Play On

by Michelle Smith

  Marisa heads on to the bleachers to wait for Momma. I hurry to the locker room to change, using its outside entrance. I swing the door open and the A/C hits me full-force, taking my breath away. Lockers stretch along the walls of the room, the open space in the middle empty except for the lone bench. It’s quiet. Still. That’ll change any minute now. The other guys will be here soon enough.

  It shouldn’t be this hard. My gut shouldn’t feel like it’s ripping in half. But it is. And it does. My throat tightens as I head for my locker. The number 3 is scribbled on masking tape that stretches along the top, tape that’s worn and ragged and halfway falling off the metal. I claimed that number years ago. My dad claimed it before me. For today, the number’s still mine.

  The locker room door slams closed. Jay strolls in, with his bag slung over his shoulder, looking about as doom–and-gloom as I feel. Like his gut’s shredding right along with mine. His jaw’s stiff as he says, “Damn. Thought I’d catch you crying.”

  If he’d come in thirty seconds later, he might have.

  He drops his bag onto the floor and sinks onto the bench, staring ahead at his locker. He shakes his head. “This sucks, dude. Does it feel like goodbye to you, too?”

  Yep. I sit beside him and follow his gaze. Our lockers have always been side by side. In a few months, our lockers won’t even be in the same state. The guy’s been my right-hand man since we were zit-covered kids. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.

  “How you feelin’ about next year?” I ask. “New team. New coach. New pitcher.”

  He blows out a breath. “Scared as hell. You?”

  “Scared as hell.”

  He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “At least you’ll have Marisa. I’m losing my best friend and my boyfriend at the same time.”

  “Does it suck as bad as I think it does?”

  “Worse.” He straightens, stretching his arms above his head. “Here I thought I’d find you crying, and you’ve got me about to break.”

  I slap his shoulder and stand, mostly so he won’t see my face fall. My locker door squeaks as I swing it open. “There’s no cryin’ in baseball, Torres.”

  He steps to his own locker. Looks me straight in the eye. “I’m gonna miss your sorry ass, you know that?”

  And I’m going to miss him more than my right arm. I hold up my hand. He high-fives me, holding on for a beat before letting go. “All-Star Duo forever, bro.” Exhaling heavily, I pull my undershirt out of the locker. “Your parents comin’ tonight?”

  He snorts. “Dude, you’d think I was graduating already. My mom’s got her camera charged and ready. Dad nearly cried when I asked where my cleats were this morning.”

  I laugh along with him. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Y’all might as well get the umbrellas ready for graduation ‘cause that man’s going to flood the stadium.”

  My chest tightens. I look at the practice glove in my locker, the one Dad gave me so long ago. He won’t be here tonight. He won’t be at graduation. I may have screwed up a lot in the past couple of years, but I’ve done the best I could. If anything, I hope I’ve done him proud.

  The locker room door slams closed. Jay and I both glance over as Brett walks in, his eyes downcast. But when he looks up and his gaze falls on Jay, his lips curve into a half-smile. He lifts his chin to me and heads to his locker, which is a few down from mine.

  “How’s it goin’?” I ask.

  He pauses with his hand on his locker. “Momma just told me that Dad’s comin’ tonight.” He says it casually, but relief floods his face as he pulls out his clothes. I silently thank sweet baby Jesus for progress. Ever since the wedding, Brett’s been wrapped up in his own head. I think part of him honestly believed his dad wouldn’t talk to him again.

  Jay moves to my side, his arms crossed. “You all right?” he asks carefully.

  Brett nods and tugs his shirt over his head. “I think so.”

  The door opens again, and the other guys file in, one by one. The volume in the room grows from silence to a low rumble, with lockers slamming and bags rustling.

  After changing, I grab my game glove from my locker. That stupid lump returns to my throat. I’ve pitched every varsity game with this glove. I’ll probably need a new one next season, but this old thing—it’s done me a lot of good.

  “Fellas,” Eric says.

  I turn. The other guys are grouped in the center of the room, geared up and ready to go. Eric stands at the front, arms crossed.

