I twirl my finger, signaling for her to continue. “And your answers were…?”
She tilts her head to the side. “Purple roses. Every two-to-three days. Do you think I’m an amateur?”
Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. I’d train her all day, every day as long as she kept smiling at me like she is now. But that smile falters as her gaze falls to the floor. She clears her throat and says, “Before we moved here, my mom was obsessed with gardening. She taught me everything I know.”
Her voice dips. Before I can ask if she’s all right, she shakes her head and looks back to me, her eyes not nearly as bright, but still as piercing as they were before.
I shrug and force a smile of my own. “Looks like we have something in common. My momma’s a gardening freak, too.” As if owning a flower shop didn’t already give that away. Strike two, Braxton.
She steps to my side, her arm brushing against mine as she gestures to the cooler. “Anyway, continue, Floral Prince. Teach me your ways. I’m sure you know much more than I do.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re makin’ fun of me, aren’t you? Is it the apron? Because I’ll have you know, I’m rockin’ this apron.”
She grins. “I would never make fun of a prince,” she says seriously and curtsies. The girl freakin’ curtsies.
I cross my arms. “All right, feisty pants. I see what you did there.”
Her jaw drops. “You did not just call me feisty pants. What are you, sixty? Who even says that?”
“I do, obviously. And what I was going to say is, you can’t put whatever flowers you want in the cooler. This is where we keep the special order arrangements and loose flowers. Single roses and stuff like that.”
Instead of replying, her lips curve up again. My heart hammers against my chest. No matter how tough he acts, every guy dreams of someone looking at him this way. Like every word out of his mouth is coated in gold, even if it’s the cheesiest thing that person’s ever heard.
No one’s ever looked at me this way before, not even Jamie. It’s killer. And it’s kind of freaking me the hell out because I’d never even seen this girl until a week ago, and she’s got me acting like an idiot.
“What—” I cough to cover the crack in my voice. “What’s that look for?”
She shrugs and moves past me toward the cooler. In its reflection, I see her staring at the arrangements, her fingertips pressed lightly against the glass. “I like your voice,” she says. “It’s laid-back. Easy-going. Like you have all the time in the world.” She faces me again. “And your accent’s kind of to die for. But you can pretend I didn’t say that.”
I don’t want to pretend you didn’t say that. This stupid shirt’s suddenly too thick. And I’m pretty sure my cheeks are on fire.
She wrinkles her nose as her own cheeks flush. “Sorry. That was really, um, cheesy. Crazy inappropriate. Seriously, please pretend that I didn’t say that.”
Still don’t want to pretend you didn’t say that. I scrunch my eyebrows, feigning confusion. “Like you didn’t say what?”
Her mouth opens and snaps closed when realization hits her. Her smile returns. And I’m freakin’ goo.
Baseball. School. Work. Baseball. School. Work. Rinse and repeat until graduation.
I scratch the back of my neck as I head for the counter. “Moving on. Have you ever worked on a register?”
More shoe squeaking behind me. Her Converses are worse than those stupid squeaker-shoes parents let their kids wear in the shop. “Nope,” she says. “This is my first job.”
So, technically, she is an amateur. I punch my code into the register. “Can you count? Because that’s a good start.”
She leans onto the counter, staring me straight in the eye. “You know, you’re kind of a smartass.”
My mouth twitches. “Is that gonna be a problem?”
She shakes her head. “No,” she says, her gaze lingering on me as she straightens. “I think it’ll be fun.”
Baseball. School. Work.
Baseball. School. Work.
Damn it.
chapter four
Forty-two. There’s a forty-two on the test in front of me.
The final bell rings. Chairs screech and bags rustle and shoes rush to the door, but my butt’s glued to the wooden seat. My test sits on the lab table, bleeding with red Sharpie. Poor paper. I killed it. It never stood a chance. In my defense, this isn’t the worst I’ve ever done. But it’s still pretty darn bad.
A hand lands on my shoulder. “Austin?”
