Play On

by Michelle Smith

  “What do you think we are: animals?” Jay says. “Any friend of yours is a friend of ours, pretty lady.”

  Hannah’s mouth drops open. “See, this is why y’all are my favorites. You’re seriously the sweetest guys ever. I could kiss you right now.”

  Jay leans across the table, his head tilted. He taps his cheek. “Put up or shut up.”

  Hannah pecks his cheek, making the other guys whistle. Her smile grows even wider as she pulls out a notebook covered with cupcakes and turns to me. “Down to business. Ready?”

  I shove a fry into my mouth. “Hit me.”

  “First up: tryouts are this afternoon. Are you nervous?”

  I slap my hand over my chest. “I’m telling you, I am just terrified. Really.”

  The guys snicker as she laughs and scribbles something in her notebook. I bite into another fry as the new girl, Morgan, leans over. “Just a sec,” she says to Hannah. “You told me we were interviewing some superstar pitcher. But the team hasn’t had tryouts? So he’s not even on the team yet?”

  Hannah stops scribbling. “Well, duh. Coach Taylor isn’t an idiot. Of course Austin’s on the team. He’s what we call a ‘sure thing.’” She looks back to me and mouths totally clueless. “Onward,” she says aloud, her smile returning. “We have to wait until March for the first game, and to that I say boo. What can you tell the readers to tide us over until then?”

  I lean forward, propping my elbows on the table. “Well, Hannah, I can tell you that we’re the Lewis Creek Bulldogs, and the Bulldogs are ready to kick some ass. Wait, can you say ass in the paper?”

  “I cannot say ass in the paper.”

  “Then we’re ready to kick some rear. And once we hit the field, every team that steps onto our turf is going home with their tails between their legs.”

  The rest of the guys whoop and clap, the sound echoing throughout the cafeteria. Hannah’s smile grows as she writes that down.

  “Okay, okay, time out,” Morgan says.

  The table falls silent. I think I liked this girl better when she was a church mouse. Hannah looks annoyed as all get-out, but she takes a deep breath and shoots the girl a smile. “What is it?”

  “I don’t get it,” Morgan replies matter-of-factly. “All this craziness over baseball. Don’t most schools go nuts over, like, football or something? My old school was all about football.”

  “Not when their football team sucks,” Kellen says, right as Jay replies, “It’s baseball.”

  Hannah lets out a breathless laugh and glances at her watch. “Bless your heart. Honey, you’re new here, but you’ll figure this out soon enough: Lewis Creek is baseball. Look around you.”

  Morgan does. She looks at the banner stretched across the right wall, which boasts last year’s state championship win. She looks at the massive collage beneath it, made up of hundreds of team pictures that date back to the fifties, including photos of both Dad’s championship team and mine. She looks at the trophy case, with dozens of trophies on display.

  She looks back at us guys, dumbfounded. “I still don’t get it.”

  Jay is just as dumbfounded as he repeats, “It’s baseball.”

  How can you even begin to describe the magic that is baseball? “It’s the rush of a strike,” I tell her.

  “The roar of the crowd,” Brett says.

  “Hot dogs and peanuts and slushies,” Randy chimes in.

  “Smacking the hell out of a ball,” Eric says.

  “And let us not forget the glory that is a boy in baseball pants,” Hannah says. “Amen, hallelujah, thank you Jesus.”

  Wait. What?

  All eyes fall on Hannah, who shrugs and slaps her notebook closed. “All the girls think it. I just say it.” She ruffles my hair as the lunch bell pierces the silence. “I didn’t get nearly enough, but I’ll catch you again tomorrow.”

  I’m still not entirely sure what just happened here.

  Trays clatter behind us as people file out of the cafeteria. Randy says “see ya” before grabbing his stuff and heading out, with Eric and Kellen right behind him.

  Jay grins at Brett as they stand. “Girl’s got a point. Your ass does look great in baseball pants.”

  Brett’s cheeks flush crimson. He glances around and looks back to Jay, giving him a sneaky smirk.

  Not gonna lie. I kind of want someone to tell me my ass looks good, too.

