Page 168 of Chasing Headlines

But I'd always made my own luck.

Jimenez took another ball at the plate, making the count two and one. He stepped out of the box, bent down and grabbed a small fistful of dirt, rubbing it between his gloves. He tugged his cap, brushed the top of his right forearm, then made a fist—holding it waist high next to his belt buckle.

I gritted my teeth as a shudder whipped down my spine.Fuck my life, a fucking bunt.Eberhardt signed back. Jimenez met my gaze, that smug grin as he nodded. A small salute in my direction. That bastard was challenging me to a race in a fucking game situation with a win hanging in the balance.

An exhibition game win. But still.

My skull wanted to split open. The helmet wasn't helping. Neither was the glare from the lights. Everything had a pale, ghostly halo. And if I turned my head too fast, the world blurred around me.

I took my lead off third. Couldn't make it too aggressive or it might give away Jimenez's play. The infield playing deep meant no one would be looking for the squeeze play.

Adrenaline spiked, giving me a momentary high. My body was a damned junkie for this stuff even as my brain knew better. But this was the time to show our coaches, our teammates, our school . . . what we were made of. Fresh fish or not.

The field warbled. Cheers echoed in my helmet, seeming distant. Growing farther away. My heartbeat thrummed so loud, I almost couldn't hear anything else. The pitcher threw a fastball. Jimenez waited a blink.

I took off toward home plate.

I tore ass down the line, accelerating, willing my legs to move faster. At some point, the dull thud of the ball clunking off the bat registered in my brain. The catcher jumped from his position.

Shouts all around me. Electric air crackled. My breaths fell from my lips. Footfalls crunching against hard ground.

I didn't know where the ball was. I lost track of it behind the catcher. It didn't matter. I needed to touch home. Just reach it.

Another step and I leapt, diving toward home plate.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Olivia POV

Antonio laid down a bunt, slow-rolling down the first base line. He raced with those crazy long legs toward the bag. But the catcher . . .

He grabbed the ball and lunged at Coop. As Pereira swung his mitt, he smacked the side of Coop’s face—whipping his head to the right.

The tag arrived too late.

“Safe!” The umpire gestured with both hands as the crowd stomped collective feet in the stands—like the sound of thunder. They screamed and cheered.

My own heart beat wildly. I could barely breathe. If watching Coop play on recorded video had been something . . . This. Seeing him play in real life was nothing short of exhilarating.

Or maybe it was that I felt to some small degree, that I knew him.

Coop rose to one knee, pulled the helmet from his head, and removed his gloves. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the way he moved seemed stiff and strange. I made my way to the field.

Antonio jumped around slapping high fives to bemused teammates. He paused, placed his palms together for a second then pointed at the sky. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Reporter Chica! You came to interview?—”

I pointed at home plate. Eberhardt spoke to Coop, who had made it to his feet. Helmet tucked under his arm, I would not have vouched for him being “practically perfect” right then.

“He took a pretty solid blow to the jaw.”

“Shit.” Antonio nodded at me before jogging off to check on his teammate. I glanced around, looking for Remi, the trainer.

I found her packing her small duffel in the dugout.

“Can you hang around for an extra few minutes? I think he needs to be looked at.”

“Who?” She tugged her bag onto her shoulder and climbed the steps. Her dark ponytail whipped around her in the wind.

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