I flip my test facedown, hiding the Sharpie massacre. Bri Johnson, a brunette junior and captain of the soccer team, stands beside me, holding her notebook to her chest. Lord, please don’t let her have seen that number. Bri’s one of those super-smart girls who would give Einstein a run for his money. “What’s up, Bri?”
She stares at me for a moment. “Everything okay? There’s a lot of red on that page.”
I shove the test into my backpack. “Just need to study more. No big deal.”
She’s not buying it—that’s clear from the pity clouding her expression. Instead of calling out my BS, though, she just nods once. “Well, I’m bringing you a message. Hannah asked me to remind you that the Spring Sports issue of the school paper is coming up. She needs to interview you for its feature.” She glances at my backpack, where my test is practically screaming for attention, and back to me. “You are playing this season, right?”
She saw the grade. She saw the stupid grade. Panic grips my gut and holds on for dear life. Time for damage control. I force a grin. “’Course I’m playing. Why wouldn’t I?”
She purses her lips and looks pointedly at my bag. “Just making sure.”
Damn it. Clearly I’m terrible at damage control. “I’m pretty busy,” I say, “but tell Hannah to catch me at lunch or something.” I tilt my head toward my bag. “And if you could keep this quiet, I’ll give you free flowers for the rest of your life.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll let Hannah know.”
As she heads for the door, I lift my gaze to Mr. Matthews, who’s watching me from his desk. He raises his eyebrows, silently questioning me. I’ve got nothin’ for him. I don’t know what he wants me to say.
Blowing out a breath, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and pick up my gear bag. My boots clomp against the floor as I walk to Mr. Matthews’s desk. I shrug. “What?”
His eyes widen. “Is that really the route you’re taking? Because I’m sure your coach would be just thrilled to hear about that attitude.”
All right, let’s try again. “What is it, sir?”
He tilts his head to the side. “I was hoping you’d have something to say to me. Or ask me.”
All I can do is stare at him. Again, not entirely sure what he wants me to say.
He heaves a sigh and leans forward. “Okay, I’ll level with you. I have a list of student tutors, each looking for work. Say the word and you can pick any name. All are A-students and all are free.”
I blink. Look down at his desk. I know I should say yes, but there’s a little hang-up: getting a tutor is a worldwide declaration that Austin Braxton is a moron who can’t do his own work. I can hear the whispers already: “How’d he even get to senior year?” “Does he know anything besides baseball stats?” “God, he’s stupid. He thought badminton was an element.”
Mr. Matthews sighs again, disappointment all over his face. “You’ve got a good thing going,” he says. “Don’t let pride screw that up. You’ve got plenty of options here. I’m leaving this on the table, so let me know if you change your mind.”
And that’s my cue. I tighten my grip on my gear bag and hightail it for the door. Yeah, this is awful. It’s terrible. It’s no good. But it’s also only the first test of the semester. Report cards don’t come out for another month. It’s an easy fix. Sort of. Maybe. Either way, I’ve got this.
“Austin?” Mr. Matthews calls. I stop in the doorway
and turn. He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg on top of the other. “Have fun telling Coach Taylor that you turned down the tutoring list.”
Son of a bastard, he plays dirty. My shoulders drop. “Who’s on the list?”
He lifts his gaze to the ceiling. “Let’s see. Off the top of my head, we’ve got Bri, Matt Harris—”
I snort. His gaze snaps to me. I cover my mouth, holding back a full-blown laugh. Matt Harris is known for two things: being a half-decent center fielder and being an uber-decent douchebag. Letting him tutor me? When pigs freakin’ fly.
“I’ll think about it,” I offer, which is code for “not a chance in hell.”
After changing into my practice clothes in the locker room, I take the long route through the now-quiet hallway, walking toward the double doors. If Matthews threatened to tell Coach about the tutoring list, then he’s probably already told him about my test. Which means I’m screwed.
