The Natural History of Us (17 page)

“Gentlemen
, we're almost there.”

Coach Williams stands before us like the god of baseball that he is, a clipboard in one hand and pride in his eyes. The air feels charged, electric. Like the calm before the storm. The storm, of course, being us kicking Newfield Prep's ass.

“Today is just one more step to glory,” he says, looking around the room. “After today, we move on to the Semi-finals, and then, hopefully, the Regional Championship. For you seniors, that'll be the curtain call for your time on this team. Some of you will go on to play college ball. Others, potentially drafted.” He swings his gaze to me and I freeze. “I for one am eager as hell to say I coached you when.”

A moment of understanding passes between us. This man has been more of a father to me than my own. It's his opinion I value, his respect I crave. The thought of losing that in a few short weeks scares the hell out of me, and, perhaps sensing that, Coach holds my stare just a moment more before nodding and glancing away.

“Until then, though,
this
is your team. This is your family.”

I make eye contact with Carlos, Drew, and Brandon.

“The stands out there are already packed. Parents and girlfriends, your classmates, they're all here waiting to cheer for you. Scouts are here, too, ready to see what you've got. You should be proud. You've
earned
this respect and attention!”

It's impossible to explain to someone who's never played a team sport. For someone who's never put their faith and trust in their brothers, knowing they'll have your back. To someone like that, this kind of speech can seem lame. But as I look at my teammates, the determination that blazes hot with every word our coach speaks, I know the truth. Moments like these are powerful.

Coach lifts his chin and smiles. “You boys remember that when you take the field and show those suckers why the Hoakies own the diamond!”

Boom
. The entire team rushes to stand, lifting our voices as one in a raucous roar. If we didn't want it before, we do now. We're taking this win. We're taking it for us, for our school, and for Coach, who deserves it a hell of a lot more than we do. He brought us here and it's him we surround now, chanting and talking shit, acting pumped. Hell, it's not acting. We
are
fucking pumped.

The room swells with energy, and the strangest feeling floods my chest. It's not painful, not really, but it's intense. I drop my head, fighting to hold everything in. The emotion, the reaction. The
words
.

My head is still down when Carlos finds me on the bench near my locker. “You nervous, man?”

I raise my eyes and huff a laugh. “Do I look nervous?”

His left eyebrow cranes, his right one drops, and I follow his pointed gaze to my bouncing leg. He lets it slide. “So the whole family showed today,” he says. “Got Gabi sitting with them, too.”

He crosses himself and points to the sky, eyes closed in petition, and I give him the laugh I know he wants. It rings false and Carlos drops the constant grin.

“Guess the old man's traveling again, huh?”

“Guess so.”

I don't know why I'm surprised. I lift my shoulder in a half-hearted shrug as someone somewhere turns on our game day tradition: Outkast's “Hey Ya!”

Why this song is our anthem, I have no idea. If I had to guess, I'd blame the fool sitting next to me. But right now, I couldn't be more grateful for the distraction. Superstitions exist for a reason, and there's not a player on this team who'll dare hit the field before shaking it like a damn Polaroid picture.

I exhale confusion and anxiety, breathe in eagerness and a sense of belonging. Carlos jumps to his feet, sticks out his ass, and begins popping it in the air like Beyoncé. Our first baseman beats on the lockers as Brandon and Drew leap on top of the benches. Everyone starts outdoing each other in how horrifically bad they can dance—and no doubt, it's damn awful.

The familiar tune works its magic and I bop my head, preparing for what is to come. Only one of us has any rhythm at all, and wouldn't you know, he's on a mission to cheer me up. Carlos grabs a discarded shoe as his microphone, rolls his hips in a circle, then bats his eyelashes like a chick before blowing me a kiss. I throw my head back in a laugh.

“‘You think you've got it. Oh, you think you've got it.'”

My best friend is certifiable. Not a shrink in town will tell you any differently, but he's my boy, and other than my girl, he's probably the only one to ever get me to genuinely smile. But when he breaks into the Carlton, and does a piss poor impersonation, I decide it's time I step in.

He can never do it like me.

By the time we're all shaking our Polaroids, I'm over the shit with my dad. Screw him. I didn't need him to show up anyway. To Mitch Carter, fatherhood is paying bills and shoving training suggestions under the door. I don't need those either. I've already got my partial ride to A&M, and if the season plays out, there's a decent chance a pro team will draft me. Yeah, the salary will suck, but the signing bonus will be sweet, and my trust fund from my grandparents kicks in the day I graduate.

College or pro… it doesn't matter. I'm out of here the second I get my diploma. I'm leaving home and I'm not taking another cent of my father's money. He thinks love is a fat bank account, well he can take his overstuffed checkbook and shove it.

The playful music fades to silence and I turn with the team, breathing hard, as we look to our captain. The smile on Brandon's face is cocky as he lifts his hands and yells, “Who's ready to kick some ass?”

Adrenaline surges through my blood stream as I scream with the chorus. This is ours to lose. Today, I'm not holding anything back. I'm leaving it all out on the ball field. Because those scouts out there watching in the stands, waiting for a good show?

