Game On

by Michelle Smith

  “You’re quiet,” she says.

  Clearing my throat, I nod toward my laptop. “I’m watching a show.”

  “You’re thinking-quiet, not show-watching-quiet. It’s different.”

  I glance down. It’s impossible to lie to that face. “I’m thinking about next year,” I admit. “I’m still confused. I still have no clue what I want to do. But I’d really like more nights like these.”

  She shifts beneath my arm, somehow moving even closer, and laces her fingers through mine. “All right, we’re gonna figure this out. What are you passionate about? What makes your heart feel like it’ll burst?”

  “Baseball.” Despite the crap I’ve gone through this season, the answer is automatic. “And kids. I like the whole hanging-out-with-kids thing.”

  Her lips spread into a slow smile. “You’re good with them. So mesh baseball and kids together, and see what you get.”

  “PE.” It spills out almost immediately. She scrunches her eyebrows, so I add, “I was looking at Winthrop’s majors. They have a Phys Ed degree, with a coaching minor.”

  Her mouth drops open as her eyes widen. “See? That’s perfect! Eric Perry, I think you’ve got a future.”

  “It can’t seriously be that easy.” Can it?

  She beams, that smile of hers brighter than any star in the sky, and I damn near melt. “It can absolutely be that easy. Sometimes you just have to say things out loud before they feel real.”

  “You’re really good at that, you know,” I tell her. “Talking me out of my head.”

  She shrugs, but her smile grows even bigger as she looks back to the computer. “Talking to you is one of my favorite things. Because you talk me out of my head.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been described as someone’s favorite thing. But I like it.

  “And for the record,” she continues, “I absolutely, 100 percent think you should try walking on.”

  A knot lodges in my throat. The idea of not playing next year is nearly enough to drive me to crying like a baby. “And why’s that?”

  She looks up at me. “I can’t see you without baseball. I don’t think you can see yourself without baseball. And despite what you seem to think, you’re pretty great.”

  Rolling my eyes, I blow out a breath. “This is a first date. I’m supposed to be complimenting you.”

  She laughs lightly. Rests her head on my shoulder. “You’ll have plenty more chances.”

  I really like the sound of that.

  “I don’t know what it is about you,” she says, “but you make me think some crazy things.”

  Crazy’s good. Crazy’s so underrated. “Like what?”

  She sighs. “Like maybe—maybe this can be an actual thing. I want to believe in this. I want to be believe in shooting stars and the magic of kisses and—”

  Reaching down, I grasp the bottom of her chin, tilting her face toward mine. And I don’t know how she did it, but my heart feels like it’s stopped and going a million miles a minute at the same time.

  “I want to believe that I can be happy,” she says quietly. “And you make me believe all those things.”

  If I thought I had a knot in my throat before, now it’s a full-blown blockage. I look into her eyes, the eyes of a girl I’ve known most of my life. The eyes of a girl whose heart has been through hell and back, and, for some crazy reason, is trusting me with that heart. And it’s blowing my mind that she wants anything to do with me, but I’m not gonna question miracles.

  Dropping my forehead to hers, I whisper, “You make me really happy.”

  Her eyes flutter closed, and before I can take another breath, her lips are on mine, soft and sweet. I bury my hand in her hair, holding her closer, holding her for as long as she’ll let me. Because some moments are too damn good to be true, and you hang on to those moments for as long as you can.

  She smiles against my lips, pulling away just enough to say, “Kissing you is one of my other favorite things.”

  And now I’m grinning like a damn idiot. “We’ve got that in common.” I press my lips to hers again. I’ve always loved these Carolina nights, but I swear to the Lord in heaven above, I don’t think one has ever been more perfect.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eric

  I did not, in fact, get grounded for life, which made last Sunday night even more amazing. The fact that I stayed out all night during Spring Break instead of a school night saved my ass.

  By the time I finally roll out of bed on Saturday morning, Brett’s already in the kitchen with our parents, eating and gearing up for the Tri-County Spring Break Tournament. It’s a tournament Lewis Creek hosts every year. One that I’m pitching in. So I probably should’ve been the one awake already, but whatever.

