Game On

by Michelle Smith

She yanks off her beanie, and her hair spills across her face. I’d kill to run my fingers through that hair. The longer I stare at her, the more I’m convinced that no girl has ever been prettier.

  I’m not supposed to fall for anyone—I told myself that after last year, when Rachel was the third girl in a row to screw around on me. I’m sure as hell not supposed to fall for the girl next door, the one who deserves more than someone like me. But I am. I’d be an idiot to try to say that I’m not.

  She shifts beside me, snapping me back to the moment. Minutes pass—maybe hours, I have no freakin’ clue. But right now, I’d give anything for time to stop. Because for the first time in over a year, all I want is a girl’s head on my shoulder, a hand in mine, someone to hold and to kiss and to just be with for more than one night. And not just any girl—this girl.

  For the first time in over a year, I want to believe that happiness is an actual thing.

  She moves way too soon, lifting her face to look directly at mine. “I wished,” she says, “that I could let you put your arm around me. That I could fall asleep beside you under a sky full of stars without being terrified, like we used to.” She sighs heavily. “And I wished that our exes hadn’t royally screwed us over, and that we weren’t so scared of trusting people again. Then we could be okay with giving each other a chance.”

  My mouth drops open. I have no clue what to say to that. Even if I did, she doesn’t give me a chance to tell her. The blanket falls, sending my heart to the pit of my stomach. She scoots to the edge of the tailgate, calling “Goodnight, Eric” over her shoulder.

  Scratch that—she takes my heart with her. And I need that heart, damn it.

  She’s already reached her lawn by the time I say, “Wait.”

  She stops. Turns. I push to my feet and hop off the tailgate. “Maybe wishes do come true,” I tell her. “Just not the way we expect.”

  She lets out a breathless laugh. “Your optimism is showing.”

  My lips twitch. “Maybe the world needs a little more optimism.”

  She smiles. “Goodnight.” And she turns back to her house, leaving me alone in the middle of my driveway, alone under a wide open sky and millions of stars. She may not have given me time to come up with an answer, but now I have one.

  That I’ll hold her any night she wants me to. That I trust her more than anything. That I would definitely take a chance on her. And that I really wish she would take a chance on me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bri

  He let me walk away. For the first time in months, I was able to walk away without someone chasing me, or texting me, or calling me names. And while it may not have seemed like a big deal to Eric, it meant more than he could ever know.

  I don’t want to be chased. I need room to find my own way. And he’s giving it to me.

  I head inside my house, careful not to let the door squeak on my way in. Which isn’t necessary, considering Dad is sitting on the couch, watching TV in the dark. Or maybe not exactly watching—the volume’s muted. His eyes are on me. And even though he’s been majorly hit or miss for nearly a year, the look on his face is clear.

  It’s the Dad Look.

  He tilts his head toward the couch and says, “Sit.”

  And now we have the Dad Voice.

  I probably should sit—he’s my dad, for crying out loud—but it’s kind of hard to take him seriously when I can count the number of conversations I’ve had with him in the past month on one hand. Sure, he calls from time to time, but a five-minute “I’m in Fresno” call doesn’t exactly give you time to chat about life.

  I love my dad, but he knows nothing about me. So I don’t budge.

  He sighs heavily. Leans forward, placing his head in his hands. “You’re making a big mistake here, darlin’.”

  “Stop,” I tell him. I’m not even sure where the word comes from, and apparently he doesn’t either—his head snaps up.

  My throat tightens. “You don’t get to do this,” I manage to say. My voice is shaky, and I sound more like a scared eight-year-old, but when things need to be said, there’s always a way. “You don’t get to leave and come back, leave and come back, leave and come back, and then try to tell me what to do when you know nothing about anything. You don’t get to pick and choose when you’re my dad.”

  I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Words are our most powerful weapons; they can either build us up or completely shatter us. And even in the darkness, it’s easy to see Dad’s face shatter. But the sad part is that while I may regret the words, I meant every one of them.