  “Y’all are gonna be strolling memory lane during your ceremony,” he continues, “but we want to hear your real favorites. The memories you don’t want your mommas to hear.”

  Jay chuckles and leans back against the lockers. “Oh, boy,” he says on an exhale. “Too many damn memories to pick a favorite, Junior.” He slaps my arm. “Probably watching Braxton get chased out of Matthews’s pond last summer.”

  Nice to know someone got a kick out of that. I shove him. “After you dared me to do it, asshole.”

  He snorts. “Then what’s yours?”

  I toss my glove. Catch it. Jay’s right; there are too many memories to pick a favorite. “I’ll go with sophomore year. Bus ride home from the Beaufort game. Pulling up alongside that group of girls and mooning them while Coach was asleep. The bus lurched and Jay fell onto Coach, with his pants down.”

  Jay bursts out laughing along with the others, the sound echoing through the room. “That got us a night full of laps from Coach. After getting our asses whooped by Beaufort.”

  Our laughter dies down as we all turn to Brett, who’s leaning against the lockers, watching us instead of laughing. His mouth twists into a smirk as he stares down at his glove. “I’m gonna be the lame-ass who says you guys.” He straightens, eyes me, Jay, and then the rest of the guys. The room falls silent, so quiet you could hear a fly buzz. “My dad’s barely looked at me since the wedding. He’s comin’ tonight, and that’s all well and good, but y’all, you’re here. You’ve been here the whole time.” He swallows audibly. “And you don’t hate me.”

  Hell.

  Coach’s office door closes, its soft latch nearly booming in the silence. He steps into the room, his head down, his hands on his hips. He clears his throat. When he does look up, his gaze settles on Brett.

  “We’re family,” he says. “And family sticks together.” He nods toward the door. “Now let’s go get warmed up.”

  My heart hammers against my chest as I stare down batter number seven. In the seventh inning. While the score is 7-3, our favor. Triple sevens are good luck, right?

  These are the games I’ve always lived for: adrenaline pumping, crowd cheering, sweat soaking my hair and streaming down my cheeks. But as my gaze flickers to Jay, who’s signaling curveball, my throat constricts along with every muscle in my body. We’re not done yet, not by a longshot, but we’re almost there. He won’t be my man next year. There’ll be some other guy calling the shots behind the plate, one who can’t read my mind. It’s gut-clenching.

  I look to the stands, where the crowd’s on their feet. Marisa’s right up front, with her parents on either side. She’s got sunglasses on, paired with my hat, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more head over heels than I do right now, with that girl cheering me on. I’m not sure why it thrills me just as much every time—she’s been my cheerleader from the get-go—but it’ll never get old.

  Inhaling deeply, I focus on the batter again. Tunnel vision. This guy’s been fouling off pitches for ages. It’s time to sit him down and wrap this game up.

  Wind up. Release. Swing. Nothing but air.

  Mission complete. And that’s the season.

  Jay jumps up and charges toward me, leaping into my arms with a yell. “Braxtoooooon!” he shouts above the deafening roar of our team. “You did it!” He drops to the ground and claps my hand in a shake.

  “Nah,” I tell him. “We did it.”

  Eric and Matt run out of the dugout, each carryi
ng a side of the Gatorade container. And that quick, Coach’s bright white uniform is as blue as the sky, soaked with Glacier Freeze Gatorade. He grins, and the rest of the guys pour in, yellin’ and slappin’ and it’s craziness. It’s insane. And I love every damn second.

  A tiny hand claps on my shoulder. I spin around. Marisa grins up at me, all sun-kissed and bright smile. Grabbing her by the thighs, I lift her up and whirl around, making her squeal. And when she kisses me, it’s freakin’ magic.

  “What’s next?” she asks, resting her forehead against mine.

  “Hmm.” I pretend to think. “Playoffs. State. A whole lot of you.”

  “You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

  “What can I say? I’m a confident guy.”

  She laughs and kisses me again, long and sweet and utterly, insanely perfect.

  These are the moments that matter. These are the moments I’ll remember for the rest of my life. With this girl, every day’s the start of something amazing. And there are a lot more days to come. This is only the beginning.