  After eating and finally getting my ass in motion, Brett and I head to the field while our parents and sisters pile into Momma’s van. By the time we reach the school, the parking lot is already jam-packed, even though the tournament doesn’t start for another half hour. Two cop cars are parked right behind the field house, with Officers Concord and Martinez standing guard by the bleachers.

  “You know you’re probably the reason those cops are here, right?” I ask Brett.

  He rolls his eyes. “You know just as well as I do: I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Besides, remember which one of us has been thrown in jail this season. They’re probably here to keep an eye on you.”

  Details.

  Our parents snag one of the few spots left, so we circle the lot and head for the back. There’s one spot available on the back row—right beside Bri’s car. Where she parked right on top of the solid line. Once Brett cuts the engine, I hop down from the Jeep. Bri’s just barely able to get her door open, and she legit has to maneuver out of her seat so she doesn’t slam Brett’s Jeep.

  “Are you aware that you kind of parked like a jerk?” I ask her.

  She shoves her keys into her pocket. “Are you aware that I came straight here from the center, and parked like a jerk so you could actually have a spot?”

  “Then I take back the jerk comment.”

  Brett slams his door closed, tossing up a wave as he walks toward the field. I glance over one shoulder. And then the other. And then to Bri, who’s looking up at me with a tiny little smirk. She steps forward, placing her hands on my hips. I don’t know if she knows, but that drives me nuts in the best possible way. “You ready for today?” she asks.

  Am I ready for the people who’re gonna be staring me down, waiting for a repeat of the Brett Perry throwdown? Or the people who remember how piss-poor we played in this tournament last year? I wrap my arms around her and say, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She purses her lips. “Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter, Eric.”

  Laughing, I press a kiss to her forehead. With one arm still slung across her shoulder, we start toward the field.

  ~

  Last year’s tournament was marked with punches and my brother getting the only ejection of his high school career. This year’s is going a hell of a lot better, if I say so myself. And by that, I mean I’m pitching the game of my career.

  By the top of the seventh, the Bruins, the opposing team, have zero hits. Zip. Nada. Not one batter has touched a base. I’ve never pitched a no-hitter in my life, and I’m not about to let this go. These are the games a pitcher dreams of when he first gets his hands on a ball.

  With the score still 0-0, I stride to the mound as the others jog to their own positions. Nerves knot in my stomach while adrenaline surges through the rest of me, and I’m not sure which feeling to give in to.

  Adrenaline gives you the confidence to pitch the hell out of the ball. Nerves give you enough humbleness to not screw it all up.

  I scan the bleachers, and have to bite back my shit-eating grin. The entire bottom row of the bleachers is packed with my family, along with Bri and Jay and Braxton and Braxton’s girlfriend, Marisa. I wonder how much money they bribed the others to free that row up. Not gonna lie�
�it’s a damn good feeling.

  Tugging the brim of my cap, I eye the first batter. Check Blake’s call: Curveball. Curveball it is.

  Strike one.

  The crowd cheers, and I’m kind of surprised they actually have voices left. I don’t think they’ve stopped hollerin’ since we started. And I don’t know what kind of stars aligned or whatever, but every single pitch today? On freakin’ point.

  Fastball. Strike two.

  Changeup. Strike three.

  Honestly, the kids at Serenity Valley could probably hit better than these jokers.

  After two more batters embarrass themselves—again—I head to the dugout. The game’s not over yet; we’re still scoreless. And guess who’s up to bat.

  No pressure, though.

  I tug on a helmet, grab my bat from the bundle, and move to the dugout’s opening. Kellen’s on deck, so he lines up behind me, sing-songing, “Score is zero.”

  I glance over my shoulder. “Nothin’ gets past you, bro.”

  He nods, his gaze trained on the field. “Zilch. Nada.”

  “And you’re giving me the rundown, why?”

  He smirks. “Only takes one good smack.”

  I return his smirk with one of my own. “Then it’s go time.”

