Game On

by Michelle Smith

  Oh.

  Her face flushes crimson, but she keeps on, “And when I finally break up with him, when I finally realize that I deserve better than a voice feeding crap to me all day, every day, he keeps calling, and keeps texting. And people have the nerve to tell me that I need to be nice to him?”

  I’m ready to take another rage kick for her. “Fuck that,” is the first thing that slips from my mouth.

  She nods once, her jaw rigid. “Yeah. Fuck that.” She retrieves the ball and lines it up again.

  I’ve known Matt Harris since kindergarten. He’s always been one of those guys who gets off on the sound of his own voice, but Bri dated him for months, so I’d assumed there had to be some redeeming factor there. But looking at her now, in tears and pissed to high hell because of this guy, I’m tempted to hunt him down just to punch him again.

  “I’m not boyfriend material,” I catch myself saying.

  She scrunches her eyebrows. “What?”

  I have no clue why I told her that. Even though I know it shouldn’t bother me this much, it does. It confirms everything I’ve been feeling for the past few months.

  I’m a joke to everyone in this town.

  So I add, “I asked Laura to the dance because hell, I actually kind of like Valentine’s Day, and I wanted something to do on Saturday night, and she told me that I’m not boyfriend material. I’m not asking for a freakin’ stroll on the beach, for Christ’s sake. Just something other than the backseat of her Bronco.”

  Her head down, she prepares for another kick. “That’s what girls say when they’re only using you for your dick.” She gasps right as my eyes widen. Ouch. “I—holy crap, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

  I cut her off with a shake of my head. “No, you’re right. I’m a stress release. I’m fun. I’m not the one you bring home to your dad. Whatever.”

  Her face falls. “Don’t listen to anything I say right now,” she says. “I’m cynical. I hate everything and everyone today.”

  Silence falls between us, heavier than a two-ton weight. Sweat trickles down her face, same as mine, as she holds my gaze. Taking a deep breath, I change the subject. “Do you want food?” I ask, a nervous laugh escaping with the words. “Because I really want food. And I have a feeling you’ve kicked up an appetite.”

  She purses her lips. “I could definitely go for food.”

  “You can come to our house, if you want. Tonight’s lasagna. Stouffer’s lasagna, if you’re okay with the freezer stuff, but it’s, like, fifty times better than if Momma made it herself. Just don’t tell her I said that.”

  Whoa. Dude. Shut up.

  She tilts her head to the side. “Eric, I swear to all that’s holy, if you’re trying to sneak your way into my pants—”

  Again with the pants thing. I hold up my hands. “I promise, I’m not. I just—” My shoulders drop as I sigh. “Maybe life will suck a little less if we stick together right now. Call me nuts, but I actually like talking to you.” I pause. “And we haven’t talked in a long time. Kind of miss it. You know?”

  The words hang in the air as she chews on her lip. “So you want us to hang out again?”

  “I would like for us to hang out again.”

  She’s silent for a moment. “I miss being friends,” she says quietly.

  Something tugs in my chest. “Me, too,” I tell her. “And like, even if you need a running partner, I can do that, too.”

  She scoffs. “Please. I could totally outrun you.”

  “Prove it.”

  Wait. What am I talking about? She could kick my ass in running.

  “I guess what I’m saying,” I add, taking a step toward her, “is that you don’t have to live by yourself. I’m right next door whenever you need me.” Or want me. I’m good with either one.

  A strange look passes over her face, and I can’t tell if it’s confusion or relief or some weird mixture of both. “You really mean that?”

  My pulse quickens again as I tell her, “Every word.”

  She inhales deeply before picking up the ball and tucking it under her arm. “Okay then,” she says, starting toward the fence. “I’ll have dinner with you. As long as your family doesn’t care that I’m sweaty and disgusting.”

  Brett and I lived under one roof while playing baseball for all our lives. Sweaty and disgusting are a way of life in our house.

