Game On

by Michelle Smith

  “Coach—”

  He jabs his finger onto his desk. “I want you to tell me, right here and right now, why I shouldn’t have let the cops haul you off. Because despite what I saw with my own eyes, y’all’s audience is gunnin’ for your head. You just took down this town’s center fielder and class president for the second—”

  “He grabbed Bri. Grabbed-her, grabbed-her.”

  Coach’s mouth snaps closed. His eyes widen. He straightens and looks from me to Bri, and back to me. “Eric Perry, I swear to all that’s holy that if you’re lying to me—”

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Look at my face, Coach. Do I look like I’m lying?” When he says nothing, I add, “You and I both know that I’m not a liar. I know what you told me back in January. I know this could screw me over. Don’t you think if I was gonna screw up my future, I’d make it count this time?”

  He stares at me for the longest minute of my life before turning to Bri. “I want you to tell me what happened, and I want you to think really, really hard, and make sure you get this right.”

  And she tells him. She tells him about that night, at the lake house. About all the shit he’s spewed to her over the past few months. About what he did in the parking lot today. About how I started to walk away—she swears I did—but he didn’t just step over the line; he jumped.

  His gaze remains on Bri, intent as he says, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  “I didn’t think it mattered,” she replies quietly. “Since it happened before, you know, everything else.”

  Coach leans back, rubbing his face. “Oh, it matters. It matters a lot.”

  “He’s gonna get away with it, though,” I say. “Isn’t he?”

  Coach looks back to me, his eyes tired, but determined. “You two trust me?”

  More than just about anyone. “Yes, sir,” I say along with Bri.

  He nods. “Then you let me take care of this.”

  ~

  The ride home is silent, aside from the wind whipping through Brett’s Jeep. He follows closely behind Bri, making sure she gets home okay while our parents and sisters practically ride our bumper. One good thing about my brother is that he knows when I need to talk, and when I need everyone and everything to just shut up for a few minutes.

  Bri pulls into her driveway, and the Jeep crunches over the gravel in ours. She slides out of her car, hanging on to the door as she watches me. But Dad appears at my door, blocking my view. He tilts his head toward the house. “We need to talk.”

  I knew that was coming.

  “Come on over to our place, Bri,” Momma says. “It won’t take them long.”

  Bri follows everyone as they file into the house, glancing at me over her shoulder before leaving me and Dad alone on the porch. The front door closes, and I sink into one of the wicker chairs as he does the same. Minutes pass before he finally says, “People are gonna talk even more, you know.”

  I nod slowly, keeping my gaze fixed on the field across the road. I’m used to people talking. The difference is that now, I don’t really care. Not anymore. But there’s something hidden beneath his words, something he’s not saying: I’m not the only one people are going to be talking about. The whole family’s going to get dragged into it.

  “Sorry I’m kind of an asshole,” I tell him.

  “Then don’t be an asshole.”

  I glance over in time to catch him grinning. Chuckling, I shake my head and sprawl my legs in front of me. “How do you do it?” I ask. “Put up with these crazy people who love to talk crap about us?”

  He sighs. “Everyone’s fair game in a town like Lewis Creek. What matters is how you handle the spotlight when it shifts to you.”

  If I’m being completely honest, there are parts of this town that aren’t awful. It’s where I was born and raised. It’s my home. But over the past year, everything’s gone to shit. Even when I’m winning games, even when people are throwing out free food and handshakes and cheers, they don’t trust me. Even though my brother was a powerhouse player, they spend more time talking about his love life instead of his batting average. And even though my sister’s got a voice that could put any singer in her place, all they see are her dresses and her skin.

  So no, parts of this town aren’t awful, but some parts are downright evil. Brett once told me that this place is hard to shake, and now, more than ever, I believe him. But I can’t wait to give it one hell of a try.

  “I’m not going to Campbell, Dad.” He meets my gaze. I guess now is as good of a time as any to break the news. “I’m sorry. I know you were hoping and praying, but it’s not for me.”

