Play On

by Michelle Smith

  Bat in hand, I stop in front of her and nod in understanding. “The family dinners.”

  She smiles tightly. “Family dinners. Yay.”

  Definitely time for a distraction. I pass the bat to her, watching her face light up like a full moon on a summer night. “Now, it’s a little heavy,” I joke. “Think you can handle it?”

  Her eyes widen. “I don’t know,” she says breathlessly. “I may need the help of a big, strong, baseball player. Because we both know that baseball is so superior to softball.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not entirely true. Your balls are bigger.”

  We stare at each other. Stare. Stare some more. She’s the first one who breaks, bursting out laughing. It’s one of the best sounds I’ve heard in a long time.

  “Here,” I say, still laughing. I carefully place my hands on her hips, helping her square up over the plate. “In case, you know, you’re too out of practice.”

  She bites back a smile. “Yeah. Because I’ve totally forgotten how to square up for a pitch.”

  “Two years is a long time.” Resting my hands on her shoulders, I remind her, “And relax these. You’re too stiff.”

  She hangs her head. “You’re killin’ me, Smalls.”

  I walked right into that one. She relaxes her shoulders. Slowly, my hands move down her arms until they rest on top of hers. They’re so warm, fit so perfectly in mine that it almost hurts to let them go. But I do, because, you know, friends.

  “There,” I say on an exhale. “Ready?”

  Her lips curve up. “Let me have it, Floral Prince.”

  My mouth drops open. “All right. No mercy, Marlowe.”

  I grab the ball and jog out to the mound. I gotta say, she’s the prettiest batter I’ve ever been up against. Taking a deep breath, I wind up and let my fastball fly.

  That girl smacks the hell out of the ball.

  Holy… I turn, watching it sail all the way back to the fence. When I whirl back around, she grins, pointing the bat at me.

  “And that’s how it’s done,” she calls to me, setting the bat in the dirt. She wipes her hands on her jeans.

  All I can do is gape. Some of the guys on our team could take a lesson from her. It’s not like I thought she would be bad, but damn. I pull off my cap as I walk toward her. As soon as I tug it onto her head, she laughs.

  “Are you going to have any of these left?”

  “I have an endless supply.” I nudge the brim of the cap, so I can see her eyes. “And you’ve earned that one.”

  She quirks her lips into this little half-smirk that makes me pure weak in the knees. Takes a step closer. Another. And another. I swallow hard. My hands ache to touch her, to pull her to me and kiss the daylights out of her.

  But friends, though.

  “You know,” she says, “I’ve heard that the fastest way to a guy’s heart is through a killer swing.”

  Self-control no longer exists. I place my hands on her hips, bringing her even closer. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. She gazes up at me like I’m the only thing that exists in the world at this moment. Which is fitting because, right now, she’s all that matters. Her, and her eyes, and those lips—all of which are absolutely, positively perfect.

  “You heard right,” I finally say, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “But you’ve already done a damn good job at getting to my heart.”

  “That was really cheesy,” she says through a grin.

  “That’s a step up from dorky.” Closing my eyes, I lean down—

  She jumps back with a yelp, and my eyes pop open. The field lights have clicked on, which I’m guessing scared the crap out of her, because she’s suddenly looking like she did the night I nearly ran over her at Joyner’s.

  She takes a deep breath and then another as she offers me a small, apologetic smile. “Friends,” she whispers.

  Ouch. Again.

  I force a smile. “Friends don’t kiss.”

  She shakes her head. “Friends don’t kiss.”

  After what she told me, what she showed me, I understand why she needs time. I get why she’d rather be safe than sorry. That said, it doesn’t make this much easier.

  I pick up the bat and hand it to her. “I’ll grab the ball, Hammerin’ Hank. You square up.”

  Her shoulders relax. “Keep comparing me to Hank Aaron, and I’ll hit balls all night.”

  Next sign the girl’s a true fan: she gets your Atlanta Braves references. If I’m going to have a girl friend instead of a girlfriend, I’ll take this one, please. “I’ve got all night, girl.”

  chapter twelve

  March 4th: the best damn day in South Carolina this year. At five o’clock on the dot, the lights lining the baseball field flash on. My adrenaline surges. It’s almost show time. I swear, Opening Day is fifty times better than Christmas.