I pause at the door, peeking out the narrow glass to the ball field. It’s conditioning week, the week we use before tryouts to ease back into shape. Every guy in Lewis Creek dreams of being a varsity Bulldog, and most of them are on the field already, either lined up in front of the ball dispenser or tossing balls around. But as much as I crave the burn in my arm and the smack of the ball against Jay’s glove, I’m hiding. Like a wuss.
Coach is leaning over the fence, staring right at where my truck is in the parking lot. So even if I tried to make a getaway, I’d be shit outta luck. He’d probably outrun me anyway. He’s fast as hell for a guy in his thirties.
Running away isn’t an option though. Austin Braxton is no coward. It’s do-or-die time, even if I may die today.
I take a deep breath and shove open the door. It’s cool. It’s fine. Coach might even understand. It’s all good.
Yells from the field echo across the parking lot, Jay’s being the loudest of all. Coach spots me walking toward him. He slides his sunglasses onto the brim of his cap. Straightens and steels himself, crossing his arms. It’s not all good.
I stop at the fence. He stands on the other side like a gatekeeper, one who refuses to open the gate. My heart races as I hold his gaze for the longest minute of my life. The smell of fresh-cut grass wafts through the air, and dang it, I’m so close I can practically taste it. He stares. Stares. Stares some more. My gaze falls to the dirt.
He wins. He always wins.
Coach clears his throat. “You’ve probably figured out that Mr. Matthews stopped by my office this morning. Forty-two.” He whistles. “That’s pretty God-awful, Braxton.”
I swallow hard. Nod once. “Yes, sir.”
The fence rattles as he lifts the lock on the gate. A whoosh of air escapes me. Thank sweet Jesus. “Once he left, I called your momma,” he adds.
Shit. My head snaps up. “What the hell, Coach? Did you really have to do that?”
He yanks the gate open, slamming it against the fence. I flinch. “You wanna try that smartass mouth again? You know damn well that won’t fly on my field.”
Not my brightest move. My jaw stiffens, but I manage a “No, sir.”
He shoves his finger into my chest. I stumble back a step. “You know I keep my promises, Braxton. I trusted you to have this under control. You can’t be on my field if you can’t be bothered to put forth an effort.”
“We’re two weeks into the semester, Coach. It’s one test.” I chance a glance up. His eyes are narrowed, the exact same way my dad’s used to be whenever I back-talked him. Taking a deep breath, I shake the thought from my head. “Sorry,” I mutter.
He blows out a breath and puts his hands on his hips. “No,” he says, lowering his voice. “No, you’re not failing yet, and we’re going to keep it that way. Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to find a tutor, or I’ll find one for you. Is that clear?”
I nod.
“Report cards come out at the end of February. You’ve got ’til then to get this under control, or you’ll be warming that bench. Will that be a problem?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
I look out to the field. Jay’s standing off to the side, watching Brett play catcher while Eric warms up his arm. For a junior, Eric’s got one hell of a fastball. That dude’s going to own the mound after I graduate. If I don’t get my crap together, it’ll be a lot sooner than that.
Not happening on my watch.
“You’re better than this.” Coach moves aside, letting me onto the field. “Suck up your pride. You want to be a man? A real one knows when he needs help.” He jerks his head toward the infield. “Go on and get that arm warmed up. Jay’s been whinin’ for you.”
He slaps my shoulder, sending me on. I hurry to the dugout and drop my bags onto the bench. Glove in hand, I jog toward the mound, where Eric fires another ball into Brett’s glove.
“Junior!” I yell. Eric’s head snaps up. I hold out my arms, grinning. “What’re you doin’ on my dirt? This mound is for the pros, kid.”
He snorts and catches Brett’s return. “You get it for most of the season. It’s my dirt today.” He gives me a quick half-grin, tossing the ball into the air.
I smack his back and gesture for Jay to come over. “Can’t throw fastballs all day. You need to work on that change-up.”
He winds up and sends a scorcher flying across the plate. “My mound, my rules.”
“Change-ups are deadly,” I remind him, walking backward toward the outfield. “A killer fastball will make ’em respect you. A killer change-up will make ’em piss their pants. Work on it.”