  Chapter Twelve

  Eric

  So, I must not be entirely terrible. After our practices, Bri’s had dinner at my house all week. And even though it’s been a while since she’s eaten with us, it’s like nothing has changed at all. My dad likes her. My momma loves her. My sisters would replace me with her if they had the chance.

  And I’ve gotten used to having her around again. I like having her around.

  But life sucks sometimes, and nothing good ever seems to last. When we pull into her driveway on Saturday afternoon, there’s already something parked in her spot: her dad’s truck cab.

  Her car jerks to a stop behind the cab and the girl’s out of her seat faster than Usain Bolt, leaving her keys dangling in the ignition. I cut the engine and grab the keys for her.

  She sprints across the yard, the front door opening as soon as she hits the porch. Her dad steps outside, his grin—and his beard—visible all the way out here. Bri practically tackles him with a hug.

  I should be happy for her—the girl’s been by herself for nearly a month—but honestly, I’ve kind of liked having her to myself. Well, to myself, and my sisters, and my parents. Same difference. And her dad’s a good enough guy—tall and burly and one of those dads who looks like a giant teddy bear—but he’s never liked me much. I was a smart-mouthed kid who drove him up the wall; I still don’t think he’s forgiven me for attacking him with water balloons one summer, when he walked out the front door instead of Bri. (In my defense, it was payback for her ambushing me with a water gun the day before.) And even though he’s hardly in town anymore, all the dads here have their own top secret communication when it comes to who’s screwing whose daughters.

  Ever since he threatened to eat my chicken when Oscar snuck into his yard a couple months ago, I haven’t liked him much, either.

  He pulls out of Bri’s arms. Spots me. And there goes the smile. Good to see some things never change.

  I slide out of the car. “Hey, Mr. Johnson,” I call. “Long time, no see.”

  He looks from me to Bri and back to me as I cross the lawn. “What’re you doin’ in my daughter’s car?”

  Ah, here it comes—the one-sided get-away-from-my-daughter chat.

  “Is that a trick question?” I ask, stopping at the edge of the steps. I toss Bri her keys.

  She catches them effortlessly, narrowing her eyes at Mr. Johnson. “Dad. Seriously.”

  He holds up a hand, silencing her. “I have a right to ask. I leave for a couple weeks, and suddenly you two are—”

  She crosses her arms, her lips falling into a frown. “Four weeks,” she interrupts sharply. “You were gone almost four weeks this time. A lot can happen in a month.”

  “Just how much are we talkin’ here? You’ve got better things to do than cart this boy around.”

  This boy. Nice. That’s nice.

  “Okay,” I shout above them, clapping my hands. “I’ll show myself next door. Mr. Johnson, always a pleasure. Bri, I’ll see you later.” Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stride to my house, keeping my eyes straight ahead. The man’s always hated me, so I have no clue why he’s getting to me now. Maybe because he’s never actually laid into me in front of Bri. Of course, I’m not sure why that matters. She’s my neighbor. A friend. Crossing those lines never leads to anything but someone getting demolished.

  So it’s a damn shame that I can’t get her out of my head.

  Some VeggieTales episode blares from the living room TV as I walk inside. Praise-and-worship music from Momma’s radio streams from the kitchen, along with the smell of mac and cheese, which was probably for lunch. I may b
e starving, but I’m suddenly more exhausted than anything. Emma’s mattress screeches from behind her closed door when I walk past her room and into my own, meaning naptime must be a bust. I kick the door closed and collapse onto my bed.

  I glance over at Brett’s old bed, beside mine. I knew I’d miss the guy when he left, but damn it, I could use him right now. He was good at pulling me out of my head, at getting me out of the house when I needed it. But that’s hard to do when you’re grounded and your parents are in the next room.

  Someone knocks on my door. It swings open before I can tell whoever it is to go away. Momma stands in the doorway, so it’s probably a good thing I didn’t get the chance.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  My pulse spikes. No good ever comes from “we need to talk.”

  She sits on the edge of my bed, tucking her leg beneath her. “Your daddy and I are leaving first thing in the morning,” she reminds me. “And we already talked about you spending the week with Kellen and his family.”

