I could ask him tomorrow. Whatever. This was dumb. It didn't matter.Shedidn't matter. Just needed to get my community service hours in, make the starting roster, keep up all my probation shit. Talk to Dr. Fuckin Feelgood. Make new friends or something. Be part of the team.

But outperform them.

And oh yeah, actually study, get decent grades, decide on a major and all that shit. I took a deep breath as the tight feeling turned into a lead weight trying to cave in my chest.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd neglected to feed it. I wanted to order a pizza and drink beer. Maybe I could pass out and not give a shit about anything for a while. But I was on a limited budget, and unlike the fridge in my dad's house . . . local law enforcement wouldn't just give me a stern look with a grumbled: 'thought twelve still came in a case', when I helped myself as an underaged 'kid'.

My phone buzzed long and two short.And now he's calling. Great.I'd ignored too many text messages, apparently, so this was the price. With a sigh, I picked up and held the handset to my ear. “Hey, Dad. Just got out of practice.”

“You doing ok?” His deep voice still sounded . . . so tired.