Game On

by Michelle Smith

  She inhales sharply and stirs. Her eyes flutter open. And despite the tightening in my chest, I can’t help but give her a small smile. I’d be lucky as hell to wake up like this every morning.

  But I can’t. And judging from the cloudiness of her face, she feels the same.

  “I should go.” I say it quietly, but in the stillness of the morning, the words sound louder than a bullhorn.

  She pushes away from me slowly, looking like she’s still trying to wake up. Nodding, she says, “That’s probably a good idea.” She pauses, and adds, “Thank you.”

  “Did it help?” I ask.

  She nods again. And that makes it worth it, even if my stomach’s sinking more and more by the second.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bri

  I wanted him to kiss me.

  I wanted him to lay me back on that couch and kiss me until I couldn’t breathe, until I saw stars, until the sun set and rose again.

  And that’s why I’m so, so glad that he left.

  He’s the boy next door. He’s the guy who shoved a frog in my face when we were eight (which actually kick-started my biology-obsession, but that’s not the point). The one whose loud-ass truck has woken me up more times than I can count. The one who’s an over-confident smart-mouth who hasn’t only rounded the bases multiple times, he’s probably made up his own bases.

  But.

  He’s the one who lets me vent. Who lets me get pissed, and then sits on the porch swing with me in complete silence. Who spends the night with me when there’s a chance he’d be grounded for life. He’s the one who, in his own crazy, redneck boy sort of way, basically went to jail for me. Which was kind of a stupid choice, but he did what he thought was right.

  He hasn’t come near me since he left on Wednesday morning. Three days without each other, even though he’s been right next door the entire time. I should be grateful for that, but honestly? It sucks. I’ve gotten used to having him around. He was right—hanging out with each other makes things suck a little less.

  I walk outside on Saturday morning, the crisp March wind brushing my skin. I love this time of year. Soccer season officially starts next week, right along with baseball season. Which means less time with Eric. Also, his last day at the center is next weekend. Which means even less time together.

  It shouldn’t bother me. Thinking about it shouldn’t make my chest tighten or my stomach clench. But it does.

  His front door closes as I reach my car. He trudges down the porch steps, his hands stuffed into the pocket of his Bulldogs hoodie. There’s no stopping my smile, but I bite it back while he approaches. He left. He avoided me, and for good reason—he was doing both of us a favor. So no grinning or giggling like a girl with a crush.

  “Mornin’, sunshine,” he says, flashing a smile. It’s not his normal grin—it’s careful. Measured, like he’s testing me.

  And now I’m totally grinning like a girl with a crush.

  We drive to the center in silence, except for the music pouring through my speakers. He’s falling into place here now, after a few weeks, smiling and carrying on with the visitors like he’s been here forever.

  Seeing him at the center makes my heart even happier.

  After breakfast, he disappears into Harry’s office while I head outside to the field. He strides out of the building a few minutes later. With a bat. And a baseball tee.

  What.

  Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “You do realize this is a soccer field, right? My turf.”

  His smile doesn’t waver as he plops the tee right in front of me. “Yes. And I also realize that these kids have clearly never been exposed to the magic of baseball. It’s my job to spread the gospel across the nations.”

  “You totally swiped that from the Bible.”

  “Paraphrased, but yeah. Pastor’s kid privileges. I’m allowed.”

  He reaches over and grabs my whistle, which is hanging around my neck. He leans down to blow and sets off a wave of butterflies in my stomach. I would totally be annoyed if I wasn’t staring at his mouth.

  This isn’t going to work.

  The kids run over, cramming together in front of Eric. I might as well be chopped liver.

  He claps his hands together. “All right, you little ankle-biters, here’s the deal: Next week is my last day.”

  There’s a collective groan throughout the group. Eric hangs his head, a tiny smile threatening his lips. And—is he blushing? Since when is Eric Perry a blusher?

  “That’s not fair,” Brantley says. “I was just starting to like you.”

  Oh, my heart. How about making it sink a little more?

