Game On

by Michelle Smith

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eric

  My room’s still dark when I hear the voice at my open window: “Get up.”

  The voice is way too pretty to belong to a thief. I yank the blanket off my head. Bri’s leaning just inside my room, her arms crossed on the windowsill. I left the window open to cool off, not for random people to stop by and say “hey” for Christ’s sake. That’s one thing I can say she’s never done before.

  I pull the blanket back over my head. “You can’t camp at my window,” I mumble. “That’s stage-five clinger level.”

  “You said you wanted to be my running buddy? Well, I’m running, buddy, so get up.”

  “I don’t know if you remember, but I had a shitty night that I’m still sleeping off.”

  “Yeah, you had a shitty night. That you took out on me. But the sun’s coming up, so shake it off and make today better. Meet me in the driveway. And bring your music.”

  She has a point, but the girl’s insane. So am I, apparently, considering I roll out of bed. Get changed into gym shorts and a hoodie. Pad down the hall, where Emma’s singing in her room. She always does that—you know your time is limited when she starts getting louder and louder. Eventually, she just comes and jumps on you if she gets tired of waiting.

  Bri is a lying liar who lies. I love the cool air of March mornings, so that’s not so bad, but the sun’s still snoozing. Which means I could still be snoozing. But she’s waiting at the edge of my driveway, stretching her legs, ready to run.

  I stop at the road, shoving my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. “I don’t think this—”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. None of that. No negativity on my runs. Earbuds in, music cranked. We’re running off the rage. Let’s go.”

  What the actual hell did I get myself into? I pull out my phone, find my workout playlist, put in my earbuds, and gesture for her to go ahead of me. I fall into step beside her, steadily keeping pace. She’s definitely slowing herself down for my sake, which would be embarrassing if I didn’t kind of appreciate it.

  The world’s silent this time of morning. The sun’s finally creeping up, a thin sliver of orange hinting at the horizon. My sneakers smack against the pavement, the steady thump thump thump somewhat hypnotizing along with Metallica blaring in my ears.

  Out here, the rest of the world disappears. Out here, it’s just me. Out here, nothing else matters. And I wish to all that’s holy that I could keep this clear head every other minute of the day.

  But unfortunately we circle back to our houses. The real world comes back into focus, a world with glares and gossip and people who legit boo at others. The real world is a sucker punch to the jaw.

  I yank the buds out of my ears. “Thanks,” I breathe. “I needed that.” I pause. “About last night—”

  She holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear sorrys. I want to see you do better. That’s it.”

  “What, better on the field? Trust me, I’d love to do better.”

  “Better on yourself.” She points to the highway. “Screw what they think, Eric. You want to play? Play. Don’t let them take it away from you.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  She steps forward, her hands on her hips. “Sorry, I don’t understand what? The pressure? The staring? The gossip? Tell me again that I don’t understand the gossip, after everyone’s been calling me a slut because they’ve seen me with you a few times. Or that I don’t understand the pressure, when I’ve been competing with the school’s beloved center fielder for top of our class for years. Or the staring, when I’m trying to kick ass on the soccer field and guys are popping in just to see how well the whore can really move. And yes—I’ve heard them say exactly that.”

  And now I may have to kill someone. Or a lot of someones. I swallow hard. “What I meant,” I say, “is that you don’t understand what it’s like to let everyone down. These people—they live and breathe baseball. You know that. And now they’re stuck with me.” Until Coach benches me, anyway. Which, after last night, is inevitable. No way will the boosters let him keep me as starter.

  She tilts her head to the side. “I’ve been stuck with you for most of our lives. And for what it’s worth, I actually kind of like you.”

  She starts up the driveway, toward her house. I can’t help but smile. Actually-kind-of-liking-me is worth a lot. “But that doesn’t mean they will,” I say, coming up beside her. “They don’t give a shit about me. I’m not the one they cheer for. I’m the one they bet against.”

  She blows out a breath and stops, leaning against the back of her car. “You’re killin’ me here. You don’t need them to cheer for you. You need to play. That’s it. End of story.” She stares me straight in the eyes. “Screw. Them. Stop wallowing.”

