I tug on my own helmet as we trade places. I’m not sure what I may have just inadvertently agreed to. I’m not sure I want to know.
The first ball flies toward me, and I swing with all my might, sending it soaring. It hits the net at the back of the cage and plops to the floor with a weak thump. Blood pulses in my ears as I stare down the dispenser, waiting for the next pitch.
“How’re things going with Barbecue Girl?” Jay asks from the door.
My fingers tighten around the bat. As soon as the ball shoots out, I smack the hell out of it with a crack that echoes throughout the room. Not bad, but I can do better. I need to do better. My batting average tops every other pitcher’s in the region, and I’m keeping it that way.
I shrug, waiting for the next ball. “They’re goin’. We’re friends. And her name’s Marisa.”
My palms are hot and sweaty against the handle’s grip as I square up for the next pitch. Any second now. CRACK.
Perfection.
“She actually making any difference with that hell of a class?”
“Yeah.” I hit the next ball with a grunt. “Studied with her Friday night and all day at work yesterday. She’s good at what she does.” Really good at what she does. And she makes it fun. Every study partner should be that hilarious. And smart. And gorgeous.
After the final pitch, I yank off my helmet and turn, catching Jay gaping at me. He chuckles, disbelief all over his face. “You really like her.”
Yep. “I guess,” I say breathlessly, running a hand over my hair. “Why do you look so surprised?”
He shakes his head as I come out of the cage. “Because you haven’t made your move yet. Or you have and haven’t told me about it, which is just as weird.”
“We’ve only known each other for a few weeks.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously? Dude, you landed Jamie in your truck in less than an hour.”
And we both know how well that turned out. Jamie left town and forgot I existed. I twirl the bat. “Marisa’s different.”
“How? Does she actually call you on your shit?”
I grin. “Yeah. That.” Besides, she doesn’t strike me as a back-of-the-truck kind of girl. And I’d really prefer to not screw this up.
We drop our helmets and bats off at the front counter and turn to watch Eric and Brett finish up their rounds. “So,” Jay says on an exhale. “What the hell do we do?” He crosses his arms. “How do we fix this lovey-dovey bullshit?”
I lean back against the counter, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the worker’s not around. “You want my honest-to-God opinion? No BS?”
He nods for me to go on.
“I think you need to give the guy some more time. Brett’s one of the best people I know. He gives everything all he’s got. If he decides to open up about this? I think it’d be worth waiting for.”
Jay sighs and nods again. “Fair enough. And I think you need to have some balls when it comes to the genius girl.”
I elbow him. “Screw you. It’s called being respectful. I actually like her. Like, really like her.”
“You’ll be all right,” he says, looking up at me. “You’re good people, Braxton.”
I slap him on the back. “So’re you.”
He gives me a half-grin, the same one he gave me when I told him I didn’t give a shit whether he liked girls, or guys, or both. The same one he gave me when I told him that we are who we are, and that’s all we can be.
He’s an ass sometimes. He’s also the best buddy a guy can have.
At 2 a.m. on the dot, my phone buzzes. Instead of being annoyed and pissed at the world for being woken up, I shoot straight up and snatch the phone. My body must’ve been ready for her. For her texts, I mean.
Dang it.
Marisa: You awake?
Now I am. I squint at the bright screen as I type. Yeah. Dont you ever sleep girl?
Marisa: Insomnia is NOT my friend. Im wasting time by watching youtube videos. I just watched the chipper jones retirement ceremony. SO MANY FEELINGS.
That’s one thing that would beat sleeping. Its like u want me to drive over there at 2am
Time ticks by, minute by minute. She’s either fallen asleep, or I’ve crossed the creeper line. I put the phone back on its charger, but the second I relax against my pillows, the phone buzzes again. I snatch it up.
Marisa: Maybe.
Well, hell.
Don’t tempt me. I can make it happen. I can have my shoes on and be out the door in less than sixty seconds. Just say the word. Say the word.
