Page 9 of Chasing Headlines

“You have four months left. Get your hours in. I don't care how. You just need to check it off this list.” He slid a slip of paper over the surface of his desk.

On it was penned a phone number and the words:Silverado Assisted Living Center. I took the paper and rose from my chair. Crushed my fists into my pockets. This special hour of court-mandated revelry was over.

“I've got season tickets. And I sure as hell would rather see you on that ballfield than locked up in this here jail.” His mouth crooked up into a smirk.

So funny. A regular laugh riot.

“You’re a helluva ballplayer. Don’t let that sad sack of shit with a camera keep you down.” The deputy drawled the word “shit” into two syllables. He opened the door. “Tell ya what, son. In this town, we might've reinstated public whippings insteada taking his side of things.” He placed his hand on my shoulder.

Yeah, yeah. Still just a kid to you people.In this case, though, I couldn't complain. It was in my favor, so I had to just bear it.

I pulled my ballcap from my back pocket and pulled it low over my forehead. I shook his hand, then made my way out of the county court building. Waste of a good hour.I stopped on the curb to fold the slip of paper into my wallet. I glanced at thenumber. Well, maybe not a total waste. Assisted living center? Great. Old people, sounds like a blast.Just need my hours.

I climbed into my pickup truck. Would the guy check up on me if I didn't call? I typed in the information into my MapApp and decided to drive by the place before heading to the field house. Couldn't hurt.

“I sure as hell would rather see you on the field than locked up in this here jail.”

Yeah, I was stuck with this comedy routine for the next year and ten months. But if I didn't screw up, again? That was about the same countdown till the IML draft.

Silverado Senior Living Center

An older woman in a lab coat with that powdery appearance to her face shook my hand. “Mr. Cooper. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Her mouth formed a stick-straight line. Embroidered above the pocket of her labcoat was: “Director R. Wilshire”

I removed my ballcap.

“Tom says you need to log some additional service hours. I guess I should've known you'd be an athlete of some sort. I assume baseball by the looks of you.” She lifted an eyebrow.

I shrugged.

“He holds season tickets, you know.” She scowled. “And doesn't let any of the rest of us forget it.”

“Yeah. He mentioned that.”

She crossed her arms. “It's probably the first darn thing outta that mouth of his whenever he meets someone new. You'd think the seasons themselves revolved around Strikers baseball with that man.”

I twisted my hat in my hands. This . . . I couldn't tell if she was annoyed at me or him? Maybe God himself? I kept my mouth shut.

“In the end it doesn't matter. I need a consistent person. Someone who shows up on time and according to the schedule I set out every week. Should be a familiar concept to an athlete: consistency.” She drew out the word and huffed.

“What’s the job?” I felt the top button of my hat with my fingers. It didn’t matter if it was taking out garbage or sweeping floors. Life on my dad's Oklahoma farm was infinitely worse.

“Sit at that front desk and make sure people sign in and sign out. You check their ID. And provide the visitors with some basic security. In later months, when it gets dark before nine, it'd be best to escort them to their vehicles. It helps to save on the liability claims.”

Didn’t sound too bad.

“How many hours are ya needin'?” She glanced at her watch, then over my shoulder.

“Five hundred.”

She grimaced. “And that's by when?”

I sucked in a breath. “December twentieth.”

“Good night, that's, uh, what is it?” Her fingers moved and her head tilted back. “Thirty hours a week?” She held out her hands. “On top of classes and your practices?”

“Hadn't done the math.” Should've. Shit. Dammit.Fuck me.

“I hate to ask because it's not my business. But gracious, what'd you do, piss in the judge's Cheerios?”