Page 58 of Chasing Headlines

“Well, you didn’t listen to me.” Eberhardt scowled up at me. “And now you’re playing with fire. Not smart and really damned dumb, Cooper.”

This whole fuckin day wouldn’t go on the “positive for my mental health” list. I followed him into his office and sunk down into the chair nearest his desk.

“Schorr’s pissed.”

I dug a hand into the front of my hair and ducked my head. I'd guessed that part.

“You got an explanation?”

So, this was college baseball. How much worse would it be in the majors? “Was off today. Think I tweaked my hamstring.”

He nodded. “I told him it looked like an injury.” He hovered at the end of his desk, looking like an umpire with his wide stance and crossed arms. “You’ve got to speak up. This is D1 baseball, you can’t hide injuries or try to play through. Everything has to be reported.”

I groaned.

“Rostered players have to be accounted for on a week-to-week basis.”

I shrugged. It'd clearly thrown me off, but didn't feel like an injury. “I don’t think it’ll hinder anything, just didn’t realize the problem until I started swinging.”

“Thought it looked like your stance was off.” He shook his head, released his arms and tapped my shoulder. “Come on, let’s go see the trainer. I’ll tell Hank. He’ll cool down.”

Gladhewill.I rose and couldn't help but glance up at the windows. Like she'd have magically come back. Coach held open the office door. We moved through the locker room into the hall. Milline hadn't stuck around. Couldn't blame her. She'd had several douchey run-ins with Knox-out and there were enough other comments I couldn't help but pick up from other members of the team—whenever she was around.

“That one, I'd do for free,” Kinsley said and craned his neck as she walked by.

I chucked the batting helmet into his chest. He winced as he caught it. “Go hit the ball.” I groused at the guy.

I didn't like it. Any of it. I gritted my teeth and mentally smacked myself. And then I'd gone and . . .Fuck.

Coach held open the exit door and gestured that I should go. There was a long sidewalk to the training facility—located right next door to the Van Sante Soccer stadium. It was abit of a walk, but the athletic teams shared the expenses of a medical-grade facility, or so the brochures on this place had said. The marketing slick claimed it was a 'win-win' for students in pre-med and PT programs, as well as Texas State Tech’s athletes. Supposedly, each team had their own trainers focused specifically on the injuries in their sport. This wasn't a part of the campus I wanted to be visiting.

“At the risk of stating the obvious, Coop.” Eberhardt broke the silence. He paced beside me, hands in his coach-short pockets. “You don’t have any room to fuck up.”

“I’m used to being?—”

“At the top without even trying?”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.Without what? I worked my fuckin ass off!

“Every freshman here? Same boat. Or you thought you were different?” The entrance doors split open as we approached.

A bronze plaque on the wall caught my eye: “Thank you to the Vachon-Schreiber family, a legacy of generosity and commitment that spans the ages.” The name seemed familiar, but my ability to remember names was absolutely terrible.

“You listening to me?”

I grumbled. “This a pep talk?”

“No, not really. You just don't seem to understand how bad things can get for you.”

“What, because of my hamstring?”

“No, Coop.” He threw his hands up in the air like I was the biggest dipshit he'd spoken to in his entire life. At this point, maybe I deserved the distinction.

“I’ve had a lot of empathy for you, tried to be compassionate. But maybe you don’t respond to anything but tough love.” His voice rose and the veins in his neck strained against his skin. “And I’m telling you, there's no room for error right now. You've got to beonat every practice. Your grades better be Dean's Listcaliber. And you're going to have to learn how to get along with reporters. Especially Liv.” He took his hat off and pivoted. He motioned at a lab coated older lady fussing with some folders.

“Baseball,” he said to her. She nodded and walked off. Eberhardt ran a hand over his slick, greying hair and muttered something that sounded like: “Shouldn't have to tell you that.”

I'd lost track of whether he was speaking to me, or the folder lady? She’d left, so, was it me?