Game On

by Michelle Smith

  “It’ll blow over soon,” Kellen tries, but I shake my head. He knows just as well as I do that it’s not even close to being over. It’s only the beginning.

  Balling the foil wrapper, I mutter, “Thanks” and slide off the bench. Kellen calls my name, but I pull up my hood and maneuver through the tables, hightailing it to the door. Once I reach the hallway, the noise fades. And finally, I can breathe. But if walking through a freakin’ cafeteria makes me sweat through my hoodie, I’m not just screwed—I’m fucked.

  ~

  By the time I reach the field for the first practice of the season, it’s already full of the guys making up this year’s team, waiting along the first base foul line. There are a bunch of veterans—Randy, Matt, Kellen, Blake, Jackson, Lance, Landon, and me—but still plenty of new sophomores moving up from JV. I would call them fresh meat, but I’m almost starting to believe that they’d be more suited for starting pitcher than I am.

  I’ve put in my time on the bench. I shouldn’t be worried about today. I shouldn’t see the field full of guys and be downright terrified that Coach is gonna wise up and drop me like a dead weight.

  But I am.

  I’ve always been good enough—I’ve never been great. As ready as I’ve been for this season, as much as I’ve wanted that patch of dirt to myself, I’m not so sure it’s mine to claim anymore. Maybe the article was right.

  Decent arm.

  Mildly impressive.

  Doesn’t hold a candle to Austin Braxton. They did get that part right. There’s a reason I rode the bench. I just hate that they reminded me of it.

  Coach is standing at the entrance to the field, his arms crossed and sunglasses shielding his eyes. Which is a bad sign in itself, considering he usually lords over the pre-practice lineup until everyone’s accounted for. Maybe I’m just not worth counting.

  Damn, that’s depressing. Get it together, Perry.

  Coach clears his throat as I approach. My muscles tense and my wall shoots up, preparing me for the onslaught. I can hear him now: Sorry, no room for drama-stirrers on my team. Thanks, though.

  I stop at the gate’s entrance. Wait for the blow.

  He slides his sunglasses onto the brim of his hat. Eyes me. And, shocking the hell out of me, opens the gate. “I’m sorry,” is all he says, but that’s all he has to say. I can tell he means it.

  My shoulders sag with relief and I nod. Not sure what else there is to do. Maybe I should apologize. Tell him it’s okay to drop me while we’re ahead. That I’ll understand. Remind him that my “moral compass” isn’t up to standard for the fine, upstanding folks of Lewis Creek.

  Excuse me while I puke up the brick sandwich.

  “Just keep your head low,” he continues. “Don’t give them what they want.” Before I have a chance to say anything, he flashes the quickest hint of a smile. “Let’s prove ’em wrong, all right?”

  My lips twitch. I nod again. “Yes, sir.”

  He moves aside, allowing me through the gate. I hurry to the dugout to drop my bag and pull out my glove. If he’s willing to give me a shot, I’m gonna give him the best damn shot I’ve got.

  Coach has taken his place in front of the other guys. I jog to the infield, falling in at the end of the line beside Blake. He holds out his hand, which I smack in a low-five. “You good, man?” he asks, and I nod once. He was on the bench with me last season. We both did our time. We did our waiting. And now, it’s time to get this party started.

  Clipboard in hand, Coach starts down the line, toward first base. And as I look across the field, where the darkening tree line meets the slowly setting sun, I feel it.

  The burn in my arm. The air in my lungs. My heart racing and my pulse pounding. For the first time since this weekend’s bombshell, I feel alive. I feel like me. On this field, everything makes sense. It’s our sanctuary. Our safe haven. Our home. Screw the people in this town—this is where I belong. Nothing they say can hold me back from it.

  “Gentlemen,” Coach begins, his voice booming. My attention snaps to him. “Welcome to another year of Bulldogs baseball.” He folds his arms as he makes his way down the line, back in my direction. “We’ve got a few ground rules to cover before practice kicks into gear, but there’s one thing I want to make loud and clear before we even get to those.”

  He stops. Stares. The blood in my ears is relentless, steadily thump thump thumping away.

