We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  But Odette is on a roll. “Ah-wooo! Ah-wooooo! Come on, guys! Howl with me!”

  I shake my head, laughing at her ridiculousness.

  The stadium lights come into view in the distance; we’re nearly there. When we pull into the parking lot, every square foot is jammed full of excited Exeter fans in green and black attire, tailgating in their truck beds with coolers, lawn chairs, and portable grills. We roll slowly down the rows, looking for a free spot.

  Odette howls out her window at a cluster of freshman boys.“Ah-woooo!”

  They howl right back at her, even louder. The group beside them soon joins in. And then the group beside them adds their voices to the braying chorus. Howls spread across the entire parking lot in a domino effect, until the sky is a vibration of lupine enthusiasm.

  “Ah-woooo!”

  “Ah-wooooo!”

  “Go Wolfpack!”

  Ophelia and I roll down our windows.

  “AH-WOOOO!”

  I scream as loud as I can, my howls harmonizing with hundreds of excited Exeter fans. By the time we locate an empty spot, I’m having so much fun, I’ve almost forgotten why I was dreading coming to this game in the first place.

  Almost.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ARCHER

  “Get your head out of the clouds, Reyes!” Coach yells from the dugout as we run back onto the field to finish the final inning. “Let’s show these boys that fastball you’ve been working on all season long! No more free passes!”

  He sounds frustrated.

  Hell, I’m frustrated. I’m playing like a Little Leaguer instead of a future MLB rookie. My pitches are uneven. My pacing is off. I’ve let more batters hit tonight than any other game of the season.

  The stakes are too high for these kind of mistakes. Everything is riding on my ability to deliver consistent wins in front of the scouts.

  My future.

  My way out.

  My dream.

  Get it together, Archer.

  Perhaps sensing my nerves, the crowd roars encouragement from the bleachers. If I search the blur of faces, I know I’ll see my parents out there somewhere. Pa munching Cracker Jacks, cursing under his breath each time I mess up a pitch; Ma clutching her rosary, praying for a miracle.

  But I won’t see the one person I need to the most.

  I grip the ball tighter, summoning focus. No matter how I try, I can’t seem to locate it. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me tonight.

  Actually… I do.

  My head is a downright mess — even worse than it was on Tuesday, after Rico and Barboza’s unexpected visit. I think I was still in a certain amount of shock when they walked out of my house. Because instead of freaking out, falling apart… I simply tossed my duct tape bindings deep in the garbage pail where my parents wouldn’t see them, changed into my baseball uniform, and drove to the field.

  I played, but my heart wasn’t in it — throwing pitches on autopilot, just trying to make it through each inning without thinking too much. And… trying not to notice the blonde head missing from its normal spot in the bleachers.

  We squeaked out a narrow victory, thanks in no part to my efforts. Coach assured me everyone has an off game, now and again. The guys on the team slapped my shoulders in the dugout, telling me to let it roll off.

  Little did they know, baseball was the last thing on my mind.

  That night, I lay in bed feeling unsafe in my own home for the first time, flinching in the darkness at each creaking floor board and falling tree branch. I held my aluminum bat beneath the sheets, finding some small solace in the makeshift weapon.

  But what good is a bat against a gunshot?

  I couldn’t bring myself to close my eyes, afraid of what I’d find when they opened again. Instead, I prowled the house, checking the locks a hundred times. As if any lock could actually keep the danger out.

  They got in before.

  They can do it again.

  A room away, my parents slept on, blissfully unaware.

  As the night marched onward toward dawn, my eyes grew as heavy as the heart inside my chest; my soul as exhausted as my body. The only thing in the world that I truly needed… the only thing that might offer some reprieve from the encroaching darkness… was the one thing I couldn’t risk reaching for.

  Jo.

  All I wanted was to run to our spot in the boathouse. Straight to her. To wrap my arms around her warmth, pull her against my chest, and let her absorb all my pain and fear and hopelessness. To take comfort in her soft whispers.