  The speakers across the stadium crackle and screech as the announcers gear up inside the press box. I breathe in the cool, crisp air as I wind up and fire another warm-up pitch into Jay’s glove. Coach stands behind him, watching me like a hawk. From our place in the outfield, I spot the crowd steadily pouring in from the parking lot out the corner of my eye. Resisting the urge to look up toward the bleachers, I keep my gaze on Jay, who’s crouched in front of me.

  Focus. Tunnel vision. For the next couple of hours, everything else needs to take a backseat.

  Jay lofts the ball back, and Coach whistles sharply. My head snaps up. “You good to go?” Coach calls.

  I nod once. “Yes, sir.”

  He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Y’all head over to the bench. Keep that arm warm.” He turns toward the mound, where the umps are congregating.

  I circle my arm as Jay and I follow him across the field, detouring to the dugout. The scent of cheapo hotdogs and nachos carries from the concession stand, while the low roar of the fans grows louder and louder. Finally, I allow myself a glance to the bleachers, which are already packed to the brim. That’s a double-edged sword. The crowd’s a blessing when we’re winning and they’re going nuts, but a curse when we’re losing and their silence can burst a pitcher’s eardrums. Despite their cheers, my chest clenches. This is the third Opening Day without Dad sitting right there, on the bottom bleacher. No matter how much time passes, that spot will never be the same without him.

  Tunnel vision. Now isn’t the time for memory lane.

  Jay slaps my shoulders, kneading them as we step down into the dugout. “It’s game time, Braxton. You ready?”

  I maneuver through the guys, making my way past the bench. Sunflower seeds and peanut shells crunch beneath my cleats. “I was born ready,” I say over my shoulder.

  He chuckles. “The arm’s lookin’ sharp.”

  Can’t disagree there. “It’s better than ever.”

  “Can you smell the rain with your nose stuck so far in the air?”

  I turn and shove him. He stumbles back, cackling. We plop down at the end of the bench, and he grabs my coat from the backrest.

  “Breathe that in,” he says, chucking the coat at me. “It’s the start of our last season, bro. Damn near heartbreaking.”

  “Fellas,” Brett drawls. “Let’s do this thing.” Paper cup of Gatorade in hand, he rounds the bench and settles next to Jay. Jay scoots over until his thigh brushes Brett’s. Brett’s fingers clench the cup, sloshing the green drink all over the dirt as his eyes dart around.

  “Nobody’s watchin’, man,” Jay murmurs. He tosses his arm across the back of the bench, behind Brett.

  Clearing his throat, Brett throws the now-empty cup on the ground and relaxes against the backrest. “Last season. Ready or not, here it comes.”

  Shaking my head, I put the coat next to me, since we’ll be up soon, anyway. “Y’all are actin’ like it’s over already. Don’t go gettin’ all misty-eyed on me now.”

  Brett shrugs, sprawling his legs out in front of him. “Look at it this way: I’m just skippin’ to the final stage of grief. Acceptance, right?”


  “Well, that’s cute. Go boo-freakin-hoo somewhere else.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Ain’t nobody got time for all that.”

  “I can’t do it anywhere else. You need a guy on third,” he points out.

  “I’ll play third,” Jay cuts in.

  “You’ve never played third,” I remind him.

  He snorts. “Like it’s hard.”

  Brett smacks the back of his head. “Screw you. You get a mask and body armor.”

  Jay gapes at him. “Yeah. ’Cause this guy”—he points at me—“fires ninety-four-mile-per-hour fastballs at me on the regular.”

  Coach waves us over to the baseline for the benediction and anthem. While Brett and Eric’s little sister belts out the anthem like she’s next up on X-Factor, I hold my cap against my chest, staring at the sky. Evening clouds are moving in, swirls of gray clashing against this crazy mix of pink and purple and blue. The crowd bursts into a symphony of cheers, bringing me back to the field. My breath catches as Brett smacks my back and the home plate ump yells, “Play ball!”

  The guys and I hurry back to the dugout to gear up. I grab my glove from the bench and slide it on, breathing deeply. My pulse skyrockets, going into overdrive. The crowd roars and hollers as we line up at the dugout’s opening.

