Her face twists in thought. “‘Can’t complain’ means that things may suck, but you still appreciate everything that you do have. ‘Good’ isn’t terrible—it’s just generic. The easy answer.” Smiling, she drops the ball and dribbles it toward the field. “Now come on, whine-o. Time to officially meet people who can spot BS faster than the ones inside.”
The kids are already hanging around the goal posts, waiting for us. I don’t do so well around adults, but kids, I can handle. They’re easygoing. Fun. Don’t expect complex, life-pondering answers.
“Hey, guys!” she shouts. Every last one of them whirls around, giving her their full attention.
Whoa. Where the heck did she get that voice? That’s like, gym teacher times fifty.
She jerks her thumb over her shoulder, toward me. “We’ve got fresh meat with us today,” she says. “Eric’s gonna be hanging out with us for the next few weeks.”
Fresh meat? Thanks. Really.
One of the kids, some red-haired boy who can’t be more than eight or nine, walks straight to me. Looks me up and down. And kicks me right in the shin.
“Fuuuu… fudge,” I say quickly, grabbing my leg. “What the heck was that for?”
He shrugs. “Just seein’ if you can take a kick. You gotta be able to take a kick in soccer.”
Kids are easygoing. Fun. LOADS OF FUN.
“You know what’s even better than soccer?” I ask. “Baseball.”
He snorts and crosses his arms. “Baseball’s boring.”
He might as well have kicked me in the stomach. Wincing, I grab my chest. “That was brutal, kid. Shot to the heart.”
“Can you kick people in baseball?”
I think for a second. Need a kid-appropriate response here. “I mean, technically—”
“You shouldn’t be kicking people in soccer, either,” Bri calls out, shooting me a glare. All I do is smirk. “Or, you shouldn’t be trying to kick people. Getting kicked is more of an occupational hazard. Bruises come with the territory.”
Crazy Kid runs back to the others. I catch Bri’s eye, mouthing, “What the hell?”
She can’t answer—she’s too busy trying not to laugh. And for the second time today, I can’t even be mad. Seeing her laugh is enough to make me grin, even if pain is still shooting through my shin. Falling into that boss mode voice again, she divides up the teams. All I can do is stand back and watch. She doesn’t need my help at all.
Once the kids kick into gear, she walks over to me, still grinning. “You and Brantley hit it off.”
“Little punk,” I mutter. “Do I get to look forward to that every week?”
“Maybe.” She eyes me. “I’m not gonna have to break up fights between you and an eight-year-old, am I?”
I cross my arms. “As long as he doesn’t kick me again. Though I can’t promise anything.”
She shoves my shoulder. “Mess with that kid, and I’ll kick your face.”
“You’d kick this face? Really?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not as charming as you think you are, Eric.”
“But that means you think I’m somewhat charming.”
Her silence, along with that tiny smile on her lips, is the only confirmation I need. Score one for me.
She leans against my arm, nudging me. “Seriously, thanks for coming. These kids need all the people they can get on their side.”
“Did I really have a choice?” I ask.
“You’ve got a choice every week,” she says. “But for what it’s worth, I like having you here.”
I look to the field, where the kids are practically taking out each other’s kneecaps like it’s the greatest thing in the universe. And I remember when I used to think baseball was the best damn game in the world, before all the money and politics got tossed into the mix. When everyone in Lewis Creek didn’t think I was a freakin’ joke.
When people treated me like I mattered.
I miss that feeling. And I’d pay good money to make sure no kid ever loses it.
So when I tell Bri, “I like being here, too,” and her face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning, it’s the best feeling I’ve had all week.
~
We don’t head back to Lewis Creek until after seven. Dinner at the center was even more packed than breakfast, but there was one thing that didn’t change a bit: the girl who’s sitting in the driver’s seat beside me. She smiled at every single person in that room. Laughed at their jokes. Made them laugh. All of them ate it up.