  Minutes pass before I finally walk out of the room, leaving him alone in the darkness. And I think I regret that even more.

  ~

  Sunrises bring new beginnings. New chances to make things right. So when I step into the kitchen the next morning to eat before my morning run, relief surges through me at the sight of Dad at the table. He nods toward the seat I used for so many dinners back when things were normal around here. Back when we were our own tiny little family. Sure, it was only two of us, but that was all we needed. And I miss it.

  The chair scratches against the linoleum as I sit across from him. He’s aged so much in the past year: gray hair, a beard that’s gaining speed on a backwoods fisherman, and wrinkles scattered all across his face. But his eyes are the same, eyes that are so much like my own. Those eyes are home to me. They always will be.

  He clears his throat. Glances at the table, where his hands are folded. “Life—” He clears his throat again and leans onto the table. “We do what we have to do to get by,” he says. He shrugs, and suddenly, he looks more exhausted than I’ve ever seen him.

  Maybe that’s why he hardly ever talks—words can be exhausting. Especially when they’re words you’ve held in for way too long.

  “I love you, Little Bit,” he continues, his lips twitching into the slightest of smiles. “And I know I’ve missed a lot, and I hate myself for it. Probably not as much as you hate me, but—”

  I cut him off with a shake of my head. “I could never hate you, Dad. Annoyed, yeah. Pissed, sometimes. Sad, sure. But I could never hate you.”

  He presses his lips into a thin line. “I do it all for you. You know that, right?”

  Even though being alone sucks, and even though I’d be more than happy eating ramen noodles and frozen pizza for the rest of my life if it meant having him here, I do know. I know he works his butt off. I know he did what he had to do. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  Despite that, I nod. “Yeah,” is all I say.

  He heaves a sigh. “Eric Perry—”

  “Is a good guy.” I stand and cross the room, pausing at his chair.

  “He’s loud.”

  “This is true.”

  “He’s obnoxious.”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “He’s—”

  “He’s a good guy who’s been here for me when—” I almost say when you haven’t been, but catch myself. “He’s been here for me when things got really, really bad,” I finish. Wrapping my arm across his shoulders, I kiss his cheek.

  He winces. “But it’s Eric Perry.” His deep voice verges on a whine, which almost makes me giggle, but I rein it in. He looks to me, his gaze meeting mine. “You remember how to hit if he tries anything, right? I did teach you that much. Keep your thumb outside—”

  I kiss his cheek again, silencing him. “Good talk, Dad.”

  Eric

  I’ve never had any interest at all in soccer. Like, at all. But when we enter into our second hour of baseball practice on Monday afternoon and I glance at the parking lot from my place on the mound, I’m jealous of all the people at today’s game. And judging from Blake’s attention darting from me to the lot and back to me, it’s safe to say he feels the same.

  He’s got the hots for a red-headed goalie. My eyes crave the power kicker. But we’re stuck beneath our own field lights, doing blocking and receiving drills until my arm falls off becaus
e our attention’s anywhere but here, and we’re not the only ones who’ve noticed.

  Coach catching you distracted is never a good thing.

  He stands to the side with his arms crossed as I toss another ground ball to Blake. Another. Another. Another. It’s fifty degrees with wind gusting all over the place, but sweat soaks through my undershirt as Blake lofts the ball back to me.

  “You look tired, Perry,” Coach calls. “You got somewhere else you want to be?”

  Poker face. I shake my head. “No, sir.” Toss.

  He looks to Blake as he blocks the grounder. “What about you, Thompson? Your eyes are dartin’ all over the place.”

  Blake sniffles loudly. Throws the ball back to me. “Yeah,” he says, an edge to his voice. “We wanted to catch some of the soccer game.”

  I hang my head and groan. Damn it, dude.

  Coach nods toward the parking lot. “All right, fine. Go.”

  Blake blocks my next toss. Glances to Coach. “R-really?”

  Coach’s “Hell, no” can probably be heard in the next county. He blows his whistle, making me wince while he rounds up the guys. “All of y’all, get over here.”

  Shit.