  “We’ll see you fine folks at playoffs!” the announcer, Skip, shouts over the stadium’s speakers. “Now stick around and help us congratulate our Bulldog seniors on another outstanding season as we honor them with a special ceremony.”

  Marisa hops out of my arms, still grinning while backing toward the fence. “It was an outstanding season, Floral Prince.”

  The other guys bump and shove into me, but my jaw drops as I watch Marisa dart off to the bleachers. I don’t care how much I love that girl; I’ll always hate that name.

  After handshakes with the other team, they spill off the field, leaving only Jay, Brett, and me standing at home plate. The crowd’s still on their feet, though they’ve quieted to a low rumble. A beaming Hannah Wallace moves in beside us, holding the bouquets that Marisa was in charge of putting together yesterday.

  Hannah winks. “You guys are always going to be my favorites.”

  I scoff and cross my arms. “Please. You’ll be in Florida for two days before you forget about us.”

  Her jaw drops. I was joking, but she looks seriously offended. “We’ve all known each other since kindergarten. Brett was my first crush. Jay was the first guy I chased down on the playground and kissed. And you were the first player who ever made me believe in the magic of baseball.” She shakes her head. “There are some things, and some people, that you never forget, Austin. You’re one of ’em.”

  Way to make me feel even more feelings.

  “First up,” Skip says, “we’ve got Javier Torres, better known to y’all as Jay.” Jay jogs out to the mound, where his parents wait with Coach (whose poor uniform is tinged with blue). His momma snatches him in a huge hug, one so tight I’m surprised he’s still breathing. Once she releases him, he passes her the bouquet as his dad pats him on the back. Skip continues, “Jay’s played for Lewis Creek for four seasons. When asked about his greatest memory, he said it was watching Braxton follow through on every dare, no matter how stupid it was.”

  I shake my head. He grins like a fool and points at me. Seriously, dude?

  “He’s an idiot,” Brett mutters.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “But I’m gonna miss that idiot.”

  He nods. “Me too, man.”

  Skip adds, “Jay also notes that winning last year’s state championship was at the top of his list. He hopes to repeat that victory this year. His future plans include attending the University of Arizona in the fall.”

  The crowd claps as Jay and his parents move to the foul line. Brett’s up next, and his momma heads to the mound, with Pastor Perry trailing behind her. I slap Brett on his sling-free shoulder. It’s not some huge production, but it’s something. You can work with something.

  “You all right?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Yeah. Better late than never.”

  “Next, we have Brett Perry,” Skip announces. Brett hesitates before striding out to the mound, his head held high. And as the crowd bursts into applause for him, my pride for that guy nearly explodes. He shakes Coach’s hand, and his momma beams as he hands her the bouquet. He nods to his dad, who brings him in for a hug. When Brett pulls away, there’s a grin on his face.

  Again, it’s something. And I think that something’s exactly what Brett needed.

  “Brett’s the best third baseman I’ve seen here in a long time, a giant who’s quick as a whip,” Skip continues. “He’s wrapping up his fourth season with Lewis Creek and is on his way to Campbell University in the fall. His best memory is watching his brother turn into—quote—‘one hell of a player.’”

  The crowd cheers again while I step up to home plate. Momma makes her way to the mound, waiting for them to announce my name. She smiles, and God as my witness, that woman’s the best person I’ve ever known in my life. I wouldn’t be out here without her.

  Hannah passes me the final bouquet, her perfume mingling with the roses. “And last, but certainly not least,” Skip begins, “we have Austin Braxton. Let’s hear it for one of the best pitchers in the history of Lewis Creek High.”

  I don’t know about all that, but I’ll take it.

  The crowd roars as I walk out to the mound, grinning. Coach waits beside Momma, his hands clasped in front of him. His mouth twitches when I reach them. He grabs my hand in a shake.

  He swallows. Nods. And when he says, “I am so damn proud of you,” I swear I see a tear in his eye. “Now go take your place, son.”

  My throat tightens. I wouldn’t be out here without him, either. “You’re always going to be my coach.”