  She and Dad go on a trip to North Carolina every year for some week-long marriage retreat. Kellen’s dad always covers Sunday services as a guest pastor, and this year, I’m supposed to stay at their house while Grace and Emma stay at friends’ houses all week. Pushing myself up onto my elbows, I nod.

  She sighs, looking to the ceiling. “I can’t believe I’m even suggesting this,” she murmurs, “especially after the last few weeks. But Mr. Johnson stopped by to talk to us when he got back this morning. He’s leaving town again. Tuesday.”

  Ouch. The man just got back, and he’s already running out again? That’s going to destroy Bri when she finds out.

  “Here’s the thing,” Momma continues. “He asked us to keep a close eye on Bri while he’s gone. Said that she’s seemed really down in the dumps every time he calls her lately. Which I can imagine, given that she’s over there by herself half the time, but that’s not my business. What is my business is that I told him we’d be glad to keep an eye on her.” She sighs again. “Which means that for the next week, I’m going to need you to look out for her while your dad and I are out of town.”

  I narrow my eyes. “From Kellen’s?”

  She smacks my foot. “From here, genius.”

  I have no idea what’s going on, but something miraculous just occurred, and you don’t question miracles. I actually get the house to myself. For a week. With instructions to look out for Bri.

  This probably shouldn’t excite me as much as it does.

  “So,” Momma says on an exhale. “Ground rules: School. Practice. Home. Kellen’s dad will be calling you every single night. His mom is taking our road home from work to make sure your truck is in that driveway by the time practice is over. You screw around, you will get caught. Clear enough?”

  “Crystal,” I say with a nod.

  She holds my gaze, hers not wavering for a second. “We are trusting you,” she says slowly. “One slip, and I swear to heaven above, you will not step one foot out of this house ever again. Do we understand each other?”

  I hold up my right hand. “Hand to God.”

  Bri

  I’ve spent the last four weeks alone in this house. On Tuesday, the countdown starts all over again.

  Dad’s leaving. Already. He was home for ten minutes when he told me.

  I sit outside his room in the dark hallway, knees to my chest, listening to his snores drift through the closed door. And I’m trying really, really hard not to cry, and failing miserably. When he took this job two years ago, I knew this was part of the deal. Money was tight, and the economy sucks in a tiny nowhere town, and he had to do what he had to do when he was laid off from the factory. I thought I could handle it. I’m a big girl, and big girls don’t cry when their dads leave for work. But there are only two guys a girl can trust in this world—her dad, and Jesus—and when one is gone for weeks at a time, things get freaking lonely.

  We’re all each other has had since Mom left. Now he keeps leaving. And I try to be brave and smile and tell him I love him when he leaves, but really, I want to dismantle the engine in that truck cab.

  Sniffling, I push myself to my feet. Being careful to keep the screen door from screeching, I step outside and settle onto the porch swing. The Perrys’ house is bright, the energy practically radiating from their little patch of land. I’ve spent every night there for the past week. I almost wish I could’ve spent tonight there, too. Dad probably wouldn’t have even noticed that I was gone; he went to bed right after telling me about his next trip.

  I used to love alone time. Now, it feels like a tiny piece of me drifts away with each minute that passes. Eventually, all that’ll be left is a shell.

  I don’t want to be a shell.

  My face scrunches as more tears fall, and it seems like all I do lately is cry, and cry, and cry, and I’m really not a crier. I’m not. But when you keep things bottled up, when you keep them buried, they always bubble to the surface and bust through.

  Headlights illuminate the road as a truck roars past. Eric’s truck turns into his driveway, the crackling of the gravel like firecrackers against the night. He hops down and starts toward his house. Glances at mine. Pauses.

  For a long time, Eric hasn’t been on my radar as anything more than a neighbor, or a friend. But right now, as the crickets chirp and the breeze tickles my skin, all I want is for him to start walking this way.

  And he does.

