They’re chasing the same dream…Liv Milline’s family name is practically synonymous with IML baseball. Yet despite her love for the game and her dreams of becoming a baseball scout--her father holds one, ironclad rule: No baseball for Olivia.
Her one loophole? Playing sports reporter for Texas State Tech.
[Book one of a series, Chasing Headlines ends with a HFN, no cliffhanger, but lingering / unresolved issues waiting to bite them in the butt in Book 2.]
(Breslin POV)
I threw my glove in my locker and grabbed my backpack from the hook. I imagined myself bounding out of the room, but my legs barely managed more than a shuffle.
Still, I must have been moving a bit too fast because, the next thing I knew, Rally Girl was on the ground, phone skittering across the tile.
And I was the asshole. Shit.
She sat on her rear in the center of the hallway, rubbed her hip and winced. Fuck, is she going to claim I injured her—to get back at me for earlier? I glanced behind me at the locker room door. She can follow me. I looked at the exit door. I’d have to step over her. That would be ridiculous. I had more integrity than that.
Still . . .
She hissed through clenched teeth.
“You . . .” Dammit, what was her name? I had not been paying attention to anything other than, well, my shirt. On her body. Idiot.
“Well, what’s left of me. Geez, do you eat bricks for breakfast or what?”
Her legs, long and tan and open—they bent at the knee. And apparently, my body was not too tired to enjoy the view.
“I’m not hurt and I’m not upset. But maybe you could help me up?” She spoke in a soft voice. Dark eyelashes framed bright blue-green eyes.
I extended a hand and tugged her to her feet. She stood for a breath, two. So close. Connected. Something about the feel of her skin against mine . . . A small, but soothing warmth tingled through the nerves in my hand, sparking a heated rush from my palm to my neck.
A sharp breath, and then her fingers slid from my grasp. I missed the warmth of her.
“. . . maybe offer an apology?” She moved her hand up and down in a phantom handshake. “Sure, Coop. No hard feelings.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Can this be over? I panted for air and shifted back a step. Her being the hot chick in the water fountain had been one thing. I could have tried to find her, always wondered, haunted the student center in the hopes I’d run into her again.
Her being a reporter meant all of those things went on the “no fucking way, ever” list.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but, I wouldn’t hurt you. You mean too much to the team.” She frowned. “This was an accident. Not that it didn’t jar me to the bone. You missed your calling as a linebacker.”
I blinked. Opened my mouth. Re-ran the words through my brain. She just said a shit ton of stuff, and what the fuck was any of it about?
“I’m fine, really. You need to stop gushing over me. All the upset is beneath you.” One eyebrow rose and she crossed her arms. How did she breathe while saying all those words?
“Um, are you OK?” She leaned closer.
I stared at her mouth. “You talk a lot.”
Her arms dropped to her sides. “That’s what you have to say? Not a ‘You OK?’ or ‘So sorry, I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with your things?’”
I didn’t catch all of it, but, maybe, if I did the last thing, she’d move out of my way? And I could get food, drink a gallon of water, take a shower? I stunk to hell and back.
Help her with her stuff. I set my backpack down and knelt at her feet. I tried not to think about those short running shorts or how good it’d feel to slide my fingers over the curve of her calf, up to her hip. I shoved her shit into her bag and tossed it to her. I retrieved her phone from the tile floor.
“That’s, um. Yeah. Thanks.” She pulled the device from my grip.
I pushed my sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. “You’re OK?”
“Yeah.” She pulled the bag over her shoulder. “Got bowled over by a human freight train, but lived to tell the tale. I pity any catcher that tries to get in your way.” She gave me a tight-lipped smile.
So many words. No wonder she had to write them all down. “But you’re fine?”
“What, do you need me to sign a waiver?”
Red hazed into my vision. “I’d say yes, but reporters are lying snakes in the grass. Wouldn’t matter.”
“I . . .” Her jaw worked, but no sound came out.
An errant thought about her mouth working flit through my brain.
“But, I–We’re on the same team, Coop.” She pointed at her jersey as if that was “proof”. It sure as hell wasn’t.
“We’re not.” I hefted my backpack onto my shoulder. “But you were right about one thing.”
“What do you mean?”
I leaned down and stared at her head on. She turned a deep dark pink.
“To pity the person who tries to get in my way.”
When Rose isn’t deeply immersed in her latest manuscript, she’s working in cyber security and thwarting the next generation of internet bad guys. Out of the office, she’s #Shipping with friends over her favorite, swoon-worthy couples, heading to the gym to battle the great evil that is Unmovable Baby Weight, or complaining about her husband’s addiction to 3D printing. Also: nagging her children to eat something other than cheese.
.png)
"Cute witty banter with lust and love was the perfect mix!" - Goodreads Reviewer
Click Here for the list!
