Game On (22 page)

The
night is perfect when I walk onto the porch, with crickets chirping and a cool breeze—a lot different without the weight of half the town gawking at me. Okay, so maybe fresh air isn't so horrible. Bri sits at the top of the steps. Blowing out a breath, I sit beside her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

I shake my head, gazing out at the field across the road. “No.”

“Nights like this are perfect,” she says. “Quiet. Still. See? Even all the stars showed up.”

My lips twitch. “That's corny as hell.”

“But you're smiling. My work here is done.” She nudges my knee with hers. “It'll get better.”

Better.
Right. It's hard to imagine better when you know you'll fall asleep hating yourself later. I look down at my hands. “I need this, you know,” I say, and I'm not sure if it's for me or for her. “This season. This is probably my last time playing ball. I need it to count.”

“What about college ball?”

I scoff. Shake my head. Look back to the field. “I don't even know if I'm going to play next year,” I mumble. I didn't get an invite to play for any of the colleges I'm accepted to. Not like my brother. Or his boyfriend. Or Braxton. Just not good enough, I guess? Kind of the story of my life. Walking on to a team is an option, I guess, but the odds of a pitcher walking on are practically non-existent. Coaches scout for those players.

“Why not?” she asks.

And suddenly the levee breaks, my words spilling out faster than vomit. “Guys like me don't get the scholarships,” I tell her. “I'm good—not great. They don't hand out offers to good. We don't have recruiters lined up ready to give us a full ride. I probably won't even bother trying to walk on, just to save myself the damn embarrassment. So I don't know what the hell I'm
doing
next year. I don't even know
where
I'm going. I'm not like you—I'm not some supergenius who had his pick of schools throwing him a bunch of money. I have to actually think about it.”

My chest heaves as I catch my breath. The second the words were out of my mouth, I knew I'd pay for them. I just didn't realize the stare she'd give me would be so full of hurt. And I definitely didn't realize that the hurt would be a straight-shot to my gut.

“Wow,” she breathes. “Just—wow.” She pushes to her feet. “Anything else you want to add? I mean, tell me how you really feel.”

Hanging my head, I groan. “I'm sorry, Bri. You know that's not what I—”

She stomps off the porch, her flip-flops clapping against the walkway. “I don't want to hear it. I worked damn hard to get my scholarships, because that's the only way I'd even be able to go to school. So I'm sorry if my being some super-genius pisses you off.”

“I know you've worked your ass off,” I say quietly. “I'm not pissed at you. I'm pissed at myself.”

She shakes her head. “Why?”

My heart slams against my chest. “For being good, but not being good enough. I never have been good enough. Is that what you want to hear?”

She swallows. Looks at me with a gaze that's not angry at all, no longer with even a trace of hurt—it's full of pity. And I think that stings even worse. “You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better.”

My knee bounces. I'm an ass. Total ass. “I'm sorry,” I tell her again. “Didn't mean to take it out on you.”

She
stands there as moments pass, simply staring. Her shoulders drop as she sighs. “Get some rest,” she finally says. “Tomorrow's gonna be hell for you.”

She heads to her house, leaving me alone. And it's official: I'm the world's biggest piece of crap.

I walk inside, slamming the door closed behind me. The movie's still going, but everyone on the couch is too busy gaping at me to care.

“Wow,” Grace finally says. “You really are an asshole.”

Tell me something I don't know. “Just leave me alone,” I mutter.

Chapter
Seventeen

Eric

My room's still dark when I hear the voice at my open window: “Get up.”

The voice is way too pretty to belong to a thief. I yank the blanket off my head. Bri's leaning just inside my room, her arms crossed on the windowsill. I left the window open to cool off, not for random people to stop by and say “hey” for Christ's sake. That's one thing I can say she's never done before.

I pull the blanket back over my head. “You can't camp at my window,” I mumble. “That's stage-five clinger level.”

“You said you wanted to be my running buddy? Well, I'm running, buddy, so get up.”