  “This town is your backbone,” Coach continues, “and it can also be your downfall. These people, fine as they are, are not members of this team, no matter how much they believe otherwise. You do not listen to them—you listen to me. You listen to each other. And you listen to yourselves. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I shout with the rest of the guys.

  His gaze moves down the line. The moment it lands on me, I swallow hard. His expression gives nothing away, but when he gives me a quick, subtle nod and continues with the rest of his yearly speech, the thumping in my ears subsides. Now I know that he’s got my back. And that maybe, just maybe, this season won’t be a complete disaster.

  ~

  By the time practice wraps up, the sun is gone and the evening’s chill has settled over the field. The field lights have kicked on, shining across the diamond as all of us head for the parking lot. Slinging my gear bag over my shoulder, I cringe. We had conditioning—a week we use to ease back into shape—a couple weeks ago, but it still takes a while to get into the swing of things. Which would explain the screaming muscles. But even with the grass stains and downright ache shooting through me, there’s nothing better.

  I trail behind Kellen and Blake on the way to my truck. Kellen turns, walking backward as he asks, “You in for Joyner’s? Or is your drunk backside even allowed there anymore?”

  My stomach doesn’t just growl—it roars. “Ol’ Man Joyner would never ban a Lewis Creek player from his restaurant. That’d be asking for a riot.”

  After piling into our trucks, the three of us hightail it to Joyner’s and pull into the packed parking lot. Looks like we weren’t the only ones starving after practice—half our team’s here already. Not that there are a ton of options for food in this town. Plus, Mr. Joyner doesn’t charge the team once the season kicks into gear. Long live Bulldogs baseball.

  I squeeze into a space at the back of the lot that’s technically not a parking spot, but whatever. Kellen and Blake wave from beneath the restaurant’s awning as I hop down. As soon as I lock up the truck, though, I hear a voice that’s worse than a fork scraping a glass plate. And a laugh that rivals a freakin’ hyena’s.

  I glance over. Matt (the hyena) and Randy (the plate-scraper) beat us here, only they’re not heading inside—Matt’s sitting on the hood of a car that’s suspiciously similar to my neighbor’s, laughing along with Randy like it’s completely normal to follow a girl who’s told you to leave her alone.

  Yeah, so that’s not cool.

  “Eric!” Kellen shouts.

  Only now do I notice I’m standing right smack in the middle of the lot, gawking. Kellen and Blake walk toward me, Kellen shaking his head the entire way. “Don’t go startin’ crap you can’t finish,” he tells me. “Mind your business.”

  Good ol’ Jiminy Cricket. I hold out my arms. “Who says I can’t finish it?”

  Stopping in front of me, he raises his eyebrows. “Your dad. And Coach. Remember? The whole ‘low profile’ thing you told us about?”

  Oh, yeah. That.

  But the longer I stare at Matt, with his smug ass sitting on the hood of Bri’s car, with the way he’s laughing at Randy like there isn’t a damn thing wrong with what he’s doing, with the fact that he just can’t take a freakin’ no for an answer…

  Screw it. I’m goin’ in.

  Shoving my hands into my pockets, I tell Kellen, “I’m just gonna talk to him.”

  Before he can argue, I stride toward Bri’s car, which is parked beneath one of the two streetlamps out here. Matt catches my eye, and that stupid-ass smirk grows as h
e crosses his arms. “Perry! You have got to stop following me, man. How’s it goin’?”

  Cocky bastard. I flash a smirk of my own. “Goin’ really well. Except for the whole watching you stalk my neighbor thing. That could be better.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “You know, I wouldn’t call it stalking—more like getting my girlfriend back. Nice try to start shit, though.”

  “Last I heard, the girl was ready to walk three miles if it meant getting away from you.”

  Someone snickers behind me. I glance over my shoulder. Half a dozen other guys from the team are crowded around, eating this shit up like vultures.

  Witnesses are not awesome. Witnesses twist words and spread them like their lives depend on it.

  Matt sighs dramatically. “All right, you caught me, bro.”

  My throat tightens as I look back to him. “Don’t call me bro.”

  “Bri hates me,” he keeps on. “Which is why I’m sitting here until she’s done eating. All I want to do is talk. Didn’t realize that was a crime.”