  He’s dressed in a Lewis Creek hoodie and wearing a ratty old Yankees cap, that dark hair of his poking from beneath. He climbs the steps slowly, as if he’s testing me. Seeing if I’ll stop him.

  I want to yank him up here and beg him to stay.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  Using my thumbs, I wipe the tears from my cheeks. Clear my throat. “I’m fine.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s a pretty horribly obvious lie.

  He stops in the middle of the porch, standing in front of me. “Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter.”

  My dad would have a stroke if he caught Eric Perry on our porch. It’s not that Eric’s a bad guy, but he’s, well, not exactly Dad-approved, either. But it’s kind of hard for him to call those shots when he’s either on the road or sleeping for ninety-five percent of my life.

  I scoot over, allowing Eric room to sit, which he does. He relaxes, sprawling his legs in front of him as he stuffs his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. Heat pours off of him, and as much as I hate the idea of love and everything about it right now, all I want is to curl up beside him. And that urge scares the living crap out of me. Eric is my neighbor. He’s Matt’s teammate. Being with him would come with a healthy dose of small town gossip for months to come.

  And he’s a charmer, and there’s no telling what he could possibly do with a heart if it was in his hands.

  My heart doesn’t want to be held. My heart wants to learn to beat on its own for a while.

  So we swing in silence as time passes. But now, it doesn’t feel like pieces of me are drifting away—it feels like they’re slowly find their way back home.

  “Laura ended up going to the dance with Randy tonight,” he says after a while. I glance over, finding him smirking. “Randy has more boyfriend potential than I do. That’s one hell of a shot to the ego. He’s probably chomping on dip while grinding all up on her.”

  My stomach sinks. When he told me that on Monday night, about the conversation he had with Laura, I was kind of rude. But in my somewhat-defense, I was madder than a hornet.

  “For what it’s worth,” I tell him, “what she said was dumb. I’ve seen you with other girls. You’re a good boyfriend.”

  He lets out a light laugh. “Yeah? And what makes me a good boyfriend?”

  Crap. I walked right into that one. A smile tugs at my lips. “Eric—”

  “No, you’ve gotta tell me.” The smile in his voice is contagious; now there’s no fighting my own. “I’ve been wounded this week. I need to hear these things. Build me back up.”

>   I roll my eyes, but my grin widens. “Fine. You’re into the whole hand-holding, kissy thing. That’s good. Take my word for it; I’m a science girl. An observer. I notice these things.” What I don’t tell him is that I started noticing those things a couple years ago, when the tiniest part of me wished it was me holding his hand instead of his other girlfriends. I wished it was me hugging him. Kissing him. Because when you’re sixteen and the guy next door shoots up to over 6’ and all those years of baseball start doing mind-blowing things to his body, a girl’s gonna look once or twice.

  Moments like these, when he listens and laughs and grins at me like no one else exists, have an awful lot to do with it, too.

  But I pushed those feelings away real quick. He’s not into me like that—he wasn’t then, and I doubt he ever would be. I’m the one who used to climb trees with him. Soared through muddy fields on the back of his four-wheeler. Saw his first zit. Laughed when he nearly fell out of his dad’s deer stand the night we snuck up there to see how many constellations we could find.

  Which was the night he gave me my first kiss.

  And it hits me that I wish we could go back to that. To the simplicity of trees and constellations and first kisses that mean more than all the stars in the sky. But we’re not kids anymore. Life isn’t that simple. But I’m more than okay with this new whatever-it-is we have going.

  He’s quiet for a while. I chance a glance over, only to find him staring ahead, seeming to be in thought. Finally, after what feels like forever, he turns to me. Grins. And that grin turns my heart inside out. “I do like the whole hand-holding, kissy thing,” he says.

  He sets the swing in motion. The porch light at his house flips on, while the kitchen window goes dark. I’m pretty sure he’s supposed to go straight home when he’s done at the church, but for whatever reason, his parents aren’t freaking out about him being over here. Which is good. Because I’d be more than happy to sit on this swing with him all night. And that realization is slightly terrifying.

  But maybe a little terror can be good for us.