Please say the word?
Marisa: Don’t you have a test AND practice tmrw? You cant be driving across town this late.
Correction: I totally can. For her, I’d miss an entire night of sleep. But she does have a point. Practice kicking into full swing means that sleep is going to be nearly non-existent for the next few months. Youre no fun, I type back.
Marisa: Night, Austin. Good luck on your test. =)
Total buzzkill. In the best possible way.
chapter eight
Let it be known that I am a CHEMISTRY GENIUS. Okay, not really, but I did just knock my test out of the park. I think.
Once again, everyone’s already cleared out of the classroom by the time I finish my test. At least this time I’m not ready to slam my head against a wall. With a wide smile, I grab my bags and take my test to Mr. Matthews’s desk, placing it front and center. He holds my gaze while picking it up.
“You seem a lot more confident,” he says.
My smile grows. “I got a tutor.”
Nodding, he peers at my test. “No blank answers. That’s a good start toward passing.”
A guy can hope.
He grabs a red marker from his penholder. My eyes widen. “You know, I think I’ll grade it now so we can see where you stand. Practice starts today, right?”
Does he want me to pass out cold on his floor?
Before I can muster a response, he takes the marker to the page. Yeah, I can’t watch. I whirl around and stare at the back wall, which is covered with a blown-up version of the periodic table. Shame that wasn’t up when I took my last test.
“Austin,” he says a moment later. Cringing, I turn back around. He holds the paper out for me, facedown. My hand trembles ever-so-slightly as I take it from him.
Seventy-two. Not genius-level, but it’s a C. I’ll take it.
“Significantly better.” He recaps the marker and leans forward. “I’d say your tutor’s earned a thank-you. Keep that up along with your homework and participation grades, and you won’t have a thing to worry about come March.”
My shoulders drop as I blow out a breath. I’ve got a ways to go, but this is one heck of a start. “Thank you, sir.”
I hurry into the hallway and duck into the restroom so I can change for practice. The locker room’s better, but on Coach’s field, if you’re not early, you’re late. Every minute counts. After locking the stall door, I kick off my boots and jeans and stuff them into my gear bag. As I tug on my practice pants, my phone buzzes from inside my bag. And again. And again. And again.
What the actual hell.
I dig into the bag and grab my phone from my jeans pocket. Four texts light up its screen.
There’s one from Brett, reminding me that practice starts today. No shit.
One from Eric, telling me they’re on the field. I’m coming.
Another from Jay, asking where the hell I’m at. Calm yourself.
And finally there’s Marisa, asking how my test went. She gets a reply. She’s prettier than the other three.
Test went good, I type back. OMW to practice. Hows work? I place the phone on the floor, even though the germs on a guys’ bathroom floor likely rival any hotel bed sheet. I yank off my shirt and replace it with a fresh T-shirt. The phone buzzes, echoing against the tile. I plop down on the floor and lace up my cleats before reading her reply.
Marisa: Works good. Miss you though. Have fun!
She m
isses me. It’s right there, in black and white, that she misses me. Can’t blow this. I stand and type back, Dinner at the shop tonight?
The bathroom door slams open. I jump. My phone flies straight for the toilet. I snatch it mid-air, just in time. The phone’s taken a few plunges, but dear God, anything but the school’s toilet water. I think that’s the end of bathroom texting hour.
According to the roster that Coach posted Friday, there are sixteen guys on the team this year. By the time I reach the field, half those guys are lined up along the foul line that stretches from first base to home plate. Coach paces in front of them, his clipboard in hand.
“Braxton,” Coach calls out. “Nice of you to join us. How ’bout some hustle?”
I’m hustling, I’m hustling. My phone buzzes in my hand as I high-tail it to the dugout and drop my bag onto the bench. I glance over my shoulder, making sure I’m not being watched, before scrolling to Marisa’s message.
Marisa: I’ll be here =)
Score.