They're my ticket to giving my old man the big F-U.

***

The look in Carlos's eye when he enters the dugout clearly says,
don't start
. After three swings and a miss, it's safe to say
the boy is off his game. Grumbling, he tosses his gloves and helmet in the cubby, slides his cap back on his head, and falls on the bench beside me.

Not taking my eyes off the field, I tell him quietly, “It'll come.”

The tension is getting to everyone. It's another Texas scorcher and the stands are packed with anxious fans sweating it out on broiling metal seats. It's the bottom of the fourth and we're two runs ahead, not nearly the sort of margin our team is used to. But we'll find our rhythm. Of that I have no doubt. Losing today isn't an option.

Knowing that Carlos needs to work it out on his own, I sit next to him without saying a word, drinking tepid Gatorade. A low buzz behind us signals an incoming text and it doesn't take a genius to guess who it's for. Reaching back with a sigh, Carlos grabs his phone and unlocks it, then grins like the whipped dope that he is.

I lean over to get a look at the screen. It's a picture of Gabi blowing him a kiss. No message, no words of wisdom. Just her showing her unique brand of unconditional love. I had that once.

Nudging his arm, I say, “I know I talk a lot of shit, busting your balls and all, but that girl's good for you.”

Carlos nods and types out a quick reply. “I know it.”

As my best friend finds comfort with his woman, I stretch my arms out, casually glancing out into the stands. Far left, third row, right next to the dugout, to be exact. Otherwise known as Sunshine's seat.

Ever since freshman year, she's sat in the same exact spot. She never misses a chance to support her dad. Once there was a time she came to support
me
. With her attention focused on Drew out at bat, I push to my feet, preparing for my turn, and simply watch her.

I love everything about this sport. You can't fake it in baseball. It's pure and honest and demands excellence. Another reason why I love playing it, at least at Fairfield Academy, is the uninterrupted excuse to watch the girl who owns my heart. Every time I grab my helmet and gloves from the cubby at the end of the dugout, I get to look at her. Every once in a while, I even catch her looking back.
That
makes my whole damn day.

Now, as I tug on my gloves, I know she feels me staring. A slow flush rises on her peaches and cream skin, and her legs suddenly move with a restless twitch. I smile. Despite what she says, her body can't hide how much I affect her. How much she still wants me. It gives me hope for an entire thirty seconds—until I spy Cade shuffling down the bleachers.

I glance away before he sits. I can't watch him take her hand or make her smile. Not when that hand belongs in mine, and those smiles are meant for me. Instead, I glance at the coin in my hand, remember a different day, and use that memory to center me for my turn.

I take a deep breath, feel the calming weight of Peyton's coin in my palm, and place it in my sock before heading out onto the field. I'm ready.

My
confidence lasted as far as the parking lot.

The diamond behind the school was most definitely Justin's turf. He had his areas in the school, I had mine, and rarely did the two meet. Sure, I sat in the bleachers, watching practices and games, but the two of us didn't talk. Heck, we barely made eye contact. Up until now, our friendship had been kept completely separate from our everyday lives, away from prying eyes, and if things had continued as they were before, it probably would've stayed that way indefinitely. But ever since the day Justin discovered who my father was, things had been awkward. Stilted. Strained. I didn't like it.

My plan for today involved stepping up my new life philosophy, doing what scared me, with the total acknowledgement that I'd likely get burned. If Justin was that uncomfortable hanging out with me because of my dad, I wouldn't force him to be my friend. And if being seen with the coach's daughter/nerdy new chick embarrassed him around his friends, well, I could take a hint. But he was worth at least a fight.

“Hey, Carter, you got a sec?”

He was standing alone a few yards away from the dugout, beyond the short fence, shaking his legs out before the game. I figured this conversation was best done minus an audience.

Justin glanced over and his entire demeanor changed. “Peyton.” His eyes brightened with his smile… though I didn't miss the cursory glance he gave toward the dugout. “What are you doing here?”

Suddenly, the speech I'd rehearsed for close to a week flittered out of my mind. I
knew
I should've written it down.

“Ah, I wanted to wish you luck,” I told him, bouncing up on my toes. “Or, you know, if you're one of those superstitious types, break a leg!”

Gah
. I winced as my exuberant voice carried. Could I be any more of a freak?

Justin wrapped his hand around the back of his neck and glanced at the ground.
Riiight
. That was my cue. “Anyway, I'll let you get back to stretching then. I'll be cheering for you.”

Mortified, I turned around and squeezed my eyes shut. Loneliness and sadness flooded my chest. Just when I thought I'd made a real connection at this school, a friend… with possible benefits… I realize how alone I really am. And I'd actually let myself think Justin Carter could like me.

A firm hand on my elbow stopped me. “Wait.”

Justin tugged my arm, gently guiding me back around, and bent at the knee to look at my face. “You're not smiling,” he murmured with a slight frown. “What's wrong?”

I hesitated, considered my options. On one hand, I could deny, deny, deny and carry on with the way things were, no doubt looking back later and wondering what would have happened had I been brave enough to try. Or, I could live my new motto, listen to my heart and follow its lead, and see where the journey takes me.