Authors: Michelle Smith
Game On
For
those who fall.
For those who make mistakes.
For those who've been told who they are.
Keep standing. Keep going. And show everyone what you're made of.
Contents
It's probably a bad sign when the hangover hits before you even leave the party.
Field parties are the best cure for forgetting a hellish week. The beer, the music, the orange and red flames of the bonfire flashing against the night, Laura Decker still breathing heavily beside me in the backseat of her rusted-out Bronco as she tugs her shirt over her head: add 'em all together, and you've got a night to rival any other.
But tonight, my head pounds along with the Godawful bro-country music. There's too much cheap beer and tequila bubbling in my stomach. There's
way
too much of Laura's perfume mingled with bonfire smoke and dear God, I think this is how I die.
Don't puke on Laura.
She leans over, her blond hair brushing my bare shoulder as she kisses my cheek. “Thanks,” she says. And with the slam of a door, she's gone. Through the windshield, I watch her fix her hair on her way to the crowd of others from our senior class. Pressing my lips together, I nod to myself. Every Saturday night for the past few months, she and I have hit replay. It always ends this way. I never give a shit. It's easy. Predictable. Hell, all of thisâit's usually enough.
But not tonight.
Practice for the season starts next week, my first as starting pitcher. My first season ever playing without my brother, who left for college in the fall. My first season being in the town's
spotlight.
In Lewis Creek, South Carolina, you either play baseball, worship baseball, orâwell, there really is no “or.”
Damn it. Way too many thoughts are racing through my head, thoughts that all those shots should've erased by now.
Lifting my hips, I yank up my jeans, and grab my own shirt from the floorboard and button it up. I dig my phone from my pocket. Its screen blurs. I squint enough to make out a text from Kellen Winthrop, one of my best friends and our team's first baseman, telling me not to be an idiot and try driving tonight. No kiddingâit's why I caught a ride with Blake Thompson, this year's catcher, to get here in the first place. I knew I'd be a goner. There's another text asking if I
do
need a ride, and I manage to find “n” and “o” before hitting Send. Good of him to offer, but his girlfriend's home from college this weekend. The last thing he needsâor wantsâis to cart my drunk ass around.
I scroll through my contacts until I find my brother's name, wishing to all that's holy that I could type out some kind of “don't know what the hell I'm gonna do without you this season” text without sounding like a wuss. Because I
don't
know what I'm gonna do without him. He's always been the one to bring me back to reality, to knock some sense into me when I'm freaking the eff out about stuff I have zero control over.
After racking my brain for a second, or a minute, or maybe even an hour, I shove the phone back into my pocket and tug on my jacket. Brett's gone, and there's nothing I can say or do that'll change that. What I
can
do is pull my shit together. Go out there and face the guys one more time before getting out of this place. After some fresh air and foodâthe greasier, the betterâI'll be fine. I just need to find a way to get
to
the food.
The
Bronco's door screeches when I shove it open, the sound slicing through my head. I cringe, swinging one leg out the door. Two legs. My boots sink into the grass. I can do this. I can totally do this.
Steady⦠Steadyâ¦
And I fall flat on my ass.
'Kay. Bed is definitely coming after food.
The party rages on, now with Kenny Chesney blaring from someone's truck. The team roster was released this week, so tonight's usual field party morphed into a massive celebration. I'm supposed to be living it up as the Bulldogs' new starting pitcherâthat's the freakin' dream of every guy in Lewis Creek. But the same people who were chanting my name half an hour ago have now moved on to Right-Field Randy, who's battling Matt Harris, our center fielder, for the record of keg-stands in one night. All but a couple of the team's veterans and this season's new guys surround them by the bonfire, clueless that I've disappeared.
I'm already old news, and tonight, I'm embracing it. The second I step on that mound, it's open season on my ass. If baseball players are tracked more closely than deer, the starting pitcher might as well be a 14-point buck.
I scan the crowd, looking for one of the DDs out here. The only options tonight are Sara Stringer, who's hanging all over Blake, or Addison Mitchell, whose dad told her if he ever saw me in her car again, she'd be sent to a nunnery. And having her sent to a nunnery would be a terrible disservice to mankind.
Taking a deep breath of the late-January air, I look to the dirt path leading away from Randy's house. It goes straight to town, and Joyner's BBQ is barely a mile down the road. A walk might do me some good, as long as I don't walk into a tree. Shoving my hands into the
pockets
of my jacket, I start toward the path, which splits through the woods. The sounds of the party fade away, and the throb in my head finally dies down the slightest bit.
It's weird, when you get the thing that you wanted the most, the thing you've worked your ass off for, and all it does is send you into a spiral of “what the hell did I get myself into.”
Breathe.
I have no clue how long I've been walking, but the bright lights of Joyner's BBQ finally come into view like a heavenly beacon. The parking lot is packed, which is normal for a Saturday night. Pausing at the door, I check the time on my phoneânearly nine thirtyâand pull out my wallet and leaf through the few dollar bills. Not nearly enough for the mountain of grease my head is screaming for, but five bucks
will
get me cheese fries. That's good enough.
The bell chimes as I pull open the door. “Fuck,” I mumble, wincing at the bright fluorescents. Everyone in the mile-long line turns. Stares. Guess that was a little louder than a mumble.
“What's up, Perry!” some guy calls from across the room. No idea who, but I toss up a wave to that general vicinity while grinning.
“Eric?”
That voice is much softer and more familiar. I glance to the left, and then my right. I heard my name. I know I heard my name. It'd just be nice if I knew where it came from, considering everyone's faces are blurring together. Maybe that extra shot of tequila wasn't my best life choice.
Suddenly Bri Johnