Eric’s words from a while back creep into my head, about how his brother said this is a tough place to shake. I believe every word.
Trucks roar past the waterfront. Becca and I turn, catching the tail end of a line of pickups tearing down the road. She shakes her head, laughing. “The sounds of Lewis Creek. You’ve got to admit you’ll miss that.”
Maybe a little.
“Those guys run this town,” I say. “Always have, always will. Blows their heads up even more than normal.”
“Some of them take it better than others.” She leans over, knocking me with her shoulder. “So, what’re you gonna do with baseball boy? Anything? Or just keep up the whole will-they, won’t-they game until both of y’all are out of here?”
It’d be stupid to try to say that I don’t like Eric—that’s pretty obvious by now. But what comes after that, after actually taking that step and opening yourself up to what could be a world of hurt, is what’s scary.
Unknowns are terrifying.
“I don’t want to get hurt,” is all I say.
She snorts. I snap my head to the side as she laughs loudly, the sound carrying with the wind. “You really think that guy would hurt you? Dude, I saw the way he looked at you. He’d fight a freaking grizzly for you and consider it a privilege.” She tilts her head toward the road. “You’re right: tons of guys here have egos the size of the Titanic. But there are some good ones. He’s one of them.”
I look back to the river, to the water that stretches on for miles and miles. It really is weird, how a place like this can be a stop on the journey to something bigger. Better.
If these last few months were my stop, maybe it’s time to start moving again.
~
It’s nearly midnight when I pull into my driveway, parking behind Dad’s truck cab. All the lights are off, so he’s definitely asleep, but the fact that he showed up to tonight’s game means more than the world. However, considering I still have an extra-large double-decker chocolate milkshake running through my veins, sleep isn’t coming for me anytime soon.
After closing my car door as quietly as possible, I head to the shed in my backyard. Place the ladder against the side. Climb the rusted steps until I reach the roof and make myself comfortable.
And I breathe.
A chicken squawks next door. I lurch. Thank goodness the roof isn’t steep, or I’d be a goner. A voice carries across the yard and I tilt my head, trying to tune in. A guy’s voice—definitely Eric’s. I stare at his yard, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, until I make out his figure on the ground, beside the chicken run.
My eyebrows scrunch. Is—is he talking to his chicken?
“I don’t know, Oscar.”
He is definitely talking to his chicken.
He keeps on, quieter this time, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t make out what he’s saying. Finally, I call out, “You do know he can’t talk back, right?”
He jumps up. “Christ. How long have you been up there?”
“Long enough to hear you talking to a chicken.”
He crosses the yard until he reaches mine, stopping at the base of the ladder. “Can I come up?”
Now it’s my heart’s turn to lurch. If I’m trying to stay away, then no, he shouldn’t. If I’m allowing myself to move, if I’m giving myself permission to leave this pit stop I’ve hit, then yes, he can.
“Sure,” I catch myself saying.
He climbs the ladder, the steps creaking beneath his weight. He hoists himself onto the roof and sits at my side, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s wearing gym shorts and a Bulldogs hoodie, with that ratty old cap shielding his eyes. Maybe he can’t sleep tonight, either.
“What do you do up here?” he asks, looking at the sky. The moon hangs in front of us, full and bright. “I see you up here all the time.”
“So why haven’t you asked before now?”
He smiles sheepishly. “I didn’t want you to think I was creeping on you. It’s your space, you know? But it’s hard not to notice some things when you’re literally right here.”
I nod toward the moon. “I come up here because it’s quiet. It clears my head. And I’m closer to the stars.”
His smile grows. “You’ve always loved stars. Remember my dad’s deer stand?”
With the way my cheeks flush, I’m incredibly thankful for the darkness. I remember that stand very, very well. We were just kids back then, kids who kissed each other and burst out laughing after. But even kids know when something shifts. When you can’t go back to the way things were before.