So did I.
She has this way of grabbing people’s attention. Of grabbing my attention. She always has, really. And I don’t know how she does it, but I’m not hatin’ it.
The drive to town is quiet, except for the wind whistling through the open windows and her music pouring through the speakers. It’s just past eight when she pulls into the church’s parking lot. She cuts the engine. Sits. Waits.
I look over. I’m not entirely sure what she’s doing. Does she want to stay? Because she doesn’t have to. In fact, I’m not even sure I want her to. She’s been on her feet all day. It’ll probably take me a couple of hours to work my way through the building.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell her, “but you can go ahead and leave. I’ll walk home.”
She scrunches her eyebrows. “Please. I wouldn’t make you walk home. Soccer players are used to endurance. Baseball players, on the other hand—”
“Yeah, stop right there, Johnson.” She has no idea just how much endurance I’ve got. And we’re not only talking about baseball. Though I could always show her…
She laughs, the sound filling the car. That smile of hers—it’s hypnotizing. And suddenly, my heart’s in my throat and it’s really, really hard to breathe. Somehow, I force myself to look away. Think of Grandma. Think of puppies. Or chickens.
THINK OF OSCAR.
Sliding out of the car, I dig my dad’s keys from my pocket. Jog up the church steps. Think of anything I possibly can, except for the girl behind me. Because once you start falling over a girl’s smile, everything else comes tumbling down. And if it goes wrong, that tumble hurts like hell.
I hold the door open, allowing her inside ahead of me before flipping on the lights. She takes off her beanie and ruffles her hair.
No staring allowed. I repeat it to myself over and over as I head into the sanctuary with her trailing behind me. Not only is she my neighbor, but she just broke up with my teammate, whom she dated for months. I guarantee the last thing she wants is to deal with another guy right now.
“This is your punishment?” she asks, her voice echoing throughout the sanctuary.
I shrug out of my jacket and toss it onto the front pew. “I don’t really think of it as a punishment—more like a get-out-of-jail-free card, if jail means being grounded forever. Just don’t tell my parents I said that.”
She sinks onto the pew, beside my jacket. “It’s not so bad here at night. It’s quiet. I’ve never been here without at least a hundred other people. Whenever I’m here on Sunday morning, it’s buzzing.”
Scanning the room, I sit on the edge of the stage, letting my legs dangle over the side. I’ve spent a solid chunk of my life in these pews. There’s a weird sort of peacefulness that comes with this place—at least, without the people who flood it every week. There are some awesome people around here. There are some not-awesome ones, too.
“That’s why I don’t mind it,” I tell her. “I don’t know. Sometimes being alone is better than being surrounded by people who don’t give a sh—crap about you.” Glancing to the ceiling, I add, “Sorry ’bout that.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “This town is good for that. They act like they care, but…” She trails off, looking at her hands, which are folded in her lap.
“But what?” I can’t help but ask.
She shakes her head. “It’s just—nothing like a scandal to make people show their true colors. Like when my mom left. I learned more about these people than I would’v
e wanted to know.” Picking at her nails, she shrugs. “Some brought meals for dad, and offered to let me sleep over and take me shopping—the stuff that’s not really his thing, you know? But some of them only brought meals to judge how dirty our house was, or whether or not we had groceries in the fridge.”
Everyone does love a good scandal.
“College is better,” I tell her. “That’s what Brett says, anyway. It’s good enough to keep him away from here. But he also says Lewis Creek is a hard place to shake.”
“I bet.” She smiles, a tiny half smile. “Have you made your decision for next year?”
Here we go. It’s the same conversation I’ve had with my parents over and over and over since getting my acceptance letters. Kicking my feet against the stage, I admit, “Nope.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Well, what do you want to do? Like, major-wise.”
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“No idea at all?”