  “Really?” I say. “That’s really a thing you’re going to do? Because sitting on her car in a dark parking lot isn’t creepy at all.”

  “He’s got a point,” Blake chimes in, stepping to my side. “I’d be pretty damn creeped out if my ex was waiting on the hood of my truck.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank God someone out here has some sense.”

  Matt stands and steps toward me. Flashbacks from last night play in my head, from when we were standing in almost this exact same spot, fighting about the exact same girl. Why do I keep getting into these messes, damn it?

  “You do not know when to quit,” he says. “Why’ve you been so stuck up Bri’s ass lately? You’ve known the girl forever, but now that we’re on a break—”

  “Broken up,” I correct him. “I was standing right here when she dumped you, so don’t try to bullshit me.”

  “—you’re trying to be some weird-ass white knight,” he finishes. “It’s pathetic, actually.”

  I shrug. “I’m just sayin’, there are plenty of girls in this town. Why chase one who doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

  “What the heck is going on?”

  Matt and I both whip our heads to the side. Bri and her friend Becca are standing at the edge of our audience, dressed in their soccer practice sweats, each holding a Styrofoam cup. Bri locks eyes with me, confusion all over her face. I wince. How do I explain that I’m kind-of-sort-of trying to help her?

  “And here we have it,” Matt says. My attention snaps back to him. “You do have a thing for the neighbor girl. That is really damn cute, Perry.”

  He laughs, and God help me, my muscles are tenser than a stretched rubber band. Breathe through it. Breathe. My heart slams against my chest as he steps closer. Closer. Closer.

  All I hear is the blood in my ears. It’s rushing, and it’s thumping, and it’s pounding as I zero in on him like a hawk. Old Eric would’ve shoved him already. Knocked him to the pavement. Beat him ’til his face looked like ground round.

  But I can’t be Old Eric. Old Eric is headline worthy. I ball my fists so tightly that my nails dig into my skin, and focus on that.

  Your team is family. You can’t take a swing at family.

  But suddenly Matt’s mouth is beside my ear, his voice whispering, “I don’t think you want her, man. She doesn’t put out much. And when she does, it’s nothin’ to brag about.”

  He shoves my chest. I stumble back.

  Oh, no. Oh, hell, no.

  “Then again,” he adds, backing away, “I’d say she’s mildly impressive. So y’all actually have something in common.”

  He starts toward his truck, but my heart’s raced into my throat and all I see is red. Red, red, red rage.

  Fuck the headlines.

  “Don’t—” Kellen begins right as I say, “Hey, Harris.”

  Matt turns. My right hook slams into his nose. Pain screams through my arm, but adrenaline surges and the ache disappears. He rams into me with a grunt, taking me down, my head smacking the pavement. My vision blurs, barely making out the fist barreling toward my face. But I feel it. And again. And again.

  And he’s gone. My eye’s swelling already, but the world comes back into focus just in time for someone to yank me to my feet.

  Blue lights flashing, blindingly clashing against the darkness. Walkie-talkies squawking and cuffs scraping my wrists. Being led to a police car, which I stupidly, stupidly never even noticed before taking a swing at a teammate, of all people.

  I. Am. Screwed.

  Chapter Six

  Eric

  Jail cells are a pain in the ass. Literally.

  The holding cell is the same as it was a year ago: cold and small as a closet. Not only that, but I was tossed in here with the guy whose face I had every intention of breaking tonight. Officers in this town have a really twisted sense of humor.

  Matt claimed the metal bench when we got here an hour ago, so I’ve been stuck on the floor across the cell—there’s no way in hell I’m sharing that tiny bench with him. The tissue the officer gave him for his nose lies bloody in the middle of the floor, like some gross boundary line.

  The steady tick-tock of the clock across the station echoes throughout the room. Old Officer Concord sits at his desk beneath the fluorescent lights with his feet kicked up as he flips through his hunting magazine for what’s got to be the tenth time.

  The door to the station creaks open and slams closed. Coach Taylor yanks off his cap and moves through the room, quick and smooth as a fox. He doesn’t even look in our direction; he heads straight to the officer, who begins whispering. And whispers some more, and more. Which can’t be a good thing.

