Page 93 of Chasing Headlines
I sighed. Yeah, no, she hadn't done any of her whatever-that-was to help me. Like every other reporter on earth—she was only out for herself.
Just stay focused. Don't get involved.
Not even with . . .her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Breslin POV
Eberhardt blew his whistle. We all paused our warmup as he waved his arms, calling us in. Some grumbles and grunts sounded from members of the team. But we dutifully jogged over as he took the small height advantage offered by the pitcher’s mound.
His dark eyes met mine. Jaw tight, some heavy, pinched expression I couldn't read . . .
“Ok, I'm sure everyone's wondering. But Latske's out, on academic suspension for the rest of the semester.”
A few guys shifted their stances, but no one uttered a sound.
“Trainer's out, too. We'll be looking for a replacement.”
Jimenez took a couple of steps my way. Jesus, this guy. I wanted to ask him: why me? Couldn't he go bother someone else for a change? Like Fendleman or Dereks? They were the most deserving.
“I know this is upsetting. Unfortunately, I can't share more information due to school policy. But please feel free to come by after practice, and if necessary, we can set up time with a mental health professional on campus.”
Yeah, I already have one of those. No thanks.
“Normal protocol would call for us to cancel regular activities, give you all time to process. Let you focus on your studies. But, our exhibition game's in just three weeks. So, we'll keep it light. But let this serve as a reminder as to why you're really here.”
A few grumbles and more shuffling worked through the crowd.
“Baseball's important. But you come here to learn.”
No, I came here to play baseball.
Jimenez nudged me with his elbow. I wouldn't look at him.Fuck off 'mano.
“Don't forget to pay attention to your classes. We have study hall and tutors available every night for support.”
Jimenez's elbow dug into my ribs. I still wouldn't look at him.
“Don't go down in flames, or you won't be on the field.” Coach held up his hands. “Any questions?” He glanced around at the assembled members of our team. “Good, now get back to work.”
I turned to head out into the outfield. And almost ran straight into Jimenez. I groaned inside. “What?”
He nodded at the station set up for sprints. “Heading over to conditioning first. Best chance to beat me.”
“You really are an asshole.”
“Pendejo. I hear it's your new nickname. Pendejo Cooper. Has a great ring to it.”
I hated him. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time. But at that moment, I actually felt like laughing—at the ridiculous normalcy of it all. I needed it right then.
I'd never tell him that, though. I'd pay him back the way a good teammate would.
By whipping his ass in wind sprints.
I stood between first and second base, a little farther back, in the grass. Knees bent. My weight on the balls of my feet. Coach stood at the plate, fungo resting on his right shoulder. He held up a hand. Dereks, the starting shortstop from last year's team, flipped the coach a practice ball.
“Look alive. Come on, quick feet, deft hands. Sharp minds. Who wants it?” He tossed the ball in the air and whipped the light-core bat through the air, topping the ball. It clunked to the ground and stopped only a few feet down the third base line. Jimenez leapt from behind the plate. He palmed the ball and spun as he released the throw. It went wide of the first baseman.