  He nods. “You do know it’s up to you, right? I’d only be upset if you didn’t make the decision for yourself.” He pauses. “So if it’s between Clemson and Winthrop, I’m going to guess…” He trails off, eyeing me. “Winthrop?”

  I can’t hold back my smile. “Yeah. I’m thinking Phys Ed major, and they’ve got a minor for coaching. So I can coach one day. Be around ball while helping some kid not turn out like me.”

  I’m only half-joking. And judging from the sudden soberness of his face, Dad can tell. His eyebrows pull together as he stares at me, almost like he’s trying to figure something out. He leans onto the arm of his chair. Looks me dead in the eye. “If you hear anything I say today, anything at all, make it this: any parent on God’s green earth should be damn proud of his kid turning out like you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bri

  The Perrys’ house is the exact opposite of mine, and today, I’m more grateful than ever. It’s homey. It’s comfortable.

  It’s full.

  Mrs. Perry scurries around the kitchen, filling glasses of tea for all of us while Eric and his dad talk outside. In her words, “sweet tea solves everything.” Ice plinks into glass after glass behind me as I sit at the kitchen table. The TV in the living room flips on, the sound filling the house as Grace and Emma settle onto the couch.

  My knee bounces beneath the table as I chew on my thumbnail. I don’t even know what to think right now. I think I’m supposed to be grateful for what Eric did. And I guess I am, but more than anything, I’m scared. I’m scared that Eric just screwed everything up because of me. I trust Coach Taylor, but exactly how much can he make disappear? Especially when half the town got a front-row seat.

  Something cold taps my arm. Mrs. Perry hands me a glass of tea, which I grip tightly so she doesn’t notice the tremble in my hand. “Thanks for having me,” I say.

  She gives me a tight smile. “I figured you wouldn’t want to be alone after a day like today.”

  She figured right.

  I set my glass on the table, condensation already pooling at the bottom. Brett strides into the kitchen, flashing me a smile before grabbing two glasses of tea from the counter. After giving his mom a quick kiss on the cheek, he heads back into the living room while Mrs. Perry sits beside me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I focus on my hands, which are folded on top of the table. “I wish he hadn’t done that,” I admit quietly. “I can fight my own fights. It’s like…”

  “Like what?”

  Chewing my lower lip, I look up at her. There’s a gentleness in her eyes and on her face that my mom never had. And she’s watching me with this quiet patience, this willingness to let me speak on my own terms and at my own pace, that somehow eases the tremble in my hands.

  “It makes me feel weak, I guess?” I finally say. A knot lodges in my throat. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t budge. “I’ve been trying so hard these last few months. And I know that I’m not the strongest girl in the world. I know I’m weak. I know that I cry too much, and I feel like I’m sad all the freaking time—”

  Her hand rests on top of mine, cutting me off. She shakes her head. “I want you to listen to me,” she says, her voice soft yet firm. “Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak. Being sad doesn’t mean you’re weak. Those things—they mean you’re
human. Those things can knock you on your backside, and it still doesn’t mean you’re weak in the slightest. Strength is in the standing. And I’ve seen you do an awful lot of standing over these past few months.”

  She means the words—I know she does. And that only makes them hit me harder. Maybe it’s not always about how many times you get knocked down. Maybe it’s about how many times you get back up.

  “For what it’s worth,” she says, “I know my son pretty well. And I doubt he was fighting because he thought you were too weak; I think he was fighting because he was tired of seeing someone hurt you. And that doesn’t make it right,” she adds. “But he watches out for the people he cares about.”

  It’s a good thing that she doesn’t think tears are weak—a flood of them rushes to my eyes, while the knot in my throat grows until breathing is a luxury.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my leg. “Carry on Wayward Son” blasts through the kitchen, the ringtone I set for Dad. He only calls every few days, so I can’t decide if his timing is impeccable or absolutely terrible. Mrs. Perry squeezes my hand and slides away from the table.