  As I walk to the field that afternoon, I sneak one more glance at my phone before stuffing it into my gear bag. Still nothing from Marisa. So she’s either passed out in front of her toilet, or my barbecue really did kill her and she’ll be haunting me for the rest of my life. Awesome.

  The minute my cleats touch the dirt, every muscle inside me relaxes. And when the smell of freshly mowed grass hits me, I know that, somehow, everything’s going to be okay. No wrong can happen out here. This is my safe haven. We’ve got a little over a month until the first game of the year, and it can’t come fast enough. Give me those lights. The roar of the crowd. The rush of the winning strike. On this field, everything else disappears. I just hope the sanctuary’s not ripped away from me before I can even play the first game of the season.

  The new guys are already out here stretching, gearing up for tryouts. Most of us from last year are shoo-ins for the team, but geez, the noobs are already showing us up. I need to get my mind off school and a certain girl who won’t get out of my head. This is the perfect way to do it.

  I drop my bag onto the dugout bench and dig for my practice glove. Another bag drops next to mine. Jay slaps my back before yanking off his sweatshirt. “It’s about that time, Braxton,” he says with a huge grin. “You ready for this?”

  “You don’t even know how ready. I’ve been waitin’ for this day since May.”

  We fist-bump before jogging out to an empty section of the field, away from where Coach is barking out orders to the fresh meat, and start stretching. Some of those wide-eyed kids across the field look like they just walked into boot camp by mistake. Boot camp wouldn’t be too far from the truth. Coach’s drills are no joke.

  “Think any of ’em are worth their weight?” Jay asks, finishing up his lunges. “Or will Coach just beg last year’s seniors to come back for old time’s sake?”

  Snorting, I do a couple more fingertip prayer presses. “He wishes. But I doubt any of those guys would step foot in Lewis Creek again, even if Coach offered them a million bucks.” I sure as heck wouldn’t. Breaking out of this town is like busting out of prison: you run as hard and as fast as you can in the opposite direction, without looking back. Even glancing over your shoulder will make you trip over your own feet.

  Jay grabs his glove and ball, and I pick up my own glove. Sliding the worn leather onto my hand, I breathe in the sweet smell of fastballs and sliders and strikeouts. A familiar knot lodges in my throat. I swallow hard, forcing it away. Dad gave me this glove in the fall of sophomore year, just a few months before he…well, you know.

  I shake my head and ready myself for Jay’s throw. He fires the ball into my glove, its smack against the leather music to my ears. I rotate my arm a few times before pitching it back, and all I can do is thank God that finally, finally, I’m back on this field. I’m freer than anywhere else in this crazy world when I’m out here.

  Well, I’m thanking God until Jay has to jump up to catch my wild throw. Shit. He shakes his head and lofts it back. “No worries,” he calls out. “Fire another one. Nothing fancy. Just hit the glove. We’ll work up to fancy.”

  Taking a deep breath, I focus on the center of his mitt and throw. He darts to the side, just barely snagging the ball. His mouth falls into a frown, but he says nothing before throwing the ball back. My heart races as I catch it effortlessly. Focus. Just pitch like you’ve done for ten damn years. Eight pitches later, I’ve given Jay a second warm-up session entirely.

  “I’m not into the aerobics shit, Braxton. Stop making me run all over the place.” He jogs over and leans in, his forehead gleaming with sweat. �
��You better straighten up. Coach has his eye on you.”

  Resisting the urge to turn and look, I ask, “Evil eye?”

  “Evil as Lucifer himself. What’s the problem?”

  I scoff and punch my glove, walking back to the bench. If I keep this up, I’ll be getting real comfortable on that slab of wood. “Matthews’s class,” is all I say. The man drilled me again this afternoon.

  Jay falls into step beside me, yanking his glove off. “I thought he gave you some kind of tutoring list.”

  Shaking my head, I plop down on the bench, take off my own glove, and toss it on top of my bag. Coach glares at us from the field, his arms crossed in front of his chest. We need to get back out there soon before we have to deal with his wrath, but embarrassing the hell out of myself even more isn’t high on my list. At this rate, he’ll replace me with a JV freshman.

