Game On (13 page)

I drop my head. Every year, the school paper does a feature on spring sports. And every year, the starting pitcher is the one who's on the front page. Becca's cool or whatever, but I've had enough of the headlines lately.

I shove another fry in my mouth and gesture to Bri. “Why don't you put Bri on the cover? Or hell, put yourself on the cover.
Move Over, Baseball: Girls' Soccer is Kicking Ass.
The school will love it.”

Becca gapes at me. “The school will accuse me of heresy and possibly burn me at the stake.”

“For what it's worth,” Bri chimes in, “Becca's not a tabloid writer. You're safe with her.”

Becca clicks her pen. “Mmhmm. Yeah. Totally safe.” She scribbles something at the top of the page. “First, can you tell the readers what
really
happened outside Joyner's last week?”

“Becca!” Bri says, right as Kellen and Blake burst out laughing.

Head, meet table. Literally.

Straightening, I blow out a breath. “Plead the fifth. Next question.”

She gives me a sugary-sweet smile. “I'm just reporting on what the readers want to hear—that's Journalism 101. But fine. Onward.” Using her pen, she gestures between me and Blake, her gaze lingering on him. “You two. You've never played a single game together. How would you describe the dynamic between you guys?”

Finally,
a legit question. “It's good?” I say, glancing at Blake for confirmation. He shrugs his agreement, not taking his eyes off Becca. Who won't take her eyes off him. And I think my answer just fell dead in the water.

“So, what do you think?” Becca asks him, leaning onto the table. “How far do you think you'll get this season?”

And now Blake's leaning forward. “As far as the good Lord will let me get. All the way, if I'm lucky.”

“Plenty of home runs?”

“
Lots
of home runs. Grand slams, even.”

I thought this was my interview, damn it. But I have a feeling they're not talking about baseball grand slams.

The bell rings, and Kellen's the first to stand. “You all going to class or taking this eye-screwing to the next level?” he asks.

Bri leans over, her breath tickling my ear as she whispers, “You grab your tight-pantsed charmer, and I'll get mine.”

At least, I think that's what she says? It's hard to tell when all I can think about are her lips on my ear instead of her words.

My mouth drops open, but no words come out. I'm… not entirely sure what's happening here. Or where that came from. I glance over. She's smiling at me, the kind of smile that a neighbor gives another neighbor. The kind that a friend gives another friend.

The kind that a girl who just broke up with her boyfriend gives to someone she has no intention of hooking up with, you horny asshole.

Shit.

~

After changing for practice, I head out to the field, where half the team's already warming up. For some God-unknown reason, Bri's voice rings in my head:
If you're not early, you're late.
Which is really lame, if you think about it, but now I can't un-hear it. The closer I get to the field, the closer I get to the bleachers. And that's when I see
them
. The booster club. Not all of them, of course—just the handful who don't know how to get their noses out of a team they haven't been part of for twenty years.

But that's none of my business.

Taking a deep breath, I hold my head high and keep on, shoving through the gate and heading for the dugout.
Eyes straight. Don't look.
Once I reach the dugout, my shoulders drop as I finally exhale. Holding your head high is freakin' exhausting. Digging my glove out of my bag, I jog to the outfield, where Coach is overseeing warmups.

“Coach,” I say, pausing at his side. “What's with the audience?”

His arms folded, he sneaks a glance behind us, at the bleachers. “Ah, you saw your fan club.”

My
fan club. Right. I tug on the brim of my cap, shielding my face even more. “Don't,” he says right as I'm about to look again. “Don't give them the time of day. You're not here for them—you're here for me. Give me your energy.”

I scoff. “So I'm supposed to ignore the people who pretty much own this team?”

He meets my gaze. “That's exactly what I'm telling you to do. They may own the team, but they don't own you. I do.”

Well, when he puts it
that
way.

