Game On (10 page)

It consumes you.

I step out of the car and head for the backyard instead. There are two places around here that I've claimed as my own: the front porch and the roof of our shed. They're good for different things. The porch is good for relaxing. For breathing. The roof gives open access to the sky. To the stars. To dreaming.

Tonight,
I need the stars.

The old red shed came with our house. It was worn and raggedy when we moved here, and it's even more worn and raggedy now. I grab our rusted ladder and place it against the side of the shed, the metal creaking with each step I climb. I hoist myself onto the roof and settle onto the narrow patch of flat-top.

Stars are amazing. Some nights they shine brightly, showing off their brilliance. Some nights are a little dimmer than others, but you can still see the light. And some nights, they're hidden behind the clouds. But even after all those nights of being hidden, after all those nights of being suffocated by the clouds, they show back up to shine.

Stars are like people, if you really think about it.

I've been dim for months without even realizing it. It's almost like a frog being placed in a pot of water. The frog just thinks he's in for a swim, right? Like, this is awesome! Too good to be true! And then you turn up the heat bit by bit, and slowly, the frog is cooked through.

(Seriously though—poor frog.)

Luckily, Becca saw how miserable I was and pulled me out of the pot just in time. But now? I don't know who the heck I am anymore. I don't. And I think that's the worst feeling of all: knowing that you're lost and you don't know how to get back. This time last year, I was top of my class and kicked ass on the soccer field. And then I let someone into my life, into my heart, into my head, and he jumbled all that up.

As cheesy as it sounds, those stars up there give me hope. That maybe I can break through the clouds and, I don't know, shine again? And tears stream down my face as I look at those gorgeous, gorgeous stars, the proof that you
can
shine again.

I don't know how the heck I ended up here, but this isn't where I'm staying.

Eric
asked why I helped him tonight, and like everything else in my life right now, I just don't know. I hate not having answers.

Maybe because I know what it's like to not even realize you're boiling until someone yanks you out of the hot water. Until a friend drags you to the crappy barbecue place in town, and tells you that you're so much better than the guy who's been treating you like you're disposable. That no, you're not stupid. That you don't have to make anyone else happy but yourself.

Maybe I saved him because we all need saving once in a while.

Eric

I know she heard us pull into the driveway. Hell, even if she didn't, a big clue would've been the headlights shining directly on her like a spotlight. But Bri stays on the roof of that shed, like she does most nights.

I don't think I'm supposed to notice that she's out there so often; everyone needs their own place to go when things go crazy, and that's always been hers. The last thing I want is to bug her when she needs her space. But honestly, I wish I could climb up there with her right now. A quiet night under a wide-open sky sounds like heaven.

But her ignoring me is the least of my problems. I sit in Kellen's truck as it idles in my driveway, the heat spilling onto me as I stare at my house. All the lights are on, including the porch light, which means my parents are probably watching and waiting. Biding their time. Prepared to pounce as soon as I walk through the door.

For
whatever reason, I lucked out with Bri coming to my rescue with Coach. I have a feeling I won't be so lucky with my parents. Especially now that they not only know I've been arrested before, but that I've been hiding it for a year.

Kellen clears his throat. “You gonna be all right?”

I glance over, only to catch him watching my knee bounce at the speed of a fastball. “On a scale of heart failure to crapping my pants? Somewhere in the middle.” Taking a deep breath, I say, “Distract me. Tell me something good.”

“Like what?”

“Like—good, dude. I don't know. Tasha! Tell me about the weekend with Tasha.” Tasha's his girlfriend up at USC, who came down to spend the weekend with him. They've been dating for over a year, and are probably the most chill couple I know. No drama. Just two people who're up for whatever, whenever.

He shifts in his seat, resting his elbow on the windowsill. “We argued all weekend.” He looks at me, apology in his eyes. “Try again?”

I gape at him. “I didn't even know that you knew
how
to argue with someone.”

He holds up his hands. “You asked, I delivered, bro.”

Taking a deep breath, I shake my head. “Sorry, man. Seriously. And sorry about your weekend. That blows.” I look back to my house. Still waiting. Still looming. Still not going anywhere, so I guess it's now or never. I open the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

He tosses up a wave as I hop onto the driveway. He backs out into the road, leaving me alone with the green mile. Because I may very well be heading to my own execution. Black eyes are hard to hide, and mommas are really unforgiving when it's clear those black eyes mean you've been fighting.

The
“getting arrested a second time” thing doesn't exactly help my case, either.

The house is warm and quiet when I walk inside, the living room a dewy orange thanks to the corner lamp, but the kitchen shines brighter than an interrogation light. Which would explain why my parents chose to sit at the table there.

My head pounds as I kick off my boots at the door. Trudge across the living room, into the kitchen.

Momma stands. Stares at me for a long moment with tear stains covering her cheeks. And walks right out of the room.

That hurts worse than the slam I took against the pavement.

Dad remains in his seat at the head of the table. I rub the back of my head. “Can we do this tomorrow?” I ask him. “I'm wiped.”

He nods to my seat. “Sit.”

Sitting it is.

The clock ticks in our silence as he looks me up and down, no doubt taking in the beating Matt dealt. Leaning forward, he folds his hands on top of the table.

“Tell me what happened,” he says, his voice low. Measured.

My side of the story? Gladly. I tell him every last detail, right down to the swing I took because I am, if anything, honest. Besides, if I was tossed into a cell, I think it's clear that I wasn't exactly a saint tonight, either.

He nods slowly, processing everything. “And last year,” he says, even more quietly. Which is a million times more frightening than him yelling.
Here we go.
“Let's see if I understand this: You got drunk at a party. You got behind the wheel of your truck, while drunk. You could have killed—”

“
I know it was stupid, Dad, but I didn't—”

He slams his hand against the table, and I nearly jump out of my seat. His face flushes as he points at me. “You do not get to make excuses. You do not get to talk back. You get to sit there, and you get to take this like you should have a year ago. Do you understand me?”