  The speakers crackle, and the announcer’s voice booms throughout the stadium. “Welcome to a brand-new season of Lewis Creek baseball, ladies and gentlemen! Skip Harris here, along with Jerry Cox, ready to guide you through another W-filled spring.”

  “We’re going into our sixteenth season as your view from the top,” Jerry says, “and I tell you what, these boys just get better every year. Let’s hear it for them as they take the field! Your first baseman: Kellen Winthrop.”

  Kellen darts onto the field, waving as the crowd bursts into applause again. One by one, the announcers alternate player introductions. And second by agonizing second, my heart beats faster and faster.

  “Second baseman: Jackson Davis.”

  “Shortstop: Landon Stephens.”

  “Third baseman: Brett Perry.”

  “Right field: Randy Eldredge.”

  “Center field: Matt Harris.”

  “Left field: Chris Lincoln.”

  “And these final two need no introduction,” Skip says with a laugh.

  Freakin’ finally.

  There’s no holding back my grin as Jay and I stand next to Coach at the dugout’s opening, waiting for our cue. All-Star Duo, remember? Coach smirks and slaps my shoulder.

  “Tunnel vision,” he reminds me. “Take your place, son.”

  The opening notes of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” blast through the stadium’s speakers, and the crowd damn near explodes. Jay shoves me forward.

  “We’re up, Sandman,” he shouts above the roar. “Let’s put some batters to sleep.”

  Damn straight.

  I jog to the mound, tuning out the cheers (and jeers, thanks to the visiting Cardinals’ fans). This is my safe haven. Hell, Marisa was right. It’s my freakin’ kingdom.

  While kicking the dirt so it’s just right beneath my cleats, I scan the jam-packed bleachers and grin. Red and white pom-poms shake wildly in the air. Brett and Eric’s momma holds their youngest sister, Emma, who’s already covered in cotton candy and yelling louder than everyone in the stands. A bunch of junior and senior girls hang over the fence, wearing Bulldogs decals on their cheeks and cheering at the tops of their lungs. Rednecks and old-timers and cheerleaders, all mingled together for the best night of the year.

  I’m telling you: it’s magic.

  Inhaling deeply, I zero in on Jay, who’s crouched behind the plate. He pulls his mask down and wiggles the fingers on his free hand, signaling he’s ready when I am.

  The Cardinals’ lead-off hitter steps to the plate, sending the crowd into another uproar. I study his stance. Gauge the cockiness in his stare. Watch how he grips the bat. He’s good.

  I’m better.

  When Jay signals for a curveball, I’m reminded why he’s such an important part of the All-Star Duo—he reads my mind like no one else. Game on.

  I fire the first pitch of the season into Jay’s glove, making the batter swing like an A-Rod wannabe. He’s an eager fella. After throwing the ball back, Jay signals fastball. Don’t mind if I do.

  Wind up. Release. The ball hits Jay’s mitt with a resounding smack. I smirk. No chance to even swing. Time to make him chase it? Once again reading my mind, Jay signals slider. I nod once and fire it in there.

  “Strike three!” the ump yells. “You’re out!”

  At times like this, I wish victory dances were allowed on the field. You’re out, sucker. Jay lofts the ball back, and while the next guy steps to the plate, I glance back to the stands. This time, Brett’s momma isn’t wrangling Emma into her lap. Now, she’s making room for the people sitting beside her.

  She’s making room for Momma and Marisa. It’s got to be Marisa because she’s the only person I’ve ever let wear my lucky Braves hat, and that girl sure enough wore it here. She looks up and catches my eye, beaming as she waves. I can’t help but grin like a fool. I tip my cap before moving back into position. The last guy was just a warm-up. Now it’s time to show her what this arm can really do.

  The next batter is a beanpole, as tall as Brett and half his weight. He readies himself over the plate, glaring me down like I’m the damn devil incarnate. It’s all right; two can play that game. I steady myself, watching for Jay’s signal.

  He says fastball. I say sure thing.

  And the ump says, “Strike one!”