  “He did,” I say. “I turned it down.”

  Jay gapes at me. “And why the hell did you do that?”

  I stretch out my fingers again. I know good and well they aren’t the problem with my throw. This is all mental blockage, which needs to be fixed ASAP. “The only people on that list are people I don’t feel like spendin’ a bunch of time with. I mean, Bri’s not so bad, but Matt’s on there. Why the hell would I spend even more time with that guy?”

  Jay points to the field, where the blond douchebag is talking to Coach. “That Matt?” I nod. He snorts. “Can’t blame you. But Coach is gonna kick your ass. Or bench it. Or both.”

  Groaning, I drop my head. He’s right. I can’t get away with this for much longer, but I’ll be damned if I trust my GPA to Matt Freakin’ Harris. Of course, I do have a certain someone’s phone number, but I also might have just killed her with barbecue.

  Coach whistles sharply, waving us over. Jay and I jump up, and he slaps my glove against my chest. “Get your head under control,” he says. “Suck it up and fix your shit, even if it means letting Matt teach you how to make stink bombs or whatever. This is our last year, bro. I need my pitcher on point. Got it?”

  I nod, breathing deeply. I’m not sure how I’m going to fix it, but I have a feeling I’ll be eating crow sometime soon.

  Buzzing. The most annoying buzz on God’s green earth.

  I try to open my eyes, but it ain’t happenin’.

  Buzzzzz.

  Somehow, I force my eyes open. My room is dark. Why is my phone buzzing when my room is dark? I glance at the clock on my nightstand while grabbing my phone: 1:49 a.m. What. The. Heck. Wincing at the phone’s bright screen, I hit the Messages icon, which has a bright red number one in the corner.

  Marisa: Just got ur message. Thanks.

  I rub my eyes. Am I dreaming, or did this girl just text me at two in the morning? Still squinting at the screen, I type back, Welcome. U ok?

  A minute passes. Two. Three.

  That’s it. I’m going back to sleep.

  I toss the phone back onto my nightstand and roll over. Buzzzzz. Groaning, I grab the stupid phone and collapse back against my headboard.

  Marisa: U always awake this late?

  No. Sleep is magical and should be required for twelve hours a day. You woke me up. Yeah, I reply, yawning loudly. How u feelin?

  Another minute passes. She’s either half-asleep or the longest replier in history.

  Marisa: Not great. Bad night.

  Maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad if she was asleep at two in the morning. But that could be why she’s still awake in the first place.

  Me: Need to talk?

  My phone buzzes almost immediately, with her name flashing across its screen. Guess that’s a yes. This probably isn’t the best time to tell her that I’m not really a phone person and my offer was for text-talking. “Hello?” I answer.

  She sniffles and croaks out a shaky, “Hi.”

  I narrow my eyes, listening intently. She lets out this tiny hiccupy cry, making me jolt up. “What’s going on? What happened?”

  She sniffles again. “Nothing. That’s the problem. I’m sorry. I thought—” She pauses. “I didn’t think I could do any more crying tonight.”

  Well, now I’m wide awake. I rub my face. I don’t have any idea what to say to her. I’ve got zero experience with girls crying in the middle of the night, but I can’t just ignore her. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “Is it… I mean, is there anything you want to talk about?”

  There’s rustling on her side of the line, like wind blowing. “Does your brain ever just hurt?” she asks. “Like too many things are in there, all smushed together?”

  I nod along, even though she can’t see me. “And it feels like it’s gonna blow at any minute?”

  “Exactly. And there’s nothing you can do but wait, either for something to budge or for your brain to just—” She makes an explosion sound.

  There’s more rustling in the background. “Are you outside?”

  “Yeah. On the porch, with my blanket. It’s perfect out here.”

  That does sound pretty perfect. “That’s the best cure for a loud head, you know. Bein’ outside, alone.”

  “It’s one of the things I’m starting to like about this place.”

  I can’t resist. She walked right into that one. Yawning, I lie back against my pillow, sinking into the cool cushion. “Just one of the things? What’s some of the other stuff?”