  It’s okay, Arch.

  We’ll figure it out.

  Together.

  Like we always do.

  But I couldn’t. The thought of what might’ve happened if she’d been with me when those assholes were here… if they’d laid a hand on her instead of me…

  You seem pretty tight with that girl, Rico’s voice haunts me. The blonde with the legs.

  My mental state only devolved as the week went on, sleeplessness and stress driving me to distraction. At school, I was edgy. Irritated. Snapping at anyone stupid enough to come near me. At practice, I was so preoccupied Coach Hamm called it quits early, telling me to rest up before the big game against St. John’s Prep.

  Not that it did much good.

  Here we are, final inning, and the score is dangerously close. 7-6 — a meager one point lead over our rivals. Which is laughable, really. This should be an easy victory. A walk in the fucking park. The Exeter Wolves are ranked first in our division; St. John’s didn’t even qualify for playoffs. And yet, they’re handing me my own ass on a silver platter with each play. Hitting balls that any other day should be strikes.

  There’s only one person to blame.

  Myself.

  I’m off my game.

  If I can just manage to keep St. John’s from scoring any points this last turn at bat, Exeter will win — by a sliver, sure, but I’ll take it if it means salvaging our undefeated record.

  Normally, striking out their final batters would be a simple task. Tonight, it feels more than daunting. The fastballs I’m throwing are sluggish in comparison to my normal speeds. My jaw clenches tighter as the final inning ticks on, tension twisting my insides into knots.

  Hit.

  Hit.

  Hit.

  The first three batters send my pitches soaring into the sky. Before I know it, the bases are loaded. Primed for a home run, which will easily bring them into the lead.

  God damnit.

  They’re going to score.

  They’re going to win.

  St. John’s beating us would an unimaginable upset. For the team, for the town, for me. When the next player steps up to the plate, a confident smile on his face, an unfamiliar sensation ripples through me.

  Fear.

  Fear that I won’t be able to halt their momentum and give us a last minute victory. Fear that I’m not half the player everyone in the crowd seems to think I am.

  I’ve never been insecure in my abilities before. Baseball has always been the one thing I could depend on. Whatever else life threw at me — family teetering on the edge of poverty, pretentious classmates, brother with a penchant for fucking up everything he touches — it didn’t matter. Because I always had baseball.

  My ace in the hole.

  My ticket out of this life.

  I don’t know who I am if I’m not standing on the pitcher’s mound, ball in my hand, crowd cheering madly at my back. The thought that it could all disappear is more frightening than a gun in my face. It shakes me down to the very core.

  I throw again — a curveball, this time.

  It’s a foul, nearly hitting the batter. He jumps back to avoid being slammed in the leg, glaring at me from beneath his helmet.

  Shit.

  The crowd groans their disappointment.

  The umpire looks at me warningly.

  Coach Hamm calls for a time out.

  My teammates gather in a huddle by home plate, the outfi
elders panting from their long jog. I can’t quite meet their eyes, afraid I’ll see disappointment there.

  I’m letting them down.

  I’m letting myself down.

  “Reyes, what’s up with you this week?” Coach asks bluntly. “I’ve never seen you play like this.”

  I blow out a breath. “I’m sorry, Coach. Guess I’m a bit distracted.”

  “Then find a way to focus. I don’t care how.” His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “You have to strike him out. It’s our only shot, here.”

  “I know, Coach.”

  “I don’t need to remind you that there are scouts in the crowd tonight, son. Half the town’s out there. They expect a win. So do I. So do your teammates.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe we should put in the backup pitcher,” Snyder suggests from across the huddle. “Just because Reyes has his period doesn’t mean the rest of us should suffer the consequences.”

  Several of my teammates snigger.

  My jaw clenches in fury.

  God, I’d like to punch that smug smile right off his face.

  “Why don’t you leave the calls to me, Snyder,” Coach scolds. “Focus on your own plays. You haven’t made a single out this entire game.”