“Braxton!” Coach barks.
Crap. I shove the phone into my bag and jog to the infield, falling into line beside Brett. He snickers. Coach is wearing his sunglasses, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s giving me the death glare. I clasp my hands behind my back, steeling my gaze straight ahead. At least I wasn’t the last one out here.
Others file onto the field, one at a time, until Matt completes the line-up down near home plate. Though the wind’s sharp as a knife, the sun beats down on us without a cloud in the sky. But once Coach stops pacing and stands still before us, silence thick as fog blankets the field.
Coach slides his sunglasses onto the brim of his cap. Scans the line. Studies us. Up until today, any time on this field was child’s play. Now, it’s more than a game. From here on out, it’s business. We’re winners. Champions.
“There are sixteen of you this year,” Coach says, his voice booming. The man’s voice gets louder every season. “We’ve got as many newcomers from JV as there are veterans, split right down the middle.” He crosses his arms. “Let’s lay down some ground rules. Are you listening?”
“Yes, sir,” we all say.
He ducks his head, walking down the line. “Practice is non-negotiable,” he begins. “If you want to play, you will be here every afternoon.” His head snaps up once he reaches first base. “What’s your hand up for? Did I stutter?”
Leaning forward to see past Brett, I chance a glance at the end of the line. Chris Lincoln, a sophomore and our new left-fielder, lowers his hand and asks, “What if we have jobs, sir?”
Rookie move.
Coach simply stares. “I’m your boss now. This team is your job. That clear it up?” Chris nods, and Coach keeps on, walking back in my direction. I straighten quickly. “I ran this by my veterans in January, but I’m going to make it loud and clear again today: I don’t play around with grades. I get a copy of every single report card. The school requires a 2.0 to play baseball—I require a 3.0. If you dip below that line, I won’t hesitate to bench you.” He stops. Looks at me. “Am I a man of my word, Braxton?”
Thanks a lot. I clear my throat and reply, “Yes, sir.”
His gaze lingers on me a beat longer. “Next up is behavior,” he calls. “To the people in this school, in this town, you are gods. You will be put on pedestals. You will get away with things that your classmates would be expelled for. That said, if I hear of you acting like anything less than gentlemen, you won’t step on my field. Understood?”
Another resounding, “Yes, sir.”
He glances at his clipboard. “I want you to look to your right. To your left.”
I do.
“This field is your home,” Coach continues, his voice much lower. “These men are your brothers. You will play together, you’ll win together, and you’ll lose together. All of this?” He takes a step back and gestures to the field. “This is yours for the taking, down to the last inch. What matters is how much you want it.”
The chilled wind slams against my skin, but my racing pulse is enough to keep me warm. This field is everything. And more than anything, I want it. I want it all.
“Let me ask y’all something,” he says. “Do you want it?”
“Yes, sir,” we answer.
He folds his arms. Stares at us, long and hard. And once again, his gaze settles on me. “I’m not sure you do. Let me ask you again: do you want this field?”
My heart hammers as I yell, “Yes, sir,” along with the others.
He nods once. “That’s better. Now go take it.”
When I walk into Joyner’s after practice, the place is packed to the brim for the dinnertime rush. At least a dozen people are ahead of me in line. My stomach growls, angry at having to wait after running my rear off during practice.
“Austin!”
I whirl around. Hannah is sitting at a corner booth, along with Bri and another junior, Becca. They’re all dolled up with curls and those little sundresses the girls around here wear, even when it’s February and the wind slices right through you. Sipping from her glass, Hannah waves me over.
But that means losing my place in line. My stomach rumbles again. Dang it.
With a sigh, I start toward their booth. Hannah raises an eyebrow as I approach. “I’ve got a problem with you,” she says.
I squat and rest my arms on the table so I’m eye level with her. “What’d I do?”
She sets her glass down and leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “We were putting together the place settings for the Valentine’s dance, and I didn’t see your name, or Jay’s, or Brett’s.” She punches my shoulder playfully. “Why are y’all skippin’ my dance?”