You never forget the night that you fell head over feet for your neighbor. I’m not sure you ever really recover from that fall.
He nudges my knee with his. Points to the sky. “Big Dipper.”
My lips curve into a slow smile of my own. My turn to point. “Which makes that the Little Dipper.”
“Cheater.”
I laugh right along with him. “I totally would’ve found it without your help.”
“I know. You’re the smart one.” I glance over. His smile’s firmly in place, his eyes trained on me, and me alone. “Always have been. That, and more.”
My breath catches, and I hope to all that’s holy that he doesn’t notice he didn’t just take my breath away—he’s completely stolen it.
Without breaking his gaze, not that I’m sure I’d be able to, I ask, “What were you and Oscar talking about tonight?”
He blows out a breath, looking back to the sky. “Beaufort game tomorrow. And how I’ll be Public Enemy Number One after it.”
Beaufort is a touchy subject around here. Our baseball team hasn’t beaten theirs in at least ten years, if not more. “Don’t freak out about it. Just play.”
He raises an eyebrow. “‘Just play’? I’ll have a bounty out for me if I lose.”
He’s not entirely wrong. “You can hide out in our house.”
He gives me an oh please look. “Your dad would turn me in.”
I grin. “I could shove you in my closet, like I did when you put the rubber snake on my pillow. No one would ever find you.”
He bursts out laughing, loud and genuine and it’s so Eric that my grin stretches so far, it hurts. And it feels amazing.
“Dude,” he says through his laughter, “you locked me in there for, like, an hour. That freakin’ traumatized me.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m pretty sure the grin is glued to my face. “Please. It was, like, five minutes.”
His laughter dies slowly, his eyes meeting mine again. “What happened to us?” he asks.
I’m not sure if the question was meant to make my heart drop, but it does. Either way, my answer is immediate: “Life.”
He holds my gaze, his own unwavering. “What’s happening to us now?” he asks, more quietly.
Chills scatter across my skin, but it has nothing to do with the breeze blowing around us. It has everything to do with this guy, this person who’s sat beside me over the past few weeks while I’ve been piecing my poor heart back together. And the pieces are ragged, and the glue is messy, but it must work again, because right now? It won’t stop pounding. Not for a second.
“Life,” I finally answer.
He lets out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Life is really freakin’ weird.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “You’re tellin’ me.”
The urge to kiss him hits so badly that it hurts. But God, now that we’ve gotten back to this friends thing, the thought of screwing it all up is paralyzing. Plus, we had an agreement: Safe hearts. No falling.
That’d be a lot easier to accept if I hadn’t already fallen.
In all the stories I’ve read, people say that falling for someone is like fireworks. That’s how it was with Matt: the fall was hard and fast, and we crashed and burned. But maybe it’s not always that. Maybe it comes slowly sometimes. Maybe it’s more like a constellation: One star connects to another, and then another, and then another. And then suddenly, hundreds of little thi
ngs have connected to form a really big thing. And those big things?
They become everything.
You never forget the night that you fell head over feet for your neighbor. And you definitely don’t forget the night that it happens all over again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eric
Road trips to Beaufort are bullshit.
Okay, maybe that’s a little far. But seriously, every year, we take a two-hour bus trip to play on their turf. And every year, we lose and have to ride back to Lewis Creek with our tails between our legs. It’s humiliating. Not to mention that the ride is bumpy as hell on the backroads we hit after exiting the highway.
AWOLNATION blares through my earbuds as my eyes focus on my phone. If I’m going to be stuck on a bus for two hours, I might as well do something with it. And with my college acceptance deadlines coming up in less than a month, it’s probably a good idea to actually make a decision that I should’ve made a long time ago.
Bri’s words from our first night at the church repeat in my head, about finding what I’m passionate about and going from there. I figure that if I can get an idea about that, then maybe it can lead to wherever I end up going to school in the first place. But as I scroll through the list of majors on Clemson’s website, there’s nothing that sounds remotely “heart explosion”-worthy.