  Eric points the bat at him. “And that, kid, is why you get to hit the ball first. We’ve got two Saturdays to turn you into an all-star.”

  Brantley’s face falls slightly. He glances around at the others who are now watching him. He’s only eight, but he’s been their ringleader for as long as I’ve been here. His cheeks flush a bit as he says, “I’ve never hit a baseball.”

  Eric jerks his head, signaling him over. “Then it’s now my life mission to make sure you know how to smack the he—”

  I shoot him a glare.

  “The heck out of a ball,” he finishes, holding my gaze. I’ve never known someone could smile through their eyes, but he’s proving that it’s incredibly possible. He gestures for Brantley to come over. “Out of the way,” he tells the others. “The last thing I need is one of y’all to get beaned in the head.”

  And there’s the Eric I know and love.

  Wait. Time out. Terrible word choice.

  Brantley steps to the batting tee, his usual confidence long-gone as Eric hands him the bat. But Eric guides his hands, relaxes his arms, perfects his stance, all while telling him what an awesome job he’s doing and that he’s gonna be smacking grand slams in no time.

  It’s adorable.

  It’s sweet.

  He’s trouble.

  Not because he’s bad. Not because I should be scared of him. He’s trouble because he’s quicksand. I’ve already dipped one foot in, and I don’t think I’ve made it all the way out. I’m not sure if I can.

  The bat clinks, snapping me back to the moment as the ball rolls across the field. Eric gives Brantley a high-five as the other kids cheer, piling in for their own turns. Eric takes the bat from Brantley, holding it out to me. “Your turn.”

  Taking a step back, I cross my arms. “Yeah, no. I’m so not a hitter.”

  “Then it’s your lucky day—I’m giving out lessons.” He lifts his eyebrows and gestures to the tee. “Lead by example. The kids are waiting.”

  He’s so gonna pay for this.

  I take the bat and move to the tee, doing my best to square up properly. In Lewis Creek, baseball is practically a religion; every kid grows up watching it. Actually knowing how to play is an entirely different story. But how hard can it be? Bat, meet ball. Boom.

  “Your stance is horrible, Johnson.” Eric’s at my side, literally cringing while staring at my feet. He moves toward me, holding out his hands. “Can I?”

  I shrug, signaling for him to do whatever.

  He grasps my hips, his touch light but sure, and shifts me slightly to the side. And that’s all it takes for my breath to catch.

  Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

  He leans in, his chest against my back as his hands move down my arms, sliding until they rest on top of my own. “Move this hand up a little,” he murmurs, repositioning my grip.

  If he keeps talking about hands moving, I’m going to tell him exactly where to put those hands.

  Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

  The heat of his body disappears, leaving nothing but scorched skin and a pounding pulse behind. And something about a perfect stance.

  I no longer give a flying crap about batting stances. I just want him pressed against me again, and again, and again.

  “There,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Prettiest batter I’ve ever seen.”

  Trouble
. Trouble.

  Sweet.

  My cheeks flush even hotter as I bite back a smile. I swing, hitting the ball dead-center and sending it soaring. The kids whoop as I drop the bat and whirl around to find a grinning Eric. And for the second time in less than five minutes, breathing is a total lost cause.

  Definitely sweet. And definitely trouble.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eric

  I walk into the kitchen on Sunday morning, where Emma’s sitting on the counter, popping blueberries into her mouth while Momma stands over a sizzling griddle. She and Dad got back in last night, gloriously unaware that I broke parole a few nights ago. I plop into my chair at the table, where today’s paper is front and center.

  Dog Fight: Will Bulldogs’ Tension Doom Tomorrow’s Season Opener?

  This week’s picture is me and Matt, during our standoff at the field a few weeks ago. Which means that the boosters weren’t just there to watch the practice—they were watching me. What the picture doesn’t mention is that Matt had just done the worst thing someone can possibly do: talk shit about my family. But the shot of me right in his face shows the readers everything the boosters want them to see.

  I flip the paper over. “Do we really need the paper every week?” I ask. “That’s what the internet is for.”