  “I’m not wallowing.”

  “You are so wallowing. Just because they treat you like crap doesn’t mean you should treat yourself like crap.” She looks me up and down, her lips curving into a slight smile. “Do you play for the cheers, or because you love the game?”

  “Pretty sure you already know the answer to that.”

  She shrugs. “Life sucks sometimes. And some people really suck. But the world’s full of enough jerky people.” She shakes her head. “Don’t be one of them.”

  I don’t want to be one of the sucky people, or one of the jerky people. I want to go to school, to play ball, and to get out of this town without people giving me death glares in the hallways.

  But we don’t always get what we want.

  ~

  School sucked. Actually, it didn’t just suck—it was a pile of suckage sitting on top of a pile of crap. The only reason I make it to practice is so I can give Coach the chance to let me have it. To bench me, or kick me off the team, or whatever he wants to do.

  The boosters are in the bleachers again when I shove through the gate and head toward the dugout. Coach looks over his shoulder from his place in the outfield. Spots me. Starts in my direction.

  Here we go. It was nice while it lasted.

  I drop my gear bag onto the dugout’s bench. I don’t bother digging my glove out; I won’t be here for long, anyway. Coach steps into the dugout, where the noise from the parking lot and practice is subdued. Stopping in front of me, he pulls off his sunglasses. Stares. Waits.

  And the only thing I can think to say is, “I’m sorry.”

  His eyebrows draw together. “Come again?”

  “About last night,” I tell him. “I fu—screwed up. If you don’t want me to be primary starter anymore, I get it. I do.”

  He folds his arms across his chest. “Did I say that?”

  My mouth hangs open. “Well, no, but—”

  “Exactly. So don’t put words in my mouth. Where’s your glove?”

  I point to my bag. I swear, I remember how to talk. Just not right now.

  He gapes at me. “What’re you waiting for? Get it out. We’ll walk and talk.”

  Yes, sir. I dig through my bag until my fingers brush across the cool leather, and follow him out of the dugout.

  “Here’s the thing,” he begins, his voice low. “No one ever got better by sittin’ on a bench. So I could pull you out, or I could give you the chance to get better. Which would you rather I do?”

  While my answer to that may be clear cut, I have a feeling the men in the bleachers have a different opinion. I glance over my shoulder, but Coach grabs the nape of my neck, urging me to keep walking.

  “None of that’ll help you,” he continues. “Keep your eyes off them and their voices out of your head.”

  Clearly, he and Bri went to the same How to Give Pep Talks meeting this morning. “I know you want to win,” I tell him. “And I don’t know if I’m the one who can do it for you.”

  “Of course I want to win. And I can win with you, if you keep your head on straight.” He pauses at the edge of the outfield, where the others are still stretching. Watching us. Waiting. Coach moves in front of me, blocking both their views and mine. “Yo
u know, it’s awful hard to beat someone who doesn’t give up.”

  Lowering my head, I grin. “Babe Ruth. He was pretty damn good.”

  “So are you.”

  I lift my gaze to him. He looks me dead in the eye and adds, “Don’t you dare give up, son. You hear me?”

  I manage a nod. He moves aside, allowing me to go on to the others as he shouts, “We’re gonna have some fun today, fellas! Put some work into those stretches.”

  When your coach says “we’re gonna have fun,” that’s the last thing you’re going to have. I jog to the lineup, falling in at the end of the line. Right as I drop to the ground, I spot Mr. Joyner heading straight for Coach. He’s pissed—about what, I have no clue—but something’s got his face as red as a fresh beet. But when Coach waves him off and moves away, his glare lands right on me. And I’m legit surprised that steam isn’t rising off his skin.

  I don’t think I’m the only one who expected Coach to bench me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eric

  The good thing about bombing a game is that we get another chance two days later.

  The bad thing about bombing a game is that we get another chance two days later.