I should probably be figuring all this crap out, especially when the admission acceptance deadline will be here before I know it. But that’s kind of a problem when you really don’t know what you want to do for the rest of your life. “My dad went to Campbell, up in North Carolina. Brett’s at Campbell. And I got accepted there, but come on—me, at a Baptist college?”
Dropping her head, she laughs lightly.
“I’m in at Clemson and Winthrop, too,” I continue. “Just no clue where I want to spend four years of my life.” Which must be unimaginable to her, considering she snagged a full ride to University of South Carolina after applying for early admission in the fall; she’s known exactly what she wants for months. Complete opposite of me, the dude who just applied to the same schools his brother did and hoped for the best.
I clasp my hands in front of me. “So,” I say, “how did you decide? Help me out here. Give me a future, Johnson.”
She stretches out her legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I can’t give you a future, but I’ll give you the same advice that Harry gave me: Think about what you’re good at. Then, think about the thing that makes your heart so full, it feels like it’ll explode from the passion. Combine them, and there you go. I’m going for Biology, and eventually teaching—science, plus kids. It’s perfect.”
It does sound perfect for her. And her explanation is all well and good, but the twist is that, other than baseball, I have no clue what I’m even good at. “What if I don’t know what I’m passionate about?”
She tilts her head. “Then I think you have a bigger issue than where to go for college.” She smiles, and this time, there’s no hope of looking away. I smile right along with her.
Her phone buzzes and chimes with a text, the sound magnified in our silence. She cringes.
“That’s a sin,” I joke as she pulls the phone out of her hoodie’s pocket. “Phones aren’t allowed to ring in God’s house.” Mine did that once. Momma took it away for a week.
She swipes the screen and reads whatever’s there. Blinking rapidly, her face falls as she tosses the phone onto the pew. And just like that, the mood in the room plummets.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
She presses her lips into a thin line. A moment passes before she says, “That was Becca. Looks like I’m the hot topic at Randy’s party this week.”
“At least you’re famous?”
“Everyone’s famous in a small town, Eric. You know that. And not always for good reason.”
That should be engraved on the city limits sign. “Do I want to know what they’re talking about?”
“Nope.” Inhaling deeply, she pushes to her feet. “You need any help? I’d rather do something than sit here and hate people. Or go home and hate people. Basically, I need a distraction so I don’t hate everyone in this town.”
“Hating people is underrated. I hate a lot of people.”
She tsks and points to the ceiling. “Pretty sure that breaks some of His rules, too.”
“Pastors’ kids get free passes.”
“Is that like a get-out-of-Hell-free card?”
“Well played.” I pause, studying her. She stands in front of me, arms crossed and rocking back on her heels. She won’t meet my eyes, but her anxiety is plain as day. And I get that she needs a distraction, but I can’t, in good conscience, let her do my job, either. “You know, you really don’t have to help me. You don’t even have to stay.”
Her shoulders drop. “I’m staying because I want to, remember?” Shoving her hands into her hoodie, she starts toward the hallway that leads behind the stage. “I’ll take bathrooms. Where’s the cleaning stuff? In the supply closet?”
Hell, if she’s cleaning bathrooms, she can stay as long as she wants. “Yeah. Back behind the stage.”
Once she disappears through the doorway, my gaze passes over the pew, where she left her phone. They say that curiosity kills the cat. I wonder if it kills baseball players.
Curiosity’s a bastard.
I hop off the stage and linger beside the pew. Glance at her phone, which she left in plain sight. No peeking. You are not a creep. Pretty sure her ex is enough of a creep to last a lifetime.
The phone buzzes. Chimes. And lights up.
Becca: WARNING: Matt will not SHUT UP. Keeps telling people u were screwing Eric P behind his back.
Becca: Monday is gonna be hell, chick.
I can’t help that I’m a speed-reader. And damn it, now I need brain bleach. It’s not like it’s some huge secret that guys talk shit about the girls around here—I’ve been hanging out in locker rooms for years—but it sucks when someone like Bri is the target of that crap. My getting dragged into it doesn’t help, either.