“I don't know if you remember, but I had a shitty night that I'm still sleeping off.”

“Yeah, you had a shitty night. That you took out on me. But the sun's coming up, so shake it off and make today better. Meet me in the driveway. And bring your music.”

She has a point, but the girl's insane. So am I, apparently, considering I roll out of bed. Get changed into gym shorts and a hoodie. Pad down the hall, where Emma's singing in her room. She always does that—you know your time is limited when she starts getting louder and louder. Eventually, she just comes and jumps on you if she gets tired of waiting.

Bri is a lying liar who lies. I love the cool air of March mornings, so that's not so bad, but the sun's still snoozing. Which means I could still be snoozing. But she's waiting at the edge of my driveway, stretching her legs, ready to run.

I stop at the road, shoving my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. “I don't think this—”

She
shakes her head. “Nope. None of that. No negativity on my runs. Earbuds in, music cranked. We're running off the rage. Let's go.”

What the actual hell did I get myself into? I pull out my phone, find my workout playlist, put in my earbuds, and gesture for her to go ahead of me. I fall into step beside her, steadily keeping pace. She's definitely slowing herself down for my sake, which would be embarrassing if I didn't kind of appreciate it.

The world's silent this time of morning. The sun's finally creeping up, a thin sliver of orange hinting at the horizon. My sneakers smack against the pavement, the steady
thump thump thump
somewhat hypnotizing along with Metallica blaring in my ears.

Out here, the rest of the world disappears. Out here, it's just me. Out here, nothing else matters. And I wish to all that's holy that I could keep this clear head every other minute of the day.

But unfortunately we circle back to our houses. The real world comes back into focus, a world with glares and gossip and people who legit boo at others. The real world is a sucker punch to the jaw.

I yank the buds out of my ears. “Thanks,” I breathe. “I needed that.” I pause. “About last night—”

She holds up a hand. “I don't want to hear sorrys. I want to see you do better. That's it.”

“What, better on the field? Trust me, I'd love to do better.”

“Better on yourself.” She points to the highway. “Screw what they think, Eric. You want to play? Play. Don't let them take it away from you.”

“You don't understand.”

She
steps forward, her hands on her hips. “Sorry, I don't understand what? The pressure? The staring? The gossip? Tell me again that I don't understand the gossip, after everyone's been calling me a slut because they've seen me with you a few times. Or that I don't understand the pressure, when I've been competing with the school's beloved center fielder for top of our class for years. Or the staring, when I'm trying to kick ass on the soccer field and guys are popping in just to see how well the whore can really move. And yes—I've heard them say exactly that.”

And now I may have to kill someone. Or a lot of someones. I swallow hard. “What I meant,” I say, “is that you don't understand what it's like to let everyone down. These people—they live and breathe baseball. You know that. And now they're stuck with me.” Until Coach benches me, anyway. Which, after last night, is inevitable. No way will the boosters let him keep me as starter.

She tilts her head to the side. “I've been stuck with you for most of our lives. And for what it's worth, I actually kind of like you.”

She starts up the driveway, toward her house. I can't help but smile. Actually-kind-of-liking-me is worth a lot. “But that doesn't mean they will,” I say, coming up beside her. “They don't give a shit about me. I'm not the one they cheer for. I'm the one they bet against.”

She blows out a breath and stops, leaning against the back of her car. “You're killin' me here. You don't need them to cheer for you. You need to play. That's it. End of story.” She stares me straight in the eyes. “Screw. Them. Stop wallowing.”

“I'm not wallowing.”

“You are so wallowing. Just because they treat you like crap doesn't mean you should treat yourself like crap.” She looks me up and down, her lips curving into a slight smile. “Do you play for the cheers, or because you love the game?”

“
Pretty sure you already know the answer to that.”

She shrugs. “Life sucks sometimes. And some people really suck. But the world's full of enough jerky people.” She shakes her head. “Don't be one of them.”