  The sky’s gray and overcast and downright depressing as I walk onto the field Wednesday afternoon. I managed to get here before anyone else—anyone other than Coach, anyway. He’s sitting on the dugout’s bench, scribbling away on that clipboard of his. It’s different out here before all the fanfare kicks into gear. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The way a sanctuary should be.

  Coach glances up when I step into the dugout. “Perry. Sit.”

  I do, catching a glimpse of his clipboard and the game’s lineup, with my name right at the top. And I don’t know why a surge of relief rushes through me, but it does. Maybe because it feels really damn good to know he still believes in me, when I’m not even sure I believe in myself.

  The clipboard clatters as he sets it beside him. He leans back against the bench, staring out at the field. “You ready for tonight?” he asks.

  Nope. “Ready as I’m gonna be,” I tell him.

  “Good of an answer as any.” He nods toward the field. “There’s been talk, Eric. Talk that I don’t involve myself in, and that I sure as hell don’t listen to.”

  There’s no telling what he’s heard. But I have a feeling some of it has to do with Mr. Joyner’s ambush at practice yesterday. I stay quiet, waiting for him to keep going.

  “I don’t need you to be perfect,” he says. “I don’t need you to be the best.”

  “No offense,” I cut in, “but that kind of goes against everything you’ve ever taught us.” For the first time, he looks over. “You’ve always told us that we are the best. That we should play that way.”

  He holds my gaze. “I don’t need you to be the best,” he repeats. “I need you to be your best.”

  That sounds nice. It sounds good. It sounds like one of those perfectly scripted pep talks from the movies. But what happens when my best flat-out might not be good enough? “It’s tough,” I say after a moment. “The pressure. The spotlight. It’s hard as hell. And I don’t know if I can handle it.”

  “You can,” he says with zero uncertainty. “I didn’t say it would be easy. But it’ll be damn well worth it.”

  Footsteps come toward us, and he pushes to his feet as Kellen and Blake appear at the dugout’s opening. Kellen drops his bag onto the bench, his eyebrows pulled together as he looks from me to Coach. “You all right?”

  I nod, standing.

  Blake slaps my shoulder while dropping his own bag. “Good, ’cause one loss is enough for me. I didn’t sit on the bench all last year to blow a bunch of games.”

  That’s one way to look at it.

  A line of other guys stream into the dugout, with Matt bringing up the rear. I train my eyes on my bag, focusing on digging out my glove. The last thing I need is to deal with him right now.

  “Perry.” He obviously didn’t get the memo. I glance up, finding him right in front of me. “Ready to choke out again?”

  The dugout falls silent. I can feel a dozen gazes trained on me, with Coach’s practically boring a hole into the back of my head. There’s only one reason he wouldn’t have kicked Matt’s ass out of here: he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. And I can’t blow it. Not this time.

  So I squeeze my hands closed. Take a deep breath and say, “Anyone ever told you how teams work, Harris? You trash the other team. Not your own, dumbass.” And I brush past him on my way out of the dugout, away from the silence, away from the audience. Because I’ve got some people to prove wrong out there tonight, and I need to work my backside off to do it.

  ~

  By the time I reach the mound, the gray sky’s opened just enough for a cool drizzle. I tug the brim of my cap, shielding my face. Despite Monday night’s disappointment, the stands are still packed, with fans cooped up beneath their umbrellas. My parents are in their same spots right up front, but they’ve got an extra person squeezed in between them and Grace:

  Bri.

  She’s got Emma on her lap, pointing at the field. At me. And she’s smiling, this crazy-bright smile that’s even crazier because she’s looking at me while she’s doing it.

  Wow.

  Inhaling deeply, I turn my attention to Blake and the batter stepping to the plate. The dude’s huge, even taller than me or my brother, with an ego I can feel all the way out here.

  Blake signals for a fastball, which is as good of a start as any. So I wind up. Send the ball flying. It hits Blake’s mitt, its smack against the leather like a gunshot. And it’s the greatest damn sound I’ve ever heard.