Surviving in this town is tough enough, but being a girl? It’s gotta be downright Godawful.
Chapter Ten
Bri
I usually love Mondays. This week, I dread it. Yet another small joy Matt’s managed to snatch.
While Coach Taylor’s office is warm, my blood is as cold as an Appalachian stream, mid-winter. I sit in the chair across from his desk and cross my legs, chewing my thumbnail as my gaze drops to the floor. Becca’s texts from Saturday play on repeat in my head, about Matt telling everyone I wasn’t only screwing Eric, but doing it behind his back. And I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that he was lying about me, or the fact that my name is basically no better than a pile of mud at this point. I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am, and in a matter of weeks… poof.
I have no clue what I’m going to face when I get to class today. Maybe everyone will realize he was drunk and full of crap. Or, as Eric would say, maybe that’s just my optimism showing.
“Bri?” Coach says. My head snaps up. He eyes me carefully. “Everything all right?”
Not even close.
When I met with Coach Taylor last week to talk about Eric’s first weekend at the center, he let me know that he’d warn Matt to stay away from me. That if he was caught within a few feet of me, he’d be suspended from the team—almost like a restraining order, baseball-god style. But there’s a problem with that logic:
Matt’s words can travel a lot further than a few feet. They’ve probably already made their way around school, and it’s not even 8:00 a.m.
“This weekend was good,” I hear myself saying. I blink, bringing myself back to the moment. “Eric was good. The center was good. Everything is good.”
The clock ticks in Coach’s silence. “And how are you?” he finally asks.
Scared. The word pops into my head immediately. I feel like I should be crying, but I’m just… numb.
“It’s not going to stop.” The words are out before I realize they’re there. But Coach Taylor says nothing—just waits. “People like him—they don’t stop until they get everything they want, do they?” I continue. “People who’ve never heard no. People who’ve been handed anything they could ask for. People who don’t have bills and collection notices stuffed in every drawer of their drafty house, and whose dads aren’t gone for half
the year just to keep that stupid house.”
“Bri—”
Shaking my head, I grab my backpack and stand. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just get to hear what a whore I am for the rest of the year. No big deal.” I reach the doorway right as Coach asks, “What is it you think he wants?”
I turn. Coach is standing now, his arms crossed as he waits for an answer.
“I think…” I glance to the ceiling, looking for the right words. But there’s no reason to try shining up the ugly truth: “He wants to see me fall,” I finish. “He wants to see how low I can go. And he wants to be the one left standing, just so he can look down and know he’s the reason I’m there.”
Coach continues to stare, silent for a long moment. And now I’m officially a basketcase, considering the man only asked me in here to talk about Eric, and I’m tossing all my issues out there for him to see. He doesn’t even know me. Sure, last week, he was genuinely concerned about Matt being a jerk, but he’s one of his players—of course he’s going to try and clear it up. That doesn’t give me an excuse to spill my guts like he’s some sort of therapist. He’s a coach, not a guidance counselor.
Arms still crossed, he leans back against his desk. The first bell rings, but neither of us budges. Instead, he says, “The problem with high school—and with life, in general—is that the assholes always seem to be the loudest.”
Despite the twisting of my stomach, I manage a tiny, barely there smile. “Did you just call one of your players an asshole?”
“I will neither confirm nor deny that I’m referring to a player.”
I may be pushing my luck here, but I can’t help but ask, “If he’s such an asshole, why is he still on your team?”
Silence.
And I have officially overstepped.
“I’m sorry,” I rush to say. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no. It’s a valid question.” He pauses. “You remember what you said about some people not stopping until they get what they want? That doesn’t just apply to people your age; parents love to play that game, too. So unless the person in question actually does something to warrant getting kicked off the team they’ve been on for years, and the team their parents have invested a hell of a lot of money into, my hands are tied.”
Game On Page 11