I don't want to be one of the sucky people, or one of the jerky people. I want to go to school, to play ball, and to get out of this town without people giving me death glares in the hallways.

But we don't always get what we want.

~

School sucked. Actually, it didn't just suck—it was a pile of suckage sitting on top of a pile of crap. The only reason I make it to practice is so I can give Coach the chance to let me have it. To bench me, or kick me off the team, or whatever he wants to do.

The boosters are in the bleachers again when I shove through the gate and head toward the dugout. Coach looks over his shoulder from his place in the outfield. Spots me. Starts in my direction.

Here we go. It was nice while it lasted.

I drop my gear bag onto the dugout's bench. I don't bother digging my glove out; I won't be here for long, anyway. Coach steps into the dugout, where the noise from the parking lot and practice is subdued. Stopping in front of me, he pulls off his sunglasses. Stares. Waits.

And the only thing I can think to say is, “I'm sorry.”

His eyebrows draw together. “Come again?”

“About last night,” I tell him. “I fu—screwed up. If you don't want me to be primary starter anymore, I get it. I do.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Did I say that?”

My
mouth hangs open. “Well, no, but—”

“Exactly. So don't put words in my mouth. Where's your glove?”

I point to my bag. I swear, I remember how to talk. Just not right now.

He gapes at me. “What're you waiting for? Get it out. We'll walk and talk.”

Yes, sir.
I dig through my bag until my fingers brush across the cool leather, and follow him out of the dugout.

“Here's the thing,” he begins, his voice low. “No one ever got better by sittin' on a bench. So I could pull you out, or I could give you the chance to get better. Which would you rather I do?”

While my answer to that may be clear cut, I have a feeling the men in the bleachers have a different opinion. I glance over my shoulder, but Coach grabs the nape of my neck, urging me to keep walking.

“None of that'll help you,” he continues. “Keep your eyes off them and their voices out of your head.”

Clearly, he and Bri went to the same How to Give Pep Talks meeting this morning. “I know you want to win,” I tell him. “And I don't know if I'm the one who can do it for you.”

“Of course I want to win. And I can win with you, if you keep your head on straight.” He pauses at the edge of the outfield, where the others are still stretching. Watching us. Waiting. Coach moves in front of me, blocking both their views and mine. “You know, it's awful hard to beat someone who doesn't give up.”

Lowering my head, I grin. “Babe Ruth. He was pretty damn good.”

“So are you.”

I
lift my gaze to him. He looks me dead in the eye and adds, “Don't you dare give up, son. You hear me?”

I manage a nod. He moves aside, allowing me to go on to the others as he shouts, “We're gonna have some fun today, fellas! Put some work into those stretches.”

When your coach says “we're gonna have fun,” that's the last thing you're going to have. I jog to the lineup, falling in at the end of the line. Right as I drop to the ground, I spot Mr. Joyner heading straight for Coach. He's pissed—about what, I have no clue—but something's got his face as red as a fresh beet. But when Coach waves him off and moves away, his glare lands right on me. And I'm legit surprised that steam isn't rising off his skin.

I don't think I'm the only one who expected Coach to bench me.

Chapter
Eighteen

Eric

The good thing about bombing a game is that we get another chance two days later.

The bad thing about bombing a game is that we get another chance two days later.

The sky's gray and overcast and downright depressing as I walk onto the field Wednesday afternoon. I managed to get here before anyone else—anyone other than Coach, anyway. He's sitting on the dugout's bench, scribbling away on that clipboard of his. It's different out here before all the fanfare kicks into gear. It's quiet. Peaceful. The way a sanctuary should be.

Coach glances up when I step into the dugout. “Perry. Sit.”

I do, catching a glimpse of his clipboard and the game's lineup, with my name right at the top. And I don't know why a surge of relief rushes through me, but it does. Maybe because it feels really damn good to know he still believes in me, when I'm not even sure I believe in myself.