  Coach slaps my shoulder as I step out onto the field. I’m just gonna put this out there: I’m not an all-star batter. I’m decent, and I can smack the shit out of a ball, but my average is nothing to brag about. So let’s be real: I’m nearly ready to piss my pants.

  I wish I were joking.

  But I walk to the plate, swinging the bat along the way. Ready myself for the pitch. As soon as the pitcher goes into his windup, I square up over the plate.

  A fastball barrels toward me. I swing with all my might, the connection vibrating through my arms. And that ball freakin’ soars.

  “Deep toward left,” the announcer booms through the stadium. “It’s going, folks!”

  I start toward first, watching as the ball sails. And sails. And sails. And lands in the field, on the other side of the fence.

  Home. Freakin’. Run.

  The crowd’s roar is all I hear. Chills shoot through me as I round the bases, probably with the dumbest grin on my face, but I can’t find an ounce of craps to give. I may not play for the cheers, but they’re pretty damn awesome.

  The guys spill out of the dugout as I round third, and the second I tag home plate is the go-ahead for tackle-the-hell-out-of-Eric with slaps and high-fives and a freakin’ catcher on my back, but whatever. Worth it.

  It only takes one.

  After the post-game handshakes, we clear the field so the next two teams can prep for their game. I grab my gear and head straight to the stands, my stupid grin only growing when I spot Bri. She runs straight for me and leaps into my arms, nearly knocking me clean off my feet. My gear bag drops to the ground, but screw it; I squeeze her tight.

  “You were un-freaking-believable,” she says. And she kisses me, long and sweet, and I’m pretty sure half the town is probably gawking at us by now, but who the hell cares.

  She jumps to the ground and, without hesitation, grabs my hand. I think that may be even better than the home run. “A no-hitter,” she says.

  I nod. “A no-hitter.”

  Her eyes widen. “Dude, not just that—a no-hitter and a home run. That’s, like, a blessing from the baseball gods.”

  Emma latches onto my leg. “Home run!” she screams. “You got a home run! I saw it!”

  “And a no-hitter,” I tell her. “Don’t forget that part.”

  Brett slaps my back, and Jay and Braxton are chanting some crap about “Bulldogs for life” while our parents file in for their hugs, because of course. But the entire time, I’ve got a soft, warm hand in mine, and I’m not letting that go, thanks. Sorry, family.

  They all head to the lot, leaving me and Bri trailing behind. When I said I wasn’t letting go, I mean I’m really not letting go. Not until she gets in her car and threatens to chop my arm off with the door. But I’m technically not allowed to leave, so we’ve got plenty of time for threats. By the time we reach the lot, everyone else is already clear across, nearing their vehicles.

  I hear the cleats clicking against the pavement before I hear, “This is damn cute. I should’ve brought flowers.”

  Yeah, even he can’t bring me down right now. But just like that, Bri’s brightness is gone—she moves in a step closer, her smile falling into a deep-set frown as we slow to a stop.

  “You all right?” I ask.

  She swallows audibly. “There’s a reason I’ve done my best to stay away from him over the past couple months, you know.”

  “Yeah. Because breakups suck.” Matt’s footsteps move closer as I study her face. “Bri?”

  Matt stops in front of us, grin in place. He clasps his hands in front of him. “Good game, Perry. Gotta give credit where it’s due.”

  “Can we go?” Bri says, tugging on my hand.

  We should go. I should go. Because me plus Matt Harris plus parking lots don’t equal the best track record. So, taking a deep breath, I back away. It’s slow and I can’t break my gaze from Matt and I nearly trip over my own damn feet, but I let her lead me away, further toward the lot.

  Matt tilts his head to the side, following us. “You know, I really do wish I liked you, Perry.”

  “Funny. I don’t really give a shit whether or not you like me. I am tired of seeing you near my girlfriend.” Bri stops short. I glance down, meeting her questioning gaze with one of my own. “Wait. Girlfriend?”

  That smile of hers reappears for a split second. “Yeah,” she says with a slight nod. “I’m okay with that.”