  Smirking, I hold the batter’s gaze while catching Jay’s throw. Next up is a no-brainer: change-up. Jay agrees. With the ball in the back of my hand, I make sure my grip’s just right. Wind up. Pitch.

  SMACK.

  The ball barrels toward me. Shit. I throw my glove in front of my face. The ball slams right into the middle. The crowd’s on its feet, but all I hear is the blood slamming in my ears. Releasing a heavy breath, I force a smile to everyone pointing and cheering and clapping. A ball flying at your nose is never not scary as hell.

  But another batter down. Two outs. And I still have my face. Works for me.

  As we file into the dugout at the bottom of the seventh, I’m convinced my arm’s about to fall off. It’s no surprise, considering I haven’t pitched seven straight innings in nearly a year, even during summer and fall ball. But dang if the thing doesn’t throb like a son of a gun. Nevertheless, the score’s tied at 2-2, and I’m up to bat. I could ask Coach to send in an alternate, but that isn’t happening. Don’t fail me now, arm.

  Jay slaps my back as I tug on my helmet. “You got this, bro. Smack that ball to kingdom come, and we’re knockin’ back shots at the river within an hour.”

  Easy enough.

  I grab my bat and head for the dugout’s opening, where Coach waits. He gives me a quick nod. “You good?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He eyes me up and down. “Uniform’s too clean,” he says, guiding me out of the dugout. “Go get some dirt on it.”

  I smirk along with him. Roger that. I stride to the on-deck circle, allowing myself a quick glance to the stands. Marisa’s hanging over the top of the fence with Hannah and Bri, cheering along with them. Screw the shots; I want that after the game. Jay’s right, though. I’ve got to get the job done first.

  After a couple practice swings, I start toward home plate, sending the crowd into a deafening uproar. It’s freakin’ glorious. There’s no stopping my grin as I ready myself at the plate.

  Until I catch sight of the pitcher. Oh, hell no. Staring straight at me with a smirk on his face, the scrawny punk’s making a show of kicking the dirt on my mound. He’s digging a hole in my dirt. You don’t screw with a pitcher’s mound, especially on his home turf. That’s fightin’ territory.

  I narrow my eyes. He gives the mound one more kick before preparing for his pitch. All right, then. Let’s fight. But he should kn
ow better than to challenge someone who knows the game better than he does.

  I’ve been studying this guy all night. He’s got a tell: he takes about two seconds longer to prep his fastball than any other pitch. He’s been clinging to that precious fastball all night, and he’s gearing up for another one. I square over the plate. Windup. He fires the ball right down the middle. I swing with all my might.

  Crack.

  The ball shoots toward the outfield, and I take off to first. My pulse slams as I round the bag and, with a quick peek to the outfield, take the chance. I pump my legs as hard as they’ll go, drop to the dirt, and slide into second. The ball smacks against the second baseman’s glove above me.

  “Safe!” the ump calls.

  Damn straight. Keeping a foot on the bag, I push to my feet. My white pants are smeared with dirt. Finally.

  Brett strides to home plate as I hunch down, ready to take off. As our lead-off man, he’s one hell of a powerhouse. Tunnel vision. Watch. Wait. The pitcher glances over his shoulder, keeping me in place. Once he turns, I inch off the bag. A little farther. A little farther.

  Sucker.

  The bat’s crack echoes across the field. I’m already halfway to third when the ball soars over my head. A quick glance to Coach tells me to push toward home.

  On it.

  Push harder. Faster. The catcher’s crowding the plate, his glove at the ready. I slide into home beneath him, dirt flying everywhere. The tag hits my chest right as the ump yells, “Safe!”

  Game.

  I jump to my feet. Brett trots toward the plate and high-fives me. And out of nowhere the guys are crowding around us, hootin’ and hollerin’ and slappin’ places hands have no right slappin’, but whatever.

  We fall into our post-game lineup. The Cardinals do the same, and our teams make our ways toward one another. We shake hands down the line, muttering, “Good game,” over and over like a chant.

  Our team spills into the dugout, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in my ears. I grab a towel and wipe off the sweat and grime covering my face. When I toss it into the pile of other nasty towels behind the bench, I see him talking to Coach Taylor next to the dugout. Him, as in USC’s Coach Barlow.