All I can do is nod. “Yes, sir.”

Another moment passes before he finally says, “Grounded. A month, at the very least. School, practice, church—that's it. You're damn lucky we're letting you even step foot on that field this year.”

A month. A month will take us to the first game of the season. Thank sweet Jesus they're still letting me have that. I nod again. “Okay.”

“And now, punishment.”

My head snaps up. “But I'm grounded.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yes. That's what we call a natural consequence for
getting arrested
. Twice. And lying about it once.”

The man has a point. I settle back against my chair. “I'm doing community service,” I tell him. “At the community center outside Summerville. On Saturdays, with Bri. She offered so that Coach would let me stay on the team.”

Pursing his lips, Dad nods slowly. “Well, that's real nice of Bri. Really generous. Except that sounds like your punishment for Coach Taylor, instead of us.”

I
had
to throw in the Coach part.

Dad leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “The church's cleaning team works awfully hard every week. I think it's time they got a little vacation.”

Oh, no.

“
So if you're so interested in community service,” he continues, “you can clean the church every Saturday night for the next month, while you're at it.”

We have the biggest Baptist congregation in Lewis Creek, which means we have the building to match. On my own, that'd take me half the night. “Dad—”

“And if you want to argue,” he cuts in, leveling me with a glare, “I don't care what kind of deal you made with your coach—you will not touch another bat between now and graduation. Is that clear?”

Swallowing hard, I nod once. “Yes, sir.”

He leans onto the table, his eyebrows furrowing. “And let me speak very slowly, and very plainly, so you can hear me loud and clear: If I catch a
hint
of alcohol on your breath between tonight and the day you're twenty-one, the Lewis Creek jail will be the least of your concerns.” He tilts his head toward the doorway. “I'll drive you to Joyner's to pick up your truck tomorrow. Bed. Now.”

Gladly. I push away from the table and head to my room, careful not to wake my sisters as I close the door. In the darkness, I glance at Brett's bed before I flop back onto my mattress with a grunt, the springs screeching beneath me.

Yeah, it'd definitely be good to have him here. And considering I left my phone in my truck—and my keys are probably in the middle of the Joyner's lot—there's no way I'm talking to him tonight.

Damn it all, dude.

The door to my room opens, light from the hallway spilling into the room. Momma steps inside and tosses her phone onto my bed. “Your brother wants to talk to you.”

Well, if that isn't the work of the angels, I don't know what is.

I
pick up her phone, which is lit with Brett's picture in the background, and call her name before she leaves. She pauses in the doorway, arms crossed. “How long are you gonna be mad at me?” I ask.

She sighs. “Tonight, I'm pissed. Tomorrow will be better.” She closes the door and her footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving me in the darkness.

“Hey!” Brett shouts through the phone.

Blowing out a breath, I bring it to my ear and lean back against my pillows. “Not that I'm complaining, but how did you know to call? Divine intervention?”

“Momma called
me
and said you need someone to straighten your ass out. And since you made Momma say ‘ass,' now I've got to know what actually happened.”

I guess I better get used to telling this story. The entire night spills out: the fight, what actually led up to the fight, landing in jail, and Bri coming to the rescue. He's quiet for a minute before finally saying, “Well. Damn.”

I stare at the ceiling, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Yep.”

“You've gotta think about stuff before you start swingin', bro,” he says. “I know Harris is a dick, and he had it coming, but you won't always have people saving your ass. You know that, right?”

I swallow hard.

“You've got a good thing going,” he continues. “You wanna mess with Harris? Fine. Stick toothpicks in his yard. Cover his truck with cow shit. You've got an entire arsenal of things you can do without screwing yourself over.”

“Yeah,” I tell him, rubbing my eyes. “Yeah, I'll try.”

After
telling him bye, I toss Momma's phone onto the nightstand and relax into the pillows. My eyes close on their own, sleep barreling toward me with the force of a freight train.

Chapter
Seven

Eric

On Saturday morning, I head outside to feed the chickens before it's time to meet Bri. All four of them wander out of their coop, eyeballing me before I even get to the pen. Oscar launches himself to the top of the fence, squawking as I approach. When we got them a couple years ago, Momma made building their coop and chicken run this massive summer project. And while it turned out good enough, I don't think she realized one of the chickens was an escape artist who could clear a five-foot fence.

“Don't even think about it.” I pick Oscar up and maneuver into the pen. He launches out of my hold, back to the ground, while I refill the feed inside their coop. He waddles past me, leading the way inside as the others fall behind.

A bottomless pit with an attitude. No clue where he gets it from.

I glance at my phone: eight on the dot. I shove it back into my pocket and start toward Bri's driveway. She's standing by the door of her tiny, beat-up Toyota, wearing a crimson Lewis Creek Soccer hoodie and a beanie. I'm pretty sure no girl has ever made beanies look that hot. The scowl she's giving me, however, knocks down the hotness factor.

“What's your problem?” I ask. “It's eight o'clock. You said eight o'clock.”

She yanks her door open. “If you're not early, you're late.” She slides into the driver's seat and slams the door closed.

That makes zero sense. And my chickens kind of needed food. Rolling my eyes, I get into the passenger seat. And—yeah, this isn't gonna work. I slide the seat all the way back, but my
legs
are still smushed. The center's nearly an hour away. I'd like to get there without my legs falling asleep.

“You know,” I say, “we could take my truck. That way, I could drive
and
have a heck of a lot more leg room.”

She gapes at me. “You're serious right now?”