On to Winthrop’s site.
While the next page loads, a text from Brett flashes across the top of the screen: Kick some ass today.
Oh, I intend to.
Kellen, who’s sitting beside me, nudges me. I yank out one of my earbuds, the bus’s low murmur of voices and music slicing through my bubble. He nods toward the window, where Beaufort High’s coming into view. “What’ve you been staring at?” he asks.
I shrug a shoulder, looking back to the screen. “School crap. Trying to figure out where I’m goin’ next year.”
He looks at the screen. “Winthrop? Go with that one.”
“Pretty sure it’s not named after you.”
“There’s no proof of that whatsoever.” He scrolls down the screen, and I read along with him.
Music Performance? No.
Philosophy and Religious Studies? Hell no.
Physical Education.
Hold up.
Kellen must see it at the same time I do because he slaps my arm. “They’ve got PE as a major. What’s that mean? You get to hang out in gym class all day?”
“I’m trying to figure out what the hell it means.” I click on it, waiting freakin’ forever for the page to load thanks to the non-existent connection out here. Finally, the words “children” and “coaching” jump off the screen, practically smacking me in the face. And there’s a coaching minor that can go along with it.
That actually sounds kind of awesome.
But I couldn’t do that. Me being a coach, or even a teacher, for Christ’s sake, is as crazy as my being a Religious Studies major.
Right?
The bus pulls into the gravel lot at Beaufort’s field, which is already packed full of locals and those who’ve made the trip from Lewis Creek. And now school’s got to take a backseat. I shove my phone into my bag as the bus rumbles to a stop.
Blake slaps my shoulder from the seat behind us. “Dare: If we win today, we dance our asses off.”
If we win is the condition here. The Bulldogs haven’t won at Beaufort in nearly twenty years. “On the field?” I ask.
“On the mother-effin’ field.”
“Dude, if we break the curse, I’ll do the freakin’ Cha-Cha Slide off the mound.”
“Shake on it.”
I slap his hand in a shake over the seat. Coach Taylor clears his throat from the front of the bus. He stands before us, hands on his hips while everyone quiets down. See, when I think “coach,” I think of him. I think of someone who’s got their shit together. Someone whose presence itself demands attention. Definitely not someone like me.
“Beaufort, Beaufort, Beaufort.” He glances over his shoulder, looking out the windshield before turning back to us. “We need some damn good defense today, fellas. Even better offense. Can’t win a game if you don’t actually hit the ball.”
His gaze passes over each of us. As soon as it lands on me, my stomach tightens. If we walk onto that field knowing that we can’t win, we’re shot to hell from the get-go.
“A lot of people out there have already written us off, gentlemen,” he continues. “But there are still a few people who believe you can pull this off. I’m one of ’em.” He tilts his head toward the door. “Let’s go play some ball.”
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. Grabbing my bag, I follow Kellen off the bus and hop off the bottom step.
“Perry.” Coach, who’s standing off to the side, waves me over. The rest of the guys file off the bus as I head toward him, my cleats crunching over the gravel. “You’re distracted,” he says as soon as I reach him.
My eyebrows scrunch. “I’m not—”
“Don’t BS me. Your eyes are dartin’ all over the place. Talk it out.”
Coach freakin’ Taylor. Nothing gets past him. I tighten my grip on my bag’s strap. “Can I ask you something?”
“Is it about baseball?”
Technically. “What are the chances of walking on at Winthrop?”
He narrows his eyes. Stares at me long and hard, like he’s trying to decide if I’m serious. Which I am. I think. Maybe.
“You considering Winthrop?”
“I am considering Winthrop.” I pause. “Why, is that bad?”
“For what?”