  I turn to Momma, whose smile is brighter than the stadium lights. I hand her the flowers and hug her tight as Skip adds, “Austin’s been a shining star at Lewis Creek, both during his year on JV and his reign on the varsity team. He’s heading to University of South Carolina in the fall to play for the Gamecocks. His best memory is meeting the friends who became family and the coach who stood by him every step of the way.” He clears his throat and says, “And I must say, it was a privilege to watch this player grow.”

  Momma squeezes me and pulls away, her eyes shining with tears. “The privilege,” she says, “was all mine.”

  Damn it, no. I’m not about to cry. I’m NOT.

  I look out to the bleachers, where every single fan is still on his or her feet. Where the kids are covered in crimson-and-black Bulldog face paint, and wearing baseball jerseys, and holding their own ball gloves. Where the girls are still cheering like we just won the World Series. Where Marisa’s watching me like I’m the only person on this field. I always complained about the guys who were in this for the glory, but I’ve got to say, the glory’s pretty amazing sometimes.

  The team’s lined up in front of the dugout, all of them decked out in dirt-stained uniforms, clapping and whistling and cheering right along with the crowd. I’m proud to call those guys my brothers. I’m proud to say I love that girl in the stands. And I’m so damn proud to call this place my home.

  Life throws some crazy curveballs, but I’ve got a secret: My swing is golden.

  acknowledgments

  I promised myself I wouldn’t cry while writing this section. I’ve already broken that promise. There are so many amazing people in my life, people that I’ve known for years and people that I’ve met since Play On began its journey toward becoming what it is today. These people have pushed me, they’ve cheered for me, and they’ve made my heart so very full.

  First and foremost, I must thank my editor, Danielle Ellison. You saw this book not only for what it was, but for what it could be. Thank you for loving Austin and Marisa, for giving them a voice, and for constantly encouraging me to dig deeper. Thank you for your passion, for your guidance, and for your unwavering support.

  Traci Inzitari, thank you for making me answer the tough questions. And thank you for reading this story over, and over, and over again. And then again, for good measure.

  To everyone at Spencer Hill, thank you for letting me be part of your famil
y. Dahlia Adler and Rebecca Weston, thank you for your fabulous copy editing skills. Meredith Maresco, thank you for all your hard work on the publicity side. Jenny Zemanek, thank you for my gorgeous cover. There’s a 99.9% chance that I’m staring at a poster of it now. (Actually, let’s just round up to 100%.)

  To my agent, Lana Popovic: there are absolutely no words to convey how lucky I am to be on your team. You’re the best hand-holder/cheerleader/support system that a girl could ask for. Thank you from the bottom of my crazy writer heart.

  And huge thanks go out to the following:

  To the early readers of Play On: Linnea Thor, KK Hendin, Cristina dos Santos, Steve Knapp, Veronica Bartles, and Nykki Mills. Thank you so much for all your time, your comments, and your enthusiasm.

  To Megan Whitmer, Dahlia Adler, and Kelsey Macke. I’m convinced that all of you are made of sunshine. I wouldn’t be writing these acknowledgements at this exact moment without your guidance. Thank you for encouraging me to trust my gut. Thank you for letting me camp out in your inboxes. And thank you for being you.

  To Becca Kofonow. There just aren’t words, sweet lady. You make my heart happy.

  To Cheryl Ham, Marlana Antifit, Diane Bohannan, and Rina Heisel. You’re the most amazing CPs. I have no idea what I’d do without you.

  To my church family. Your love for God and for others is absolutely contagious. I’m so very thankful for your open arms and warm hearts.

  To those on Twitter who keep me laughing and smiling and sane throughout the day. You’re the absolute best.

  To my parents. You’ve shown me what it means to keep going, even when life throws a curveball. Thank you for never letting me give up.

  To Brandon. You’ve always, always had my back. Every day, I wake up grateful that I get to walk through this crazy, beautiful life with you.

  To Tristan. You laugh freely and love wholeheartedly and dance without a care in the world. You are so brave, my sweet boy, and you inspire me daily.