  Finally, Coach looks up. Walks toward our cell, with the officer at his side. I shove to my feet, same as Matt, and hurry to the metal bars. The officer called both our dads, asking if they’d rather have Coach Taylor come down to “clear up this little mess.” At first, I was relieved. But now, Coach’s gaze locks on me alone. And that gaze is full of more fire and brimstone than Hell itself.

  Shit.

  The lock on the cell clicks, and the door screeches as it opens. Matt and I slip out, though Coach and the officer block us from hightailing it out of here.

  Coach clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips. “Officer Concord,” he says, not breaking my gaze. “Can I get a few minutes alone with these two?”

  Double shit.

  Seconds later, the door to the station slams again. Coach’s voice is hard as stone as he says, “I’m gonna need to know what happened here.”

  I jerk my thumb toward Matt. “He started it,” he and I say at the same time.

  Coach rubs his face. “I asked for that,” he mutters. “Whatever did happen, the town got wind of a good ol’ blowout between two teammates.” He claps, loud and slow. “Congratulations, boys. You’re the talk of Lewis Creek.”

  I can’t breathe. I cannot breathe. These people already don’t trust me—the last thing I need is more fuel for the flames.

  Coach continues, “And here’s the verdict from the arresting officer himself: Matt, since your record’s clean, he says you’re free to go.”

  Matt shoves off the bars. “Then why am I still in here?”

  Coach steps toward the cell, hovering over him. “Because I didn’t say you were free to go. We’ve got a mess that needs cleanin’. Which is why he called me out here when I’m supposed to be at home, enjoying some quiet time. You’re welcome.” He glances at me, and the disappointment on his face hurts worse than the jackhammer going to work in my head after getting slammed against the pavement. “Eric here isn’t so lucky. Randy claims he started the fight. But Kellen and Blake say that Matt shoved first.” He purses his lips. “I like that version better. We’re going with that one. That one gets Eric out of jail.”

  Yes. Yes, let’s go with that one. You know, the truth.

  He looks back to Matt. “And if you go running you
r mouth saying otherwise, consider yourself off my team. Got it?”

  Matt lets out a loud laugh. “Really? You’re really gonna take his side in all this? Look at my fucking nose, Coach.”

  Coach narrows his eyes. “I’m doing what it takes to keep this team in one piece. Raise your voice, or mouth off to me one more time, and you won’t play another day of baseball in this town. Do we understand each other?”

  Matt nods, grumbling a “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m gonna tell y’all one more thing,” Coach continues, “and I hope to all that’s holy that you’re listening. You’re two of my best veterans. You know good and well that I have absolutely zero tolerance for this crap on, or near, my field. So you’re gonna learn to keep your smartass mouths closed, and you’re gonna keep your hands to yourself. Can I trust y’all not to kill each other this year?”

  I nod as I mutter “Yes, sir” along with Matt.

  “Unless you’re on my field, I want you two apart,” Coach adds. “Show up and shut up. End of story.” He points to the door. “Harris, go out and wait by my truck. I’ll give you a lift once I’m done with Perry.”

  Matt’s out the door faster than I can blink. Coach settles that glare on me again, the ticking of the clock echoing in our silence. I swallow hard and finally admit, “Coach, Matt barely touched me. I mean, he shoved me, but I should’ve walked away.”

  “You just turned eighteen,” he says without missing a beat. “Matt’s seventeen. If he and his parents were so inclined, they could press charges for that busted nose. That’s assault and battery on a minor, and your backside would be in here for good. This way, he might actually keep his mouth shut.”

  Coach’s smooth talking to the rescue again. I sigh with relief. “Thank you.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t. Don’t start thanking me, because I have no idea what I’m going to do with you yet.”

  My eyebrows scrunch. “What do you mean?”

  He blows out a breath and heads for the door, gesturing for me to follow. I trail behind him, lowering my head as he holds the door open for me.

  The night’s cold, but it feels like heaven—my blood’s pumped into overdrive. The moon looms overhead, our only light aside from the tiny bulb flickering above the station’s door. Matt’s sitting on the back bumper of Coach’s truck, talking to Officer Concord. I can’t help but roll my eyes. I scan the parking lot, which is all but abandoned except for the officer’s cruiser, Coach’s truck, and—