He glances over his shoulder. “I do love a good pants pisser,” he calls out.
By the time we wind down for the day, the sun’s nearly set and the field lights have kicked on. As I climb into my truck and crank the engine, I can feel Coach’s gaze on me. I hit the gas and peel out of the lot, tires screeching as I turn onto the main road.
I can’t even be mad because I get it. He’s even harder on me than he is on the others. He wants me to get out of this town just as much as I do. It just sucks that I’m in this position to begin with.
I park in front of Joyner’s BBQ, jump down from the truck, and jog inside. The cashier, a blond junior named Laura, grins and holds up a finger, signaling for me to give her a minute while she’s on the phone. I pull out a chair at my usual table and collapse into it, sprawling my legs in front of me. It’s almost six o’clock, so I need to get a move on.
Daily dinner with Momma is this weird sort of tradition. It started when I moved up to varsity and sacrificed my soul to the baseball gods. During the season, I try to make it a point to at least have dinner with her whenever I can. Since Dad died, we’re pretty much all the other has. And I like spending time with her. Sue me.
“Austin!” Laura calls. “You’re all set.”
I hop up and hurry to the counter. “Momma call you guys?” I ask, handing her a twenty. “That was quick.”
She shakes her head. “You order the exact same thing every single time. Two pints of barbecue, two large fries, and half a dozen fried chicken legs.”
“Don’t forget my biscuits.”
“I would never forget your biscuits.”
I laugh as she returns my change, which only makes her smile widen. “Am I really that predictable?”
“It’s okay. You need your strength.” She leans onto the counter, her bright blue eyes shining. “Speakin’ of, are y’all gearing up for the season yet?”
I grin. “Yeah, we’re gettin’ there. You gonna be there?”
She gives me an “oh, please” look. “Seriously? I’ll be hanging over the fence, front and center. You won’t be able to miss me.”
Someone behind me clears his throat. I glance over my shoulder. Matt, our center fielder, waves his hand, hurrying me along. “Other people gotta eat too, Braxton. Get a move on.”
Got to love juniors who think they own the town. “Oh, my bad.” I gesture to Laura. “Laura was just asking if we’re ready for the season. Are yo
u? I know I am because I was on the field today, but I didn’t see you.”
He narrows his eyes. “Conditioning week isn’t required.”
“Real players don’t miss a chance to practice.” Turning back to the counter, I ask, “Actually, can y’all throw in an extra pint of barbecue? We have someone else working with us now and she might want some. Take all the time you need.”
Laura’s face falls slightly, but her smile returns as she shrugs a shoulder. “No prob.” She disappears into the kitchen and returns with the container, which she stuffs into the bag. “So I guess the rumors are true? About the pretty new girl at y’all’s shop?”
Well, that took less than a week to get around town. “You could say that,” I tell her, grabbing the bag. “How much do I owe you?”
She shakes her head. “No charge. Tell your momma I said hi.”
“Will do. Night, Laura.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead and buried thanks to Matt. It’d be hilarious if he wasn’t such a prick. I slap his shoulder on my way to the door.
With my bag packed to the brim, I climb back into my truck and speed through town to the shop. I probably should’ve called to make sure that Marisa was still there before I got extra food, but it’s not like you can go wrong with extra food. I mean, it’s food.
Her Mazda and Momma’s car are the only ones left on our patch of Main Street. Bag in hand, I head for the shop. A blast of wind chills me straight to the bone as I tug on the door’s handle, but they’ve already locked up. I knock on the glass, praying that one of them opens soon because, God almighty, it’s freezing. A minute or two passes with no answer. My teeth chatter as I knock again. Marisa pops up from the counter, and I can hear her yelp all the way out here. She jogs across the display room and clicks the lock, the door jingling as she opens it for me.
“It’s about time. Freezing my rear off out here.” I step inside and jump up and down a couple times, trying to get my blood pumping. “You didn’t waste time locking the door tonight, huh?”
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