  Clearing my throat the best I can, I pull out my phone. “Hello?” I answer quietly.

  “Hey, Little Bit.” His voice booms in my ear. “How’s it goin’?”

  I just watched my boyfriend beat up my ex and now I can’t stop shaking.

  I’m at the Perrys’ house because I really, really can’t handle being alone right now, and you’re not here.

  You’re never here.

  But I can’t tell him that.

  “Bri?” he says. “What’s going on?”

  My mouth opens, but no words come. Open. Close. Come on, words. A moment passes before “Eric got into a fight with Matt and it was mostly because of me” spills out.

  Brett and Grace turn, looking at me over the back of the couch. Emma’s little head pops up between them so she can gawk, too. I shrug, wincing. I mean, it’s the truth.

  There’s rustling on the other end of the line. “What the hell? Are you all right?”

  Crap. “Dad, I’m fine,” I say. “Promise. I—”

  Mrs. Perry walks into the living room. Pausing at the back of the couch, she grabs Emma’s shoulders gently and turns her back toward the TV. She sneaks a glance at me over her shoulder, and for some reason, that tiny acknowledgement that I’m here and that I matter means more than anything.

  “I’m next door,” I tell Dad. “And I’m okay. I just… I miss you.”

  I’m met with silence. The clock in the kitchen ticks as I wait for some sort of response. “I miss you, too,” he finally says. “You say Eric helped you out there?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “In his own way. He really did.”

  More rustling. Dad swears under his breath. “Darlin’, I’ve gotta—”

  The knot returns to my throat. Of course he’s got to go. “It’s okay,” I cut in. “No problem. I’ll talk to you at the next stop, all right?”

  He sighs. “I love you.”

  He says the words every time we talk. And every time, they’re the best medicine. Because even if I miss him like crazy, even if it’s hard as crap for me to go without him, I know he loves me. I do.

  “Love you too, Dad.” I stuff the phone back into my pocket right as the screen door creaks open.

  Eric steps inside the living room, his dad right behind him. He’s still dressed in his uniform, though the top’s unbuttoned and untucked. He stops in the kitchen’s doorway, toying with the cap in his hands. He tilts his head toward the hallway. “Want to talk?” he asks.

  I’m not sure why that’s even a question. I push away from the table. He leads the way to his room, allowing me inside ahead of him. The late afternoon sun streams through his window, dimmed slightly by the dark curtains shielding the blinds. He closes the door behind him. Tosses his cap onto his bed. Meeting me in the middle of the room, he asks, “You okay?”

  His face looks pitiful, his eye blue and swollen with a nose to match. I swallow hard again, finally dislodging the stupid lump in my throat. “Are you okay?”

  Hanging his head, he nods. “I’m all right. Worth it.”

  I can’t hold back my sigh. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” I tell him. “I know you were doing it for me, but I don’t—”

  “Need me to fight your fights.” His lips curve into a tiny smirk. “Yeah. I know.”

  He takes a step forward, closing the space between us. I look at his hands, the knuckles scraped and swollen, and shake my head. “There are much better things you can do with these hands. Things that won’t ruin them.”

  And now that smirk of his is a full-blown grin. “Really, now? Like what?”

  Shrugging, I take his hands, holding them in mine. “You could do this.”

  He nods. “I do like this.”

  Something in that grin gives me a burst of confidence. And I should be more careful considering his parents are right in the next room, but…

  Doing what you should is boring.

  I guide his hands to my hips, returning his smile with one of my own. “Or you could do this.”

  “I like this, too.”

  His grip on me tightens and I swallow hard, heat surging through me. My pulse pounds in my wrists, in my stomach, in my neck, in my legs—basically, I’ve been consumed. And it’s the most amazing sort of feeling.

  “I really want to kiss you,” I whisper, “but I don’t want to hurt your nose.”

  He bursts out laughing right along with me, the most adorable blush covering his cheeks. “I’ll take the risk. If you can get past the whole just-got-my-ass-kicked look.”