  Momma reaches past me to snatch the paper, and tosses it into the trash can. Squeezing my shoulders, she says, “Don’t let ’em get to you.”

  I twirl the fork in front of me. “Too late. They already got me.”

  “I like you, Eric!” Emma says from the countertop.

  I force a smile. “Thanks, Em.”

  Momma sighs and kisses the top of my head, her hands lingering on my shoulders. Thank God she and Dad got home last night, because if they’re still talking about me in the paper, there’s no telling what I’ll face at church. After all the ups and downs this week with Bri, I don’t know if I’d be able to take it on my own.

  Dudes can have feelings, too.

  “Maybe I should just quit,” I mumble.

  “Are you a quitter?” Momma asks. She moves back to the stove, letting her question linger. Probably because she already knows the answer.

  Perrys aren’t quitters. It’s not even an option. We may get knocked down and dragged out, but that doesn’t mean we’re gonna stay on the ground.

  Dad comes into the room and settles into his seat, looking more refreshed than I’ve seen him in a long time. I guess a week away from this place can do that for a person.

  He clears his throat. “Spoke to Mr. Winthrop a little while ago. He said things sounded good this week, when he checked in on you.” He tilts his head to the side. “Were things good this week?”

  My jaw locks. Is this a trick question, or—?

  I nod slowly. “Things were good,” I say, taking a sip of juice.

  He purses his lips. Considers that. “So things were good at Bri’s house on Tuesday night?”

  I spit my OJ clear across the table.

  Surprising the hell out of me, Dad laughs and tosses me his napkin. “You’ve gotta be more careful when you sneak around, son. Parking in the Johnsons’ driveway when you knew Mrs. Winthrop was doing drive-by check-ins? Letting her see you waiting at Bri’s door? I thought you were better than that.”

  Two things: First, Mrs. Winthrop is a Grade-A detective. Second, Dad is laughing. I went out while I was under house arrest, and now he’s laughing. What the hell happened in North Carolina? Did he hang out with a hippie colony for the week? He’s not a super hard-ass—he’s actually lightened up a lot since the whole Brett fiasco last year—but I’m not entirely convinced that this is my dad and not a shapeshifter.

  Clearly the Supernatural binge-athon still hasn’t worn off.

  “So,” I drawl, “I’m not in trouble?”

  Blowing out a breath, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You probably should be. But since the last few weeks have been pretty blessedly quiet, I think you deserve a pass. Consider the grounding officially lifted.” Momma moves to his side, setting a mug of coffee in front of him. Kisses his cheek. Flashes me a wink.

  I don’t know what happened in North Carolina, but if this is how they come back? They need to take more vacations.

  ~

  So, that thing about church feeling like a fiery abyss? Not too far from the truth, when your picture’s in the paper the day before the first game of the season. Momma leads the way as we walk into the foyer, but somehow, all eyes find me. But my head’s high. Grin’s on.

  Let’s do this.

  As always, Momma branches off to take Emma to her class. And as always, Grace and I head to our usual pew. I glance around the sanctuary, spotting Bri way across the room, at the end of the far right section. She must have some sixth sense about people staring at her, because she looks over. Catches my eye. Smiles. I offer a small wave. What else are you going to do when you get caught staring like an idiot?

  “Oh, my God,” Grace says under her breath. I turn to her. “Don’t look beside us.”

  Naturally, I look beside us.

  But I don’t see anything “Oh, my God”-worthy—just Ms. Thelma and Ms. Mildred talking in the aisle. And—oh. Ms. Thelma looking at me and my sister. Smiling. Turning her back to us.

  “They just said your name,” Grace whispers.

  I sit still and try to tune out the rest of the congregation and focus on the two women in the aisle, but only pick out bits and pieces of the conversation, thanks to Mr. Joyner’s booming voice behind me.

  “Poor Pastor.”

  “Gay kid.”

  “Anger problems.”

  “Those short dresses.”

  “Excuse me?”

  That makes me whirl around. Momma stands in the middle of the aisle, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed. You know how Moses parted the Red Sea? Moses wishes the sea would have parted as quickly as the people in that aisle.