  The crowd claps, but it’s nothing compared to the roars this team is used to. And as much as I kind of hate myself for it, my ears crave those roars. Their approval shouldn’t matter. But it does. So when Blake signals for another fastball, I fire my best straight into his mitt; the batter never saw it coming. A changeup rounds out the at-bat, sending the guy packing. Now I just have to get through seven innings of that. No big deal.

  ~

  Needless to say, I have not had seven innings to match the first. When I stride to the mound at the top of the seventh, we’re barely winning, 8-7. Awesome: We’ve scored eight runs. Not awesome: I’ve allowed seven.

  My arm hurts like a bastard. I rotate it a few times, praying it holds out for just a little longer. I’ve never wished that Coach would take me out of a game, but I guess there really is a first time for everything.

  Blake gets into position behind the mound, signaling that he’s ready when the first batter comes to the plate. As always, Blake signals to start off with the fastball, but, no. Not this time. I give him a subtle shake of my head. There’s a reason these guys have all smacked the hell out of the ball today—they know a fastball is coming first. Blake pauses, no doubt because I’ve knocked him completely off balance with the change, and finally signals curveball.

  And now I have to pause. A stray curveball is what screwed me over the other night. A stray curveball is why I’ve got a price on my head. Coach’s words from yesterday echo in my head: It’s awful hard to beat someone who doesn’t give up.

  Perrys aren’t quitters.

  Taking a deep breath, I nod once. Grip the ball just right. Wind up and let it go.

  It hits Blake’s glove with a smack heard ’round the world. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

  Two more. Just two more. Two more and it’s over.

  I repeat it to myself as the next batter comes to the plate, the other team’s start-off-hitting beast of a dude. Blake must have caught on to my fastball epiphany, because instead of the trusty fastball signal, he goes for a slider.

  Wind up. Pitch. Blake catches it effortlessly. Holy shit, this game may actually end.

  The next two pitches hit Blake’s glove with glorious accuracy. And when the final batter comes to the plate—because he will be the final batter—my heart’s ready to jump out of my chest. I ready myself on the mound, wa
iting for Blake’s signal. Which is a fastball.

  I shake my head. He signals fastball again. I shake my head again.

  Fastball.

  Dude—no.

  Finally, I jerk my head, signaling him to get his ass to the mound. He pulls up his mask and jogs over, his face drenched in sweat. Before I can get a word in, he says, “You haven’t thrown a fastball in six pitches. It’ll confuse the hell out of him. Trust me.”

  My mouth drops open to argue, but he might have a point. I nod once, and he heads back to the catcher’s box. I swear to all that’s holy, if I screw this up, it’s his head on the chopping block with mine. But part of the pitcher-catcher partnership is actually being a partnership.

  So I wind up and let the fastball fly. The batter slices nothing but air.

  Blake signals for another fastball. Narrowing my eyes, I shake my head. He repeats the signal. Blowing out a breath, I go for it. And it goes straight into his glove.

  One more strike. One more. One. More.

  Time for a changeup? It’s got to be time for a changeup.

  Blake signals changeup. And now, I think we might have something going here.

  A bead of sweat escapes from my hair and falls down my cheek, mingled with the rain still drenching the field. I glance to the bleachers, where, despite the rain, most of the crowd’s on their feet, umbrellas forgotten.

  Here goes nothin’.

  I wind up. Release the ball, praying it finds its mark.

  It does. The crowd goes freakin’ wild. And just like that, my name gets wiped off the hit list.

  Right on cue, the sky spills open. Blake yanks up his mask and yells “I told you so!” as I run to home plate. I launch myself at the genius, grabbing him in a hug. The rest of the guys pour in, their whoops and hollers drowning out the cheers from the bleachers.

  This is why I love this damn game.

  We fall into the post-game lineup with the other team, shaking their hands while rain soaks our uniforms and chills us to the bone. Forget Cloud 9—adrenaline’s got me soaring to Cloud 99.

  After grabbing my gear bag, I head for the bleachers. My parents are still waiting, Dad holding the umbrella for Momma. Bri’s got Emma on her back, her eyes bright and her smile even brighter.