Page 3 of Chasing Headlines

“Why not?” I didn’t dare move a muscle. Game face.

He straightened in his chair. “I can't guess. But the travel sucks. Not exactly the best for a family lifestyle.” He gestured at himself. “As you can see.”

“You’re really not going back? To pitching?”

“Early prognosis is that the arm’s not where it needs to be. I’m just trying to be realistic. It’s rare that a pitcher comes back better than he was. I’d have to change who I was on the mound, relearning command and control.” He rubbed at his forehead. “The power I threw with, doctors said I’d just wear down the new ligament and be back in a few years,” he said with a sigh.

My heart thudded out of turn. I sat on the edge of the couch, fussing with the hem of my skirt. “But you could still . . . play?”

“The way things stand, no team'll offer anything close to what my contracts were before.”

“That sucks.” My heart sunk. How could his career be over before twenty-eight?

“These are the breaks. I had a good run. And I can afford to retire and just do something I love.”

“But you love baseball. And pitching. And?—”

“I also knew it couldn’t be forever.” He gave me a half-hearted smile. “The smart guys realize that, at best, they’re done at forty—and still have more years ahead of them than behind. Besides, I think I’d be good at being a pitching coach. After all, I managed to teach my can’t-field-a-softball-without-getting-a-blackeye sister how to throw a few.” He tossed his Carolina Sabers cap at me.

I don't know that I'd everreallyconsidered what I wanted to be when I grew up. But the more I thought about it, the more being a baseball scout sounded like it would suit me.

I'm sure it had nothing to do with finding out who Third Base was.

Nope, nothing to do with him at all.

For the rest of that summer and my senior year, I buckled down and got serious about baseball scouting. I spent my free time researching, asking Curt and the Sabers’ staff questions. I followed the stats of the top fifty national players. I joined the high school newspaper to make sure I had a built-in excuse to be around anything and everything baseball.

When it came time to choose a college, I went to the one that happened to be the top pick for no less than five of the top twenty high school ballplayers. It was also Curt's alma mater, so it wasn't hard to explain.

My brother was flattered and pleased with my school choice. Which was a point in my favor, of course (and one I intended to use against him as often as possible). I enrolled in a double-major program for business and journalism. And had already started finagling my way into the university news and social media machine. Once on campus, I could trade on my last name and brother's affiliation to get in the baseball coaches' good graces.

With a front row seat to Strikers baseball, I’d be an extra set of eyes and ears, feeding my brother an inside scoop—and learning “on the job.” And, of course, being my super fantastic older brother that I'd always looked up to (as I've said many times), he'd be so incredibly grateful, he'd immediately hire me into the Sabers’ organization. Once I graduated, of course.

And then it would be bye-bye to the stupidly misogynistic NBfO rule.

As for its “Olivia can't date pro athletes of any kind” corollary, that one could only last as long as I was financiallydependent on dear old Dad. Once I was on my own, neither of them could have anything to say about my love life. Right? Right.

I had it all figured out, one hundred percent.

It was a solid four-year plan. I just had to execute on it.

Chapter One

Olivia POV

MacKenzie State Park, Vanquer, TX

Abaseball player in a blue Lion’s jersey jumped from second base, racing down the line toward third.

“Bad move.” I shook my head. “Catcher's got an arm. Lefty at the plate.” I stood on my tiptoes and gripped the stiff wires of the backstop. The catcher caught the pitch, stood, and gunned it to third. The blue-shirted Lions' player dove headfirst, sand spraying in all directions.

“You're out!” came the umpire's shout, even before the dust settled.

I tsk'ed. “And that's the inning.” Red and gold teenaged Pirates jogged off to their dugout as the Lions' players filtered out onto the field. “Under sixteen baseball. What a world of difference two years makes.” I shook my head and took a step back. Watched the blue-shirted pitcher throw a few. He had some velocity, but not enough command. He was about two innings away from being lit up like a Christmas tree. “Pirates will win this one.”

Although I had yet to convince my dad or brother, I believed I had a sense about players. Years of watching my brother’s gamescombined with eight summer months studying IML prospect footage, I could read game situations. And I could read when players weren't confident in their play.

Major leaguers could still surprise me. And then there washim: Breslin Michael Cooper. Coop. The number one high school prospect on every talent scout's roster for the past two years. Except those needing pitchers, of course.

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