  “Holy crap,” Grace whispers, but I’m too stunned to say anything. Never in my life has Momma so much as raised her voice in church.

  She takes a step forward, pointing at Ms. Thelma. “Let me tell you somethin’—”

  Dad appears out of nowhere, grabbing her by the shoulders. He whispers something into her ear. Momma straightens her shirt and takes a deep breath. “I’m going to say this once,” she says, much more calmly. “You can say all you want about me, but my kids? Off limits.” And just as cool as ever, she takes her seat beside Grace. Stares straight ahead. Doesn’t say another word.

  It sucks, to be reminded how much some people hate you. It’s even worse to be reminded how much they hate your family in general. But it’s pretty damn awesome to be reminded that you’ve still got people in your corner.

  ~

  After church, I head straight to the batting cages. The last thing I want, or need, is to look any of those people in the face. But as soon as I walk inside the building, it’s not the cashier that I see. It’s Bri.

  She’s leaning back against the counter, still in her church dress and wool coat, with boots that stretch over those legs that go on for days. As nice as it is to see her, I wasn’t expecting to look her in the face, either. Not today.

  She tilts her head to the side. “I know we’re officially avoiding each other,” she says, “but I wanted to make sure you were okay after this morning.”

  Shoving my hands into the pockets of my khakis, I close the distance between us. “You heard?”

  She nods. “I’m sorry. I’m surprised your mom didn’t go all Hulk.”

  She probably would have, if Dad hadn’t stepped in. “It’s okay. Just a reminder that I’m not good enough for these folks. No big deal.” I clear my throat and slide a ten to the cashier, some sophomore kid from school. “You stayin’ or goin’?” I ask Bri. I may not be the best company, but I’m not gonna tell her to get lost, either.

  Her eyes widen briefly. “Um, staying? I guess?”

  “Two, please,” I tell the guy, and take the tokens.
I grab a bat for each of us and head across the room, to the cage by the wall. This place is always crawling with kids on Sunday, but we beat the after-church rush. I like kids well enough, but I can’t take the screeching today.

  “How’d you know to find me here?” I ask.

  “You’ve come here every Sunday afternoon for years. It wasn’t hard to guess.” She stops at the door to the cage. Studies me for a moment. “I know what it’s like, you know,” she adds. “Trying to be everything for everyone. It’s exhausting.”

  She nailed it. “So what do you do?”

  “I do stuff for me. Like soccer, and the center. I always thought I’d be done with the center after getting my volunteer hours, but…” She trails off, shrugging a shoulder. “I don’t know. It became—”

  “More,” I finish for her, because I’m becoming all too aware of simple things becoming more than what they’re supposed to be. What they should be. Like the way the girl next door is making me want more. More than just getting by. More than what others say about me. More than what I say about me.

  More of her.

  She nods. “Yeah,” she says. “More.” And the way she says it, the way she’s looking at me, I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking the exact same thing.

  But more isn’t always a good thing. She deserves more than someone like me. More than what I can—or can’t—give her.

  As much as it kills me to even think the words, Matt was right. So was Laura. I’m a nobody. I’m a shadow. I’m second best. Not even close to boyfriend material. And Bri’s worth so much more than someone who’s second-best. More than a charity case. More than someone who needs to be fixed, and who’s going to take an awful lot of work to be fixed.

  But if she’s going to hang around, then I’ll take what I can get. I tug the helmet onto her head. And immediately burst out laughing. The thing’s twice the size she needs.

  She steps inside the cage and slips the tokens into the machine. “For the record, I’m still not sure I’d consider myself a hitter. Though I did have a really good teacher yesterday.”

  Yesterday was heaven on freakin’ earth. Any excuse to put my hands on hers, to let them linger on her hips, is something I’ll eat up any day of the week. I lean onto the cage, lacing my fingers through the chain link. “We should make it a regular thing, then. One-on-one private lessons. Think of it as payback for all the soccer you’ve made me play these last few weeks.”