  “That’s it,” he says as they file in. “There ya go. Line it up at the plate.” He jerks his thumb to the plate, gesturing for me to fall into line, too. “We hit in baseball, in case y’all have forgotten. So unless you wanna go play soccer, we’re hittin’, boys. And you’re not going anywhere until every last one of you has five to your name.”

  My head low, I start toward the plate, using my arm to wipe the sweat from my forehead. Coach steps into my path. “What does soccer have to do with baseball?”

  My throat tightens. “Nothing, sir.”

  He pats my shoulder. “Head on straight when you’re on this field, son. You’ve got a game at Beaufort tomorrow; you need every minute of practice you can get.” He tilts his head. “Back of the line. You’re hittin’ seven before you leave.”

  ~

  Luckily, we’re a team of damn good hitters.

  Blake, Kellen, and I make our way across the lot, reaching the soccer field with two minutes left on the game clock. It’s not much, but hey, I’ll take what I can get. Because legs. Lots of legs.

  The three of us line up along the chain-link fence, hanging over the top. Their games aren’t nearly as crowded as ours—in fact, the bleachers are maybe a third full—and they’re a heck of a lot quieter. But the girls are running like crazy out there, darting back and forth like it’s as natural as breathing.

  Kellen leans over to say, “Legs on number three. Check ’em.”

  I do—number three’s a tall black girl, a junior named Jasmine. I glance at Kellen out the corner of my eye. “What’s going on with Tasha?”

  He shakes his head with a shrug. “Nothing. It’s been nothing for a long time. That’s the problem.” He relaxes onto the fence. “She called last night and said she wants a break to ‘look’ while she’s up in Columbia. Which is fine by me. I’m gonna look down here.”

  Makes sense.

  Jasmine kicks the ball, sending it soaring until it drops in front of Bri. Bri dodges one defender, and darts between two more before kicking the ball so hard, I’m surprised it’s still in one piece. It slams against the back of the net, not even giving the goalie a chance.

  Game.

  She jogs across the field, where she leaps into Becca’s arms, wrapping her legs around her hips. Jealousy surges through me. I wanna hug her too, dang it.

  The girls file off the field, red-faced and beaming and sweaty as all get-out. Bri’s shining brighter than the rest of them. And when her eyes land on me, I swear, she downright glows. Really not making this “friends” thing easy when I all I want to do is scoop her up.

  And then her dad steps into her path. Because of course.

  She shrieks excitedly before throwing her arms around his neck, and she’s so freakin’ happy that I can’t even complain. Seeing her happy—it’s everything right now. And considering it’s probably the first game her dad’s been to in, well, forever, I’m happy for her. She gives him one more hug before he starts toward the parking lot.

  Still smiling, she holds out her arms as she approaches me. “Soccer must not be that bad,” she calls out.

  I can’t help but grin. “You know you’re insanely hot when you’re all sweaty and kicking the hell out of a ball, right?”

  Instead of rolling her eyes or pushing me away, her smile only widens. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  She bursts out laughing right along with me. I glance around, finding that Kellen’s moved past looking at Jasmine; he’s already got her giggling over by the bleachers. Blake and Becca are in their own world at the fence, barely an inch of space between them.

  I look back to Bri. Her eyes are wide and sparkling, and I don’t know if it’s from the rush of winning or being here with me, but I’d be more than happy to look into those eyes all night long. “I really want to hang out with you tonight,” I tell her.

  She sighs, but she’s still smiling, so I don’t think it’s one of annoyance or frustration. I’ll take it.

  “Just throwin’ it out there,” I continue. “If I could be with anyone tonight, it’d be you. With a blanket. And a truck bed.”

  She wets her lips, a sight that makes me pure weak in the knees. Her mouth opens and closes, and opens again. “Maybe.”

  I tilt my head to the side, waiting for her to keep on. Maybe? Maybe yes? Maybe no? Maybe…?

  “All right, enough heart eyes.” Becca’s voice cuts through my dissection of every possible “maybe” in the English language. She moves to Bri’s side, gently taking her arm. “Step away from the baseball boy.”

