Page 132 of Chasing Headlines

She pulled away. “I'll let you get some rest.” She retraced her steps to the door. As she opened it, I called out after her.

“See you Wednesday?”

She tipped her head to the side. “Huh? Wednesday?”

“Day four.”

She gasped and blushed that light pink color that said I needed to try harder to embarrass her. “Ugh. You're such a ballplayer.”

“I am, aren't I?” I lifted one eyebrow and smirked. “You want to cum over here, or should I cum at your place?” I winked for good measure.

And she turned into a sputtering tomato.

“Argh! You're the worst, Breslin Cooper.” She stomped out the door, but paused long enough to flip me off before slamming the door on her way out.

The sound irritated my aching head. Something sharp poked at my brain again, smushy and sore. I closed my eyes and relished the darkness. Sleep coaxed at me and I trudged my way to my bed. I lay across it, closed my eyes and hoped I'd dream . . .

My mind drifted somewhere warm. An image of her materialized like so many grains of sand pieced together. Liv, half-naked her pink lips rubbed red and raw. She panted my name as I pressed her into her couch. Arms around my neck, I swept my tongue into her mouth . . .

I surfaced long enough to hallucinate a soft look in her eyes, a breathy moan as I sunk into her warm embrace.Mmmm . . .Maybe I could beat my fictional record, lasting all night and into the next day.

A last thought pulled at my brain as the current pulled my body out to sea . . .

What the hell's a sex trophy?

I woke to darkness. My heart pounded in my chest. My head throbbed a kaleidoscope of sharp pains. I panted and gasped for air, but some phantom force bore down on my lungs.

Mom's hand trembled against my cheek. I covered it with mine. A soft, glassy look in her eyes. “I remember when your tiny fists could barely fit around my finger.”

Why was this happening?God, I'd do anything. Anything you ask. Just please. Please don't do this.I pressed my eyes shut and clamped hands over my ears.

“You'll be.” She paused to breathe in. “A good man, Breslin.” Her eyelids drooped. “Don't get lost in . . . your dreams.”

“Mom?” I wiped a tear from her cheek.

Starlight streamed in from the windows. So thick and bright it seemed like its own nebulous form. It hazed, darkened, then grew brighter. I blinked and it changed again.

I'm still dreaming. Or my concussion is messing with me.

I sat up. The strange, amorphous mist continued its cycles—dimming and fading, shifting then brightening. I found my feet.

I could hear her voice, in my mind. “Breslin, don't make that face. Breslin, you're far too serious for such a little boy. You keep it up and you'll be gray by the time you're sixteen.”

“Breslin. Smile for me. I love you . . .”

“I love you, honey.”

“Your mom will always love you. And the good news is? That's me. And I will get to love you the whole rest of your life.”

I stared out the window. The quiet of night, how long had I been avoiding it? Running myself ragged until I passed out cold as soon as I made it through the door. Or drowning it out with alcohol.

Even listening to my father cry . . . meant I didn't have to. The dark shadow of my face appeared in the glass. The bloodshot eyes, puffy bags, and even the new gash on my forehead. None of it looked like me.

“Is this all I'm meant to be? Half-assing it through college. Through baseball. Through life?”

I closed my eyes and leaned my left temple against the windowpane. The day of her funeral had been cold, for late April. Grey clouds had rippled the horizon, like quilted fabric holding back the tears and the rain.

I'd stood there, in my black suit, fists shaking in my pockets and blood thrumming through my veins like I'd been sprinting the length of the cemetery grounds.

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