(Google gives me a small commission if you click on ads)
Sounds like a book I will enjoy.
ReplyDeleteAdding this to the TBR list. Sounds really good.
ReplyDeleteYay! I really hope you'll check it out. If you get a chance, would love to know what you thought of it. <3 <3 <3
DeleteI like the excerpt. Sounds like a good story.
ReplyDeleteThank you! That particular scene was so important to cement the "we're not on the same team" declaration from Breslin. But, my first draft was written from Liv's perspective. The editor told me I couldn't BACKTRACK to have him bowl her over and then go back to her waiting outside the locker room - the coach told her she needed to "make nice" with him, so she's waiting to talk to him and -- crash --
Delete(the other side) --- rough draft, though, so, sorry for the messiness of it ---
DeleteI paced back and forth outside the locker room. I didn’t know for certain he’d use this door as opposed to the one leading directly to the parking lot. What if he’d already left?
I shook my head and kept pacing. If not now, I’d definitely catch him sometime. Hopefully I could find a way to bridge the gap. Why is there a "gap?" It’s not like I’m really dedicated to being a reporter. Maybe we could even be mostly amicable colleagues or something. I just needed to find the right words. I could I say: I’m a big fan, but I’m pretty sure he’s heard that a few million times.
What else was there? I’m sorry about your mom? I mean I was. It had to suck, watching a parent waste away. It was bad enough seeing them divorce. The angry barbs and emotional blackmail was something else.
But dying? Geez. And in the midst of his team’s playoff run. Somehow a seventeen year old kid kept his mind on the game better than most professionals. His batting average alone had him on the nominee list for MVP.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Cooper succumbed to her illness the week before the national championship game. As the surviving members of the Cooper clan exited the hospital, swollen eyes and miserable-looking, the throng of press coverage had been off-the-charts. Way way too much going on.
That wasn’t how we wanted to see Breslin Cooper. And he deserved the privacy to mourn like a regular seventeen-year-old kid.
God, I remembered how much it hurt to see him like that, and I didn’t even know him. Hadn’t met him until just a few minutes ago. But man, watching him play centerfield . . .
The locker room door swung open. I turned. A leather jacket filled with cement hit me square in the chest. I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground. “Oof.”
I glanced up from the floor at my assailant, only to find Breslin Cooper staring down at me.
"You," he said and shuffled back a step. Then two steps.
"Well, what's left of me. Geez, do you eat bricks for breakfast or what?"
His dark, midnight eyes met mine. His eyebrows looked like they wanted to escape by merging with his hairline. His hand shook where he grasped the strap of his backpack.
A cold wave of sympathy washed through me. He'd had a rough time of things over the past year.
Delete"I'm not hurt and I'm not upset. But I am a little akimbo. Could you help me up?" I could have gotten myself up, of course. I felt like he needed this. To show someone else kindness . . .
He blinked and seemed to recover himself. He leaned down, extending his hand. I took it, warm and sweaty and coarse; he lifted me off the floor and helped me gain my feet.
"Maybe an apology?"
"Sorry."
"I'm not going to . . . hurt you. You mean too much to the team. And I'm fairly sure that was an accident. Not that it didn't jar me to the bone. You missed your calling as a linebacker."
He continued to stare.
"I'm fine. Really. You need to stop gushing over me. All the upset is beneath you, Coop."
"You talk a lot."
"That's what you have to say? Not a 'you ok? So sorry, I didn't see you there. Can I help you with your things after rudely colliding with you?'"
He set down his backpack, then knelt to finger-rake my belongings together and shove them back into my purse. He picked up my phone, holding it out to me. “Uh, that’s, um. Thanks.”
He pushed the hair back from his forehead. God, those dark blue eyes were even more mesmerizing in person than they appeared on TV.
"You're ok?" His mouth turned down and his brow creased between his eyes. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was actually worried about me.
Just me.
"Yeah. Got bowled over by a human freight train, but lived to tell the tale. I pity any catcher that makes the mistake of trying to get in your way."
“You’re fine?”
“Yeah, what, you need me to sign a waiver?”
“I’d say yes, but reporters are lying snakes in the grass. So wouldn’t matter.”
“Uh?” Shit. I knew he’d messed up. He was a minor at the time and despite the best efforts of the media, the case and all related docs, had been sealed. It wasn’t my business, but was he making it my business?
What do people say when they’re called a lying snake in the grass? To their face, I mean. I can’t say I’d had the experience thus far, in all my eighteen long years. What the hell?!
“I’m not. I wouldn’t. We're on the same team, Coop."
“We’re not on the same team. But you were right about one thing.”
“What’s—”
“To pity the person who tries to get in my way.”
And with that, he rushed past me. Footsteps clacking across the tile. The outside door thrown open.
“I’m sorry about your mom.”