  “Shut up,” she says, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “No, really,” I press through another yawn. “You can’t leave something like that danglin’.”

  “I can, and I will. I’m pleading the Fifth.”

  I wonder if she realizes that pleading the Fifth is basically an admission of complete and utter guilt.

  “Were you really awake?” she asks. “You sound like you’re half-asleep.”

  The yawning must have given me away. “You caught me. But I did just go to bed, like, two hours ago.” I glance over at my desk, where my Chemistry book is buried beneath the lab worksheets I brought home to finish. Tryouts lasted until seven, and it took another four hours to do all my homework. I guess I can sleep when I’m dead.

  “I’m sorry I woke you up,” she says.

  The tree branches outside my window cast shadows in my room as they sway, in sync with the wind rustling on Marisa’s side of the line. It’s almost like we’re right beside each other. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just good hearing your voi—” I clear my throat. “It’s good hearing from you.”

  She’s silent for a moment before saying, “I should probably go inside now. Get some sleep.”

  My lips twitch. “You sound better.”

  “I feel better,” she says. “Thanks to you.”

  My heart skips a beat. “Sometimes we just need someone to talk to, you know?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I do. Goodnight, Austin. And thanks.”

  It’s kind of crazy how awesome it feels to hear a soft voice telling me goodnight again, even if it is two in the morning. “G’night, Marisa.”

  chapter six

  Question: What do three days of baseball tryouts plus three days of nonstop homework equal?

  Answer: An exhausted, cranky, zombified Austin. People say sleep is for the weak. If that’s true, I’m waving the white flag. Call me weak. Whatever. Just let me sleep.

  It doesn’t help that trying to study while a pretty girl is working right in front of you is nearly impossible. If I do fail Chemistry, I’m blaming my momma for hiring that pretty girl. Marisa kneels to perfect the arrangements in front of the shop’s window. With her hidden behind stacks of Valentine’s bouquets and teddy bears, all I can see is her reflection in the window. And I gotta say, those jeans fit that girl just right.

  Dang it. Chemistry. Book. Focus. Shifting on my stool, I look down at my opened book on the counter and scan the page. Wait a second. I flip through the last couple of pages, but it’s useless. I— I don’t remember reading any of this crap. How do I not remember what I just read? I bang my head on the counte
r. And again. And again.

  “You’ll knock something loose in there.”

  When I look up, Marisa’s leaning on the counter, with her hair spilling across her shoulders. A citrusy smell fills the air (after way too much stalkerish consideration, I think it’s her shampoo), and she’s probably saying something about science or whatever, but those lips—

  “And I didn’t wake up until the rats started eating my toes.”

  I shake my head. “Huh?”

  She sighs. “You sure you’re okay?” She walks around the counter to stand beside me. “I don’t think you’re capable of focusing on anything for more than twenty seconds.”

  “Um, wrong. Ball games last for two hours, and I can focus on those just fine.” The problem is that you’re just way too pretty. Sorry.

  Actually no, not sorry.

  “Or you have issues actually listening to a girl, rather than staring at her. Maybe we should just talk on the phone more often. You did great on Monday night.” She gives me a half-smile. “Thanks again for that, by the way.”

  I shrug. “Don’t mention it.”

  She tugs on the ends of her sleeves, pulling them over her hands. “Speaking of ball games,” she says, “since tryouts are over, will you guys start playing soon? Assuming you make the team and all.”

  And she called me the smartass. I jerk my thumb to the wallpaper of newspaper clippings. “If there’s one guarantee in this town, it’s that I’m on the team.”

  “Wow,” she drawls. “You aren’t cocky at all.”

  Some things are worth being cocky about. Chemistry, no. Baseball, definitely. “Practice starts Monday,” I tell her. “Then it’s practice, practice, and more practice until our first game March 4th.”

  “So I’m basically never going to see you again,” she says.

  She’s smiling, but judging from the tone of her voice, that thought’s just as awful for her as it is for me. I glare at my book. “You’re more than welcome to eat dinner with us any night of the week. But I won’t have to do much practicing if I don’t get this crap straight. I need to pull a miracle out of my ass.”