Page 68 of Chasing Headlines

I tightened my jaw and reminded myself not to get involved. Not only was I a member of “the world's lowest profession” in his mind, but between my dad owning a minor stake in the Sabers ballclub, and my brother being a scout for the organization, my family would have had some hand in his current situation.

And I didn't have the heart to bear more of his hatred.

“Thanks for . . .” I tried to finish, but my voice was barely more than a whisper.

He didn't say a word as he walked away.

I stared out of my dorm window, my ECON textbook still thumbing its nose at me and my inattention. I couldn't focus. My stomach churned . . . it hadn't wanted food. And not just because the student center menu was some weird combination of cardboard and ass.

“He can't, he can'tknow. Can he?”

The idea was really ridiculous, even for the way I put pieces of things together. He'd called me Milline often enough, but seemed surprised by my license plate. “But what if . . . he figured it out? Right then?” I shook my head. I was being an idiot, but I couldn't shake this weird, anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Like I'd done something wrong.

I sat down on the small window seat and drew my knees into my chest. I glanced at my reflection, trying to reason with it.

“How would he possibly know? It's not like Dad gets personally involved with talent.”

In fact, his attitude during the frequent lectures I had the misfortune of bearing the brunt of would indicate he purposely steered clear.

“They’re the perfect spectacle on that ballfield, Olivia, but they’re rarely even good employees.” Dad sneered. “They’re like animals . . .”

Maybe if Coop had grown up in North Carolina, he could’ve remembered when Furston Milline was a co-owner of the club,before he became an operations exec for the IML. But that was really only newsworthy when Dad was going through the divorce from my mom, although I was too young to really understand at the time. But the beauty of the internet archives meant I could go back and read the stories at the time. Having to sell shares to split cash, or hand over partial interest in the ballclub. It made headlines for a while. But it didn't make national news. I don't think it even made it to Atlanta.

As for Curt, he helped out at the baseball camps, but mostly with the pitchers—who were always starry-eyed over his Silver Arrow status. It was a prestigious award, but he was the best with or without some trophy.He’ll be in the Hall of Fame someday, I know it.

He was also on the road a lot. Away. I was in junior high and then high school. I generally told people my brother raised me, but only until about eighth grade. After that, he was a voice on a phone speaker, an image on my TV screen.

I was sorry when he got injured. But I'd have been lying if I said I wasn't happy to have my brother around more.

I knew he wasn't the one scouting Coop. Especially because these days, Curt was some “special assistant” to the Sabers GM, taking on the highest profile deals: like international rostering and multi-player trades.Could he have helped Coop, though?

“I used to have the biggest crush on him.”

Dotty's eyebrows lifted. “Who’s that, dear?”

“Coop, the front desk guy.”

“Ah, the tall young man with the bad attitude.” She clicked her tongue.

I laughed. “What’d he do?”

“Oh, he’s a sourpuss if there ever was one. Spoils all my fun.” She narrowed her eyes and gave me a tight smile. “I’ve decided his penance will be my meddling. For his own good, of course.”

“Meddling. Reminds me of someone else I know.” The lines in the textbook blurred. I was fairly certain I'd already read them four times. And I still had no idea what the paragraph said. I glanced at the window. The night sky hid behind the light and my reflection in the glass.

“And Furston, Jesus. That man meddles.”

“Bottom line: he had to have met Curt or Dad at some point. But that doesn’t mean he knows they’re related to me.” I assured my reflection. “Which means . . . he just hates me. For being me. Awesome. Good talk, me.” I laid my head on my desk and sighed.

Baseball may have been the family business. One I was proud of and wanted to be a part of, but it wasn't like we were the Hilton's and hotels were our business.

It was more like being a franchise owner of a Buc-ee's. If we lived in Texas, that is.

Chapter Eighteen

Breslin POV