  Snyder snorts. “No disrespect, Coach, but it’s tough to do that with Reyes giving up more hits than a battered housewife.”

  “You want to see a real hit?” I hiss, starting forward with full intentions of punching him in the face. That would put a stop to his trash-talk.

  Thankfully, Chris steps in front of me, blocking my path before I can do something that would get me tossed from the game.

  “Not worth it, dude,” he mutters through the cage of his catcher’s mask. “Let it go.”

  “Look, we’re getting out asses handed to us out there!” Coach says, exasperation plain in his voice. “The last thing we need is infighting. I don’t want to hear the words backup pitcher again. Is that clear?”

  My teammates are silent.

  “Win or lose, the final score doesn’t rest on Reyes’ shoulders alone.” Coach Hamm glares at each player in turn, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his emerald green cap. “This is a team. So get back out there and start showing me some damn teamwork.”

  “Yes, Coach!” we all bark in unison.

  “Tag them out. Hold the score. Win the game.”

  “Yes, Coach!” we repeat, louder.

  He holds out his fist. “Wolfpack on three.”

  We all extend our mitts into the center of the huddle. As a group, we chant, “One… two… three… WOLFPACK!”

  My head hangs low as I walk back to the pitcher’s mound. Restless energy radiates through my every nerve ending. Taking my position, I stare at the dirt caked on my cleats. There’s so much pressure resting on my shoulders, it’s difficult to straighten them back to full height.

  The crowd has gone silent, waiting for the game to resume. Waiting for me to throw again. I can feel the weight of their eyes, the density of their anticipation thickening the warm summer air. The sun is starting to set, basking the entire stadium in gold. Behind me, in the outfield, the scoreboard looms menacingly, an irrefutable reminder of the stakes.

  HOME: 7

  AWAY: 6

  Final inning.

  Zero outs.

  Bases loaded.

  I grit my teeth and try to shut out the background noise. Ryan Snyder’s smug presence at first base. Coach’s furrowed brow. My teammates watching from the dugout. The scouts lined up along the fence. My parents’ worried faces in the crowd.

  It all fades into a distant hum.

  But no matter what I do, I can’t quite eradicate the noise inside my soul. I can’t erase the constant feeling that my life has spiraled so far out of control, I might never get it on track again. It’s the sort of distraction no amount of deep breathing can soothe.

  My grip tightens on the ball. My eyes narrow on Chris’ mitt behind home plate. I’m about to throw when, in the hush that’s fallen over the field, I suddenly hear it — a voice, ringing out into the night, clear as the water in the shallows of the cove beyond the boathouse.

  “YOU’VE GOT THIS, ARCHER!”

  My head snaps up, whipping toward the bleachers. I scan the crowd. It takes a minute, but I find her. Everyone else is sitting down, but she’s on her feet, standing tall in the front row. Her long blonde hair hangs loose around her shoulders. Her legs stretch on for a mile in those skimpy cut-off shorts. And her eyes…

  They’re locked on mine.

  She’s here.

  She came.

  Even after I was such an asshole.

  Even though I don’t deserve it.

  When our gazes meet, a slow smile spreads across her face — one reassuring enough to warm me from the inside out. One that seeps into the marrow of my bones and undercuts every bit of anxiety churning through my system.

  “YOU CAN DO THIS!” Jo yells across the distance, not seeming to care that the people around her are turning to stare. I know how much she hates to be the center of attention. But that doesn’t stop her tonight. “SHOW ‘EM WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF, REYES!”

  God, I miss her.

  She’s standing right there, but I miss her so much I can barely breathe. My throat feels like it’s about to close up. I can’t yell back to her; I manage a nod, so she knows I’m listening.

  She nods back, her smile stretching wider. Beside her, the Wadell twins shoot to their feet, two platinum bookends.

  “Ah-woooo!” they howl in unison. “Go Archer! Go Wolfpack!”