  I suddenly hate Becca.

  Bri blinks, like she’s coming out of a trance. Backs away.

  No. Wait. Stop. What’re you doing?!

  Smiling at me, Becca slips her hand into Bri’s and walks away without another word or glance.

  I just—she was right there. I had a MAYBE. Dang it, dude.

  I have no idea when Bri and I went from “just friends” to me wanting to do nothing but touch her. Hold her. Kiss her.

  Be with her. All I want is to be with her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bri

  The river that stretches through Lewis Creek is divided into two parts: the riverbank is hidden behind a patch of woods that’s perfect for shielding roaring trucks and even louder music. The waterfront is usually reserved for families and older people—the ones who aren’t into beer and ear-splitting country music. For as long as I can remember, the baseball guys have claimed the riverbank after a win. The soccer girls get the town waterfront. With milkshakes.

  We’re the clear winners here.

  After parking on the street downtown, I slide out of my car as Becca pulls in behind me. She hops out of the Jeep, Sammy’s milkshakes in hand, and passes me the extra cup she’s carrying. “Double-decker chocolate,” she says. “Sugar shock to break you out of the baseball boy fog.”

  I take it gratefully. With raised eyebrows. But gratefully. “What about your fog?”

  She holds up her own cup. “Normal chocolate. I told you: that boy can play me all night long, if he wants.” She takes a sip, smiling around the straw as she skips—literally skips—down the sidewalk.

  She’s nuts. And I love her.

  The cool evening air hits my legs as our cleats click against the pavement on our way to the waterfront. Mariner’s Wharf is one of my favorite places in Lewis Creek, a huge open field right beside the river. Lights line the railing that stretches alongside the walkway, twinkling against the darkness. They do all sorts of things here, from Friday night movie nights to the farmers’ market during spring and summer. It’s also lined with boat docks, which is where we head.

  The other girls scatter across the field, plopping into the grass in their own groups while Becca and I settle at the edge of one of the docks.
I yank off my cleats and socks and dangle my legs over the ledge, my feet skimming the top of water still chilled by early spring. If the entire town had the feeling of feet in the water with cool night air brushing my skin, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad here.

  Maybe.

  “So,” Becca says, shifting beside me. “Where do you think that boat came from?” She nods to the only boat docked out here, a couple spaces down. It’s a game we used to play when we first started coming out here last year: guess where the boat’s been, and where it’s going to go. There are only so many options. Which is kind of fitting for Lewis Creek, in general.

  “I’m gonna say North Carolina,” I tell her.

  Pursing her lips, she nods. “So why the hell would it come down here?”

  I shrug and sip my milkshake. My eyes widen. Sweet heavenly molasses, she was not joking about the sugar shock. “We’re probably just a stop on its way to wherever.”

  “Isn’t that so weird?” she says. “Like, it could be on its way to somewhere phenomenal, but to get there, it has to pass through a podunk place like this.”

  It is weird. And true. “Maybe sometimes we have to go through the crappy places to get to the good ones.”

  She nudges me with her elbow, and I glance over. She smiles. Holds out her cup. “Here’s to surviving the crappy places.”

  I tap her cup with mine. “And here’s to the phenomenal ones.”

  Even if these past few months have gone completely and totally against every plan I could’ve made for myself, maybe it’s all been for a reason. Maybe it’s like, some kind of stepping stone on the way to my next stop. Despite all the crap that’s happened, none of it can take away from what’s coming. It can’t take away the fact that I’m getting out of this place, and that I made that happen. I worked hard as hell for it.

  “What do you think Florida’s gonna be like?” Becca says, looking back to the water. “Tanning, swimming, partying, beaching? All of the above?”

  I smile. “Something like that.” As excited as I am about USC, I’m going to miss her like crazy when she goes to Florida State. Our friend Hannah went there after graduating last year and we’ve barely heard from her since. She hasn’t stepped foot back in Lewis Creek since leaving. It sucks. But I can’t say that I blame her.