  If anyone can pull it off, he can.

  He leans down, catching my lips with his. His hands—those glorious, glorious hands—move down and bring me even closer, until I’m pressed against him. All of him.

  Dear, sweet Lord have mercy.

  Knock, knock.

  My eyes pop open and I jump, but he holds me in place. Brings his lips back to mine.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  He pulls away with a grunt. “What?” he groans.

  “Doors open, please and thank you,” his mom calls through the door.

  He drops his head, groaning again. “Sorry,” he says. “Full house.”

  Taking a much-needed deep breath, I grab his hands again. “It’s okay. I love your family.”

  His eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he says with a smile. “So do I.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eric

  By Monday morning, word gets out that Matt Harris, our star center fielder, is no longer a Lewis Creek Bulldog. I don’t know how it went down or what Coach did exactly, but I’ve got to say, it’s surprising to walk into the locker room Monday afternoon and spot Matt in front of his locker. Defying a Coach Taylor order? Not the best idea.

  A room that’s usually loud as hell is quiet as church on a Monday morning, even though it’s full of all the other guys. Gripping the strap of my gear bag, I make my way toward my own locker, next to Kellen’s. What the hell? I mouth to him, but he only shrugs. Apparently no one wants to be the one who calls him out. I’m more than happy to oblige.

  Before I can say a word, the door to Coach’s office swings open. He steps into the room, dressed in his own practice gear of khaki shorts and a Bulldogs T-shirt. He claps his hands together, about to go into his daily “Let’s do this” talk, when his eyes fall on Matt. And judging from the soberness of Coach’s face, he’s just as shocked as the rest of us.

  “Harris.”

  The word’s full of more ice than the damn Arctic Circle. Hell, it chills me to the bone. He curves his finger, signaling for Matt to cross the room. Which he does. Because he may be a douche, but he’s not that much of an idiot.

  Coach puts his hands on his hips. “I’m awfully confused. If memory serves, I thought I told you to stay out of this locker room.”

  Maybe he is that much of an idiot.

  Matt shrugs. “And
I think we need to talk some more. You never heard my side of the—”

  Coach cuts him off with a shake of his head. “No. No, no, no. You don’t get to think in this locker room—not anymore. There’s no side of the story for me to hear when I’ve got two people telling me everything I need to know.”

  All eyes in the room not-so-subtly shift to me. “Yeah,” Matt says, looking back to Coach. “You’re really gonna take his word over mine?”

  Coach closes the distance between them. Keeps going. He inches further, and further, and further, until Matt’s backed against the lockers. And for the first time, Matt has the decency to look a little worried that maybe coming here wasn’t his brightest idea.

  “I’m gonna give you one chance here,” Coach says, his voice barely audible. “You’re going to walk out of this locker room, and you’re not going to look back, and I’ll forget that I let you off the hook really, really easily. Do we understand each other?”

  Matt rolls his eyes. “Coach—”

  Coach smacks the locker beside Matt’s head. Matt jumps as the sound, loud as a gunshot, ricochets off the walls. Coach Taylor backs away, to the center of the room. “Not so tough when it’s someone other than a girl half your size, are you?” He points to the door. “Out of my locker room.”

  Matt holds his gaze for a long moment. I’m starting to think he’s dumb enough to say something else when he starts toward the door. He yanks it open, letting it bang against the wall on his way out.

  In all the years I’ve played for him, I’ve never seen anything rattle Coach Taylor. Ever. Keeping his eyes trained on the floor, he clears his throat. “Show’s over. On the field.” When no one so much as budges, he adds, “Now!”

  Yes, sir.

  Everyone breaks into a scramble, tugging on shirts and hunting down cleats. We’re all outside within minutes—just in time to find our field crawling with spectators. It’s not only full of booster club members—a handful of reps from both The Daily Gazette and the school paper line the fence and crowd the opening to the field, their recorders and notepads at the ready.