Page 170 of Chasing Headlines

“There we go. Some dilation. Can you tell me your name?”

That sounded easy enough. I blinked and words formed on my lips. “Breslin Cooper.”

“Good. What number are you wearing?”

Number. I lifted my head and glanced around. A dugout. Baseball. I scanned my shoulders, chest. Sure enough, a maroon jersey. I was wearing my uniform.

“Ten. Wait, no.” Ten was my number. My real number. But I thought I remembered not having my usual number . . . I just couldn’t remember why. “I like ten. But that's not . . .” I pulled at my shirt, looking for a patch or raw digits sewn on the front.

“Hey. It’s a cooper hawk.” I pointed at the hawk on my shirt. “Like me.”

“You’re not a bird.” Soccer-man was the worst stick-in-the mud since that annoying reporter. Where was she? Wasn’t she supposed to interview me?

Maybe that came with other benefits . . .

“I think he means his name is Cooper. Like the hawk.” Dark eyebrows furrowed as the trainer studied my face. “I don’t see any swelling. It’s likely bruised, though. You should take him tothe ER, just in case. Clearly has concussion symptoms and needs to be under observation.”

“Thanks Rem.” I recognized that voice. Fendleman. Third base.

“Don't leave me with him. He said he was going to kick my ass.”

A few chuckles. “That's how you know Fens likes you!”

“You’re supposed to be keeping an eye out for the fish. Not beat up on them.”

“I’m finding out this one’s extra trouble. You should probably have a name plate made up for one of the cots.” A hand patted my shoulder. He was a little blurry and my head throbbed. My eyes didn’t like looking at things anymore.

“You can’t sleep, yet, Coop.” Fendleman knelt down in front of me. “You took a wallop.”

“My head hurts. How'd the game go?” I pointed to my shirt. “Did we win?”

“Yeah, buddy.” He grinned. “We won. Come on, you get to go for a ride.”

A shoulder dug into the space under my arms. My body rose without much effort. I focused on my feet.

“If you’re gonna call people by their occupation, we’ll just call you Ass-licker.”

“Dude. You got cotton in your ears. That’s asskicker. Something the soccer team had a lot of experience with last season.”

“Oh my god, are you two seriously playing whose balls are bigger right now?”

“Rem?”

“Sender, you?—”

I was propped against something metal as my human crutch turned away. I chuckled and caught myself sliding. “Whose ballsare bigger.” I laughed harder. I couldn’t help it. “Soccer balls are huge compared to baseballs.” I doubled over on the ground.

“Well, he doesn’t know his name, but he knows that.”

“I’m a Cooper hawk. Storm Cooper. Coop.” I was up on my feet again. Sender the soccer-man scowled at me. I'd never seen someone with white-blond hair and dark eyebrows.

He helped me balance as we walked toward a minivan parked on the dirt—behind home plate. “I hate that fucking name. Cooper’s my asshole father.”

The minivan door rolled open. Sender half picked me up, half shoved me into the vehicle then climbed in after me. “I get it.” He moved me where I could lean against the window, then wrapped the seatbelt around me.

“What's that?”

“I happen to know a few things about asshole fathers.”

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