  Before long, the entire Exeter section of the bleachers is cheering. Howling like wolves. The sound swells as everyone joins in. I’m sure my parents are somewhere in the mob, screaming their heads off, but I can’t take my eyes off Jo long enough to look.

  “AH-WOOO!” she howls, loud as anyone.

  When I turn away to face home plate, it’s with a refreshed sense of purpose. I feel steadier. In control of myself for the first time since Tuesday. My attention hones in on the catcher’s mitt, pinpointing the precise spot where I need the ball to break. Tracing up the leather seams, finding my target.

  One solitary stitch.

  My grip tightens.

  My arm cocks back.

  My knee hikes up.

  A perfect fastball blasts into Tomlinson’s glove.

  “Strike!” the umpire calls.

  Then another.

  “Strike two!”

  One more.

  “You’re out!”

  The crowd roars.

  A smile twists the corners of my lips as the next batter moves into position at the plate.

  Time to take back what’s mine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  JOSEPHINE

  After the Wolves win the game, the senior class is ready to celebrate. For good reason: it’s been years since Exeter has had an undefeated season; even longer since we’ve been headed into the playoffs with strong odds favoring a State Championship title. And it’s all because of rockstar pitcher Archer Reyes.

  I can’t control the pride that swells my heart nor the stupid smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth as I watch him walk off the field surrounded by his teammates, the crowd roaring his name at top volume. The urge to run to his side is so strong, I have to look away.

  Hundreds of shoes clank against the metal bleachers as spectators flood toward the exits. Ophelia and Odette walk behind me, chattering excitedly about the party. I don’t pay much attention; I’m lost in a daze, my thoughts distracted. I can’t stop thinking about the way Archer looked at me during the final inning. The way his slumped shoulders went straight. The way his face lit up when he saw me there, in the crowd.

  I called his name and he came alive.

  If I had any sense of self-preservation, I would’ve kept silent. I’m under no obligation to cheer him on. Not after last weekend. He made it quite clear he wants to fight his battles without any help from me.

  And yet
…

  Watching him struggle inning after inning… Watching him begin to lose faith in himself with the entire town there to witness it…

  Torture.

  No matter how angry I am at him, no matter how much he’s hurt me, I can’t stand to see Archer in pain. I’d break my own heart a thousand times rather than watch his shatter.

  Is that what it is to love someone? I wonder. Sacrificing your own feelings to protect theirs?

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts as I cross the parking lot, I don’t notice Miguel and Flora until I’ve bumped straight into them. They’re parked one row over from the Range Rover.

  “Josephine!” There are tears in Flora’s eyes, but she’s smiling. “Isn’t it just wonderful? Undefeated!”

  I smile back. “You must be so proud.”

  Miguel’s eyes are red-rimmed. He manages a choked grunt. “Hell of a season they had, huh?”

  Reaching out, I squeeze his arm. “Hell of a son you’ve got.”

  He looks up at the sky, blinking rapidly.

  Flora grabs me in a warm hug and whispers in my ear. “Thank you, for what you did — for calling out to him. You’re always there whenever he’s struggling.”

  I clear my throat awkwardly. “What are friends for?”

  “I don’t know what he’d do without you.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

  Pulling back, she peers into my eyes. As usual, I’m sure she sees far more than she lets on, but she doesn’t say anything. She merely pats my cheek and murmurs, “Don’t stay out too late celebrating, mija.”

  “I won’t.”

  With a nod, she turns back to Miguel. He winks at me before they turn to leave. He slides his arm around her shoulders, steering her gently through the crowd toward their junky old truck — stunningly out of place in an ocean of designer vehicles. My heart pangs as I watch them. They fit perfectly together, their edges aligned like two puzzle pieces.

  “Were those Archer’s parents?” Odette asks from behind me, her voice laced with incredulity.

  I jolt in surprise as I turn back to the twins. I’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. Um… yep, that’s them.”