“
Bri was in my office this morning,” he adds. “She said you did well for your first weekend. Keep it up, all right? I'm trusting you.”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

He tilts his head toward the guys. “Get on over there and start warming up with your team. Leg lifts!” he shouts. “On your backs!”

Yes, sir
. I drop into the grass at the end of the lineup, next to Lance, the junior pitcher. I'll be the first to admit that I'm no hotshot. That stupid article had a point: I've been a backup for years, and for good reason. But the flip side is that, by being backup, I've earned my starting place on that mound. I did my waiting, damn it—two years of it. Despite all that, I'd bet my truck that the men in those bleachers would rather see Lance on the mound. His fastball's better, his curveball's smoother, and his changeup is flawless.

But that's not happening. Not if I have anything to do about it.

So I lift my legs a little higher. Count the reps a little louder. Sound out everything that's not Coach's voice, both outside my head and inside. Because the voice inside my head is telling me to check the bleachers, to see if they're watching, if they're paying attention. But Coach was right—they don't matter. They
shouldn't
matter. Their opinions don't win games—we do.

“Almost time to run, boys,” Coach yells. “Line it up. Start with lunges.”

My legs and abs burn as I push to my feet. Brushing the grass off my pants, I follow the others to the back fence. Glance up. And come face-to-face with a now-purple-eyed Matt Harris.

You've gotta be shittin' me.

I've somehow managed to avoid him since that night, considering he's been out of school and practice for the past week. You'd think I did more than bust his nose.

I lean into my lunges. “Lookin' good, Harris.”

He
starts his own lunges, keeping his eyes trained ahead. “Surprised you remember my name after I slammed your head on the pavement. Should've hit you harder.”

He's just a ray of freakin' sunshine.

Coach's attention snaps to us. “Harris!” he barks. “Perry! What part of show up and shut up don't you understand? Other end of the line, Harris. Move it.”

Matt jogs to the end of the line without another word. Coach points at me. I raise my hands.
Point taken.

“And we are jogging,” Coach continues, keeping his eyes on me. “Across the field and back. Let's go.”

Not gonna lie—jogging sucks. Bri said she runs an average of five miles during every soccer game and honestly, I'd probably choke out and die. But it's a necessary evil, so I keep in step with the others, focusing on home plate.

“Coach won't be around forever, you know.”

I glance over. Another visit from Blondie. Awesome.

“Yeah,” I breathe, slowing as we reach the plate. “And I can't wait.”

We tag the fence and turn, starting back toward the outfield. “What do you think you're gonna do?” he asks, already breathing hard.

I shrug. “Telling you eases the terror. Not my style. Maybe the suspense will kill you first.” Truth is, I don't know what I'd do. I know what I'd
want
to do, but honestly? I like my spot on the team too much.

Matt slows to a stop at second base. For some stupid reason, I do the same. “You really think I'm scared of you?” he asks.

Hands
on my hips, I shake my head. “No. But that busted nose? I can break a lot more than that.”

He lets out a huff of a laugh. “Like your brother? He can throw one hell of a punch, for a homo.”

Still. Everything goes still. The field disappears and the team's gone and the only thing I hear is the blood rushing through my head. I've never been legit tempted to strangle someone before. But that's why you never say never.

I start toward him. “The fuck did you just say?”

Coach's whistle pierces through me. Matt jumps back, his hands up, palms out. And I should move, I should lift my own hands, I should do
something
, but all I want is to see his face in the dirt.

Coach moves between us, facing me. But instead of laying into me, instead of throwing my ass off his field, he leans in and whispers, “Those men in the bleachers
want
a good show. Don't you dare give it to 'em. You hear me?”

The lump in my throat makes answering impossible; all I can do is nod. I follow him across the outfield, keeping my gaze on the grass. Kellen slaps my back as I fall into line at the fence, and Blake does the same, murmuring something about, “He's full of shit, bro.” Which he is. That doesn't make it any easier to ignore. I can handle a lot of things; people talking crap about my family isn't one of them.