Well, at least I didn’t actually do anything. “I don’t have a date.”
Her jaw drops. “Who the heck told you no? Ugh.” She scans the restaurant. “Give me twenty seconds and I’ll have a date for you.”
I grab her wrist as she starts to stand. “Hannah. Chill. I don’t want to go.” If I did want to go, it’d be with someone who doesn’t go to our school. I mean, I could ask Marisa, but would that be too weird? And besides—
Hannah gasps, snatching my attention. “Are you trying to break my heart?”
“Austin!” Laura calls from the register. I glance over my shoulder. She drops a bulging paper bag onto the counter. “Your order’s up.”
I never even ordered. Do not look at the angry line.
“Well,” Hannah says, “if you bail on prom in May, I’ll kill you in your sleep. Tell Jay and Brett to let me know if they decide to go this weekend. I’ll get them hooked up.”
Yeah, I have a feeling the last place they’ll want to be is that dance. They’ll be locked up at Jay’s all night, thanks to his parents going out of town for the weekend.
“You won’t have to look hard,” Becca chimes in, taking a sip of her tea. “I’ll go with Brett in a heartbeat. Have you seen that guy’s hands?”
Bri shoots me a look that pretty much screams HELP. Can’t help her much there.
“Good Lord have mercy, yes,” Hannah says. “If his hands are that big, just think—”
I jump up. There are some things a guy doesn’t need to hear. “Have a good night, ladies.”
“Bye,” they call in unison as I head for the counter.
I take the paper bag, peeking inside to make sure it’s all there. It is, including the extra “just in case she stays” barbecue I’ve been ordering for Marisa. I look to Laura, who’s soloing the register. She catches my eye and hurries over. I reach for my wallet, but she waves me off.
“No charge.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “Direct order from Mr. Joyner himself. I’m not allowed to charge you for the rest of the season.”
Ah, yeah. Most wonderful time of the year, indeed. I tuck the bag under my arm. “You’re sure?”
Laura grins and winks. “Go Bulldogs.”
chapter nine
I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day. There’s all this pressure to bu
y the perfect flowers for whatever girl you’re dating (which I’m actually good at, but that’s not the point), to buy the perfect gift, to set up the perfect date, blah blah blah. When you work in a floral shop, the holiday is 500,000 times more annoying. It’s scientifically proven. Just trust me.
Basically, you’ve got people rushing in and out all dang day while yelling that you’re not going fast enough, even though their sorry butts are the ones who waited until the last minute. It sucks for Momma and Marisa, who’ve been through the ringer all day. Coach even excused me from practice so I could come give them a hand at three.
I got out of class at two. But there’s no reason to tell them that.
As soon as the last customer is out the door with his date’s bouquet in hand at 5:59, I rush over and lock the door behind him. I watch him climb into his truck and drive off, probably on his way to pick up that date. The stool behind the counter scrapes against the floor. I turn right as Marisa plops onto it.
“Holy cow,” she says through a yawn, redoing her ponytail. “I thought you were full of crap when you told me how crazy it’d be. I’m pretty sure I waited on half the population of this town.”
That’s not hard when your town’s population is less than 5,000. I walk over to her, untying my apron along the way. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She rubs her hands over her face. “I’m tired,” she groans as I hang up my apron behind the counter. “And people can be psychotic. They’re just flowers, for cryin’ out loud. How can people get so mean over flowers? Flowers make you happy!”
I move next to her and lean against the counter. “A little hard work never killed anybody, you big baby.”
She stares across the room, slack-jawed. “See, I can’t even argue with you. I’m too sore. I’m seriously considering sleeping under this counter instead of driving home.”
The collar of her red shirt slipped down at some point, exposing freckled skin. I swallow hard. Her shoulders are right there, just begging to be rubbed. She said she was sore, right? Girls always go for that stuff.
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