  “See, this is what I just don’t get, Bri.” Matt steps toward us. “I don’t understand why the hell you’d be hiding behind this guy. I mean, I knew you weren’t the brightest crayon in the box, but—”

  I hold up my hand for him to shut the hell up when Bri spits, “Why? Why do you give a shit? Because it makes it harder to boss me around? Or because you can’t just grab me like a ragdoll when I piss you off anymore?”

  Matt’s face twists. “Screw you,” he says. “I barely touched you. If I’d wanted to hurt you, you would’ve known it.”

  What the actual fuck.

  My heart stutters to a stop as I look down at her. She’s not paying me any attention—her glare’s locked on the guy in front of us. There’s no way he—no. He’s a jackass, and he’s a loudmouth, but he wouldn’t actually put his hands on a girl.

  Right?

  “Tell me you’re joking,” I manage to say. For the love of all that’s holy, please tell me this is some twisted joke.

  “It happened over Christmas vacation.” Her voice trembles, but her stare doesn’t falter for a second. “At his parents’ lake house. He got pissed over God-knows-what. I tried to walk away, to cool down. He grabbed my wrist. Snatched me back.” She takes a deep breath. “And no, you didn’t leave a bruise, or even a mark. But that’s not a thing you can do to people, Matt.”

  The noise of the bystanders around us grows, but it’s nothing more than a dull roar. I look back to Matt, the guy I’ve known since freakin’ kindergarten. To the guy I’ve played ball with since we were punk kids on the t-ball team. To the guy that I’ve always kind of hated, but now, I’d be more than willing to take his head off.

  My pulse pounds through every damn inch of my body. Blood floods my head, thumping like a drum in my ears as I start forward. Bri’s clammy hand tightens around mine and she tugs, urging me away. And somehow, by some grace of angels above, her “Don’t” breaks through my haze.

  Shaking my head, I break Matt’s glare long enough to let her lead me away again. I can’t do this again. I can’t. Not while we’re here, in front of the whole town, in front of our families. I can’t do it in front of her. So I turn. Fix my eyes on my truck. Grip her hand as tightly as I can.

  Matt clears his throat. “It was one time,” he calls after us. “And you forgot to
tell him that you deserved it.”

  Hell. No.

  I stop. “Go,” I tell Bri.

  “Eric—”

  As much as it kills me, I let go of her hand. “Go,” I repeat, and spin on my heel, facing Matt. “Say again, to my fucking face, that a girl half your size deserved your dirty-ass hands on her.”

  He closes the distance between us. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he says. He stops in front of me, so close I could break much more than that nose. And it’s tempting—so damn tempting. “You are, and you always have been, a waste of space. You’re nothing.”

  I shrug a shoulder. “The girl who dumped your sorry ass thinks I’m a whole lot of somethin’.”

  I feel his fist before I see it coming. My jaw stings like a bastard, but I duck and ram into his stomach, taking him to the pavement. One second I’m re-breaking that precious nose, the next I’m on my back with 200 pounds of center fielder on top of me. And there goes my nose. Grabbing his arms, I force him over, getting in another punch before someone yanks me off.

  Blood trickles over my lips as I shake off whoever grabbed me. Officer Concord helps Matt to his feet, half his face already swollen. No tellin’ what mine looks like. Don’t really care.

  Coach Taylor moves in front of me, his eyes telling me everything I need to know:

  Don’t say a damn word.

  ~

  Coach Taylor sits on the other side of his desk, his head in his hands. The only noise comes from the A/C, which is pumping into overdrive. Bri’s in the chair beside me, our fingers intertwined in the middle. Officer Concord took Matt to the hospital himself, thanks to his complaining about a headache and hollerin’ about some concussion shit. All I can do is thank my lucky stars that Bri ran to get Coach. He saw it all. So no matter whatever Matt says, he can’t pin this on me. No one can. Not this time.

  Coach blows out a breath. Leans forward onto his desk. Finally looks at me. “Damn it, Eric,” he says. “I don’t know what the hell to say. Between you and your brother, y’all are gonna take down our tournament. Do I need to be on the lookout for Grace next year? Is she planning some Perry Trifecta?”