“Teaching.” I have no idea how he makes answers slip out so easily, but he’s a grandmaster. “PE teaching. Maybe coaching. Unless you think that’s stupid, and then—”
He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “Not at all. I think that if you work your butt off, you can do anything you set your mind to. That includes walking on, teaching, and coaching—I think you’d do a damn good job at all of them.” He slaps my back. “It also includes winning this game. So let’s go.”
If only it were as easy as he makes it sound.
~
By the bottom of the seventh, we’re in the exact same position we were at the same time last year: up 4-3. And then fate stepped in and snatched the win away from us.
Fate can be a heartless bastard.
Standing at the dugout’s opening, I scan the crowd before we take the field. Baseball’s not nearly as huge here as it is in Lewis Creek, but their turnout’s decent enough. Of course, half the bleachers are full of people who actually drove here from Lewis Creek.
Coach squeezes my shoulder. “You got one more in you?”
I nod. “I’ve always got one more.” I flash him a grin, which he returns with one of his own before urging me toward the field.
I jog out to the mound, lifting my chin to Kellen as he takes his place at first. Keeping my eyes trained on the dirt, I take a deep breath, and another, and another. Three up, three down. That’s all it’ll take.
That’s all it would’ve taken last year, too. And we saw how well that worked out.
The ump’s “Play ball!” snaps me to attention. Blake gets into position as the batter takes his place, squaring over the plate.
Three up. Three down. Baseball gods, don’t fail me now.
Blake signals for a fastball, which is as good of a start as any. I wind up and let it fly.
Smack.
Son of a bastard.
The ball soars over my head. I whirl around just in time to watch it sink in center field. Matt sprints forward, diving to the ground, glove outstretched. The ball falls right into the leather.
I hate the guy, but he’s a damn good ballplayer.
He throws the ball back to me as the visitors cheer from the stands. Now, two more. Preferably without any more close calls.
The next batter moves to the plate, the confidence in his stance overflowing all the way to the mound. His home run in the second inning is the reason
they’re only down by one. So no more home runs, please and thank you.
Deep breath. Tunnel vision.
Blake calls for a curveball. Sure thing.
Smack.
What the actual hell.
The ball shoots past me toward first. I hear the ball connect with skin and bone before I realize Kellen just bare-handed a freakin’ line-drive. I cringe right along with him. He shakes his hand, no doubt trying to get feeling back before tossing the ball to me.
“You all right, man?” I call, catching the ball.
He grins like an idiot. “Keep the ball rollin’, Perry. One more.”
One more. Just one more. My heart slams against my chest as I catch sight of—hopefully—the final batter.
And now my heart’s in my throat. And I can’t breathe. I kind of need to breathe.
I glance over to Coach, who’s standing by the dugout. Using two fingers, he points to his eyes.
Tunnel vision. Me and Blake. That’s all I need to focus on. That’s all that matters right now.
So I wait for the signal: fastball. Wind up. Let it go.
Swing.
“Strike one!” the ump yells.
Time for a changeup? Sure enough, Blake signals changeup. Focusing on his glove and his glove alone, I let the ball fly.
Clink.
A pitiful hit off the end of the bat, but one that comes right for me. It hits the ground and bounces straight into my waiting glove. Trotting toward first, I toss it to Kellen effortlessly. And its smack against his glove is the sweetest sound of ball hitting leather that I’ve ever heard.
My heart slows to a stop while my feet do the same. My mouth drops open as Kellen returns the ball. Takes a bow. Comes up flashing a full-blown grin.
Holy shit. We freakin’ did it.
Out of nowhere, Blake’s hopping on my back and the guys pour in from all over, yelling and slapping and cheering. It builds in my gut and all the way through my chest before I yell with the rest of them, sweat pouring down my face. For nearly twenty years, every Lewis Creek player has dreamed about this moment. And we’re here.
Blake made me shake on Cha-Cha Sliding off the mound, but that’d be disrespectful as hell to Beaufort. With sweat now soaking through every part of my uniform, I fall into the post-game lineup. The Beaufort players don’t even spare me a glance.
Game On Page 20