I squeeze my fists so no one sees them shake.

~

Except for the kitchen light illuminating the window, my house is dark by the time I pull into my driveway.

The
steady hum of my truck's engine is music to my ears after today's practice. I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. The boosters stuck around the entire time, elbows on their knees, leaning forward like they were watching their dollar signs dance around on the field. As much as I want to prove that they're full of crap, that I can actually carry this team through the season, the truth is that I just don't know. At least Coach has my back. If anything, that's keeping me on my feet.

A car door slams nearby. Through my passenger window, I spot Bri grabbing something from the backseat of her car. I cut my engine and hop down, the night's chill ripping straight through my practice clothes. Gripping my keys, I walk across the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my cleats.

Bri whirls around. Her hair's piled on top of her head, loose strands falling all over the place. And I have no idea when I got back to this point, to noticing the smallest things about the girl next door. She's always been right
there
—that hasn't changed. But now, out of nowhere, little things are turning to big things again. And it's really freakin' weird.

“Hey,” she says, slinging her gear bag over her shoulder. “How's it goin'?”

My muscles feel like jelly. And not the good jelly—the cheap, store-brand jelly that runs all over the place before seeping right into your bread.
That's
how it's going. But when I go inside in a few minutes, Momma will have dinner still warm, waiting for me to eat. Emma will probably be running around in her PJs, Dad'll be starting his prep for next Sunday, and Grace will be lying on the couch, messing around on her phone; it's the same thing nearly every night. And looking at Bri's house, seeing it dark without a single room lit and no one waiting for her, is downright depressing.

“
Do you want to have dinner with us?” The question's out before I can stop it. I'm not even sure where it came from. She hasn't had a meal with us in nearly a year.

Judging by the way her jaw drops, she's just as shocked. “Um…” She tilts her head toward her house. “I'm good, thanks. I'm just gonna make a sandwich or something.”

For some reason, her answer's a slam to the gut. I have absolutely no reason to be disappointed, but I'm tired and still pissed and dang it, I just wanted to do something nice for the girl who saved my ass. But instead of telling her all that, I say, “Remember what I told you last weekend. There's plenty of mac and cheese to go around.”

The breeze blows softly, and she smiles. And honestly, that smile's the best thing I've seen all day. She starts toward her house. “Goodnight, Eric.”

Can't say I didn't try. I wave. “'Night.”

Chapter
Nine

Eric

This week ate me for breakfast.

By Saturday morning, I'm run down and exhausted and I would literally kick a tree if it meant I could sleep in. But there are obligations. Responsibilities. All that crap.

So I walk out to the driveway at 7:50. Bri has nothing to complain about this time. She's leaning against her car, wearing the same hoodie and beanie as last week. But when her gaze lands on me, unlike last weekend, she doesn't scowl. She doesn't glare. She doesn't even roll her eyes. She says, “You look tired.”

I would rather get an eye roll. People telling you that you look tired is code for “Hey, dude, you look terrible.”

Running a hand through my hair, I ask, “Is that your way of saying I look like shit? It's okay if it is. Because I kind of feel like shit.”

She chews on her bottom lip. “You can go back to bed. It's fine.”

I stop in front of her. Tilt my head. “Are you trying to set me up? You
want
Coach to toss me off the team?”

“No, it's just—” She sighs. “I'm kind of a jerk and didn't tell you that it's the second Saturday of the month.”

“I am well aware it's the second Saturday of February. I'm not a genius, but I can read a calendar.”

“Second Saturday is when the center serves both breakfast and dinner.”

She
holds my gaze, like she's trying to bore some kind of information into my head. Then, it clicks. My mouth drops open. Now my bed sounds like a glorious cloud that'd welcome me back with open arms. If, you know, clouds had arms. Whatever. “You help with both,” I conclude, rubbing my face. “Which means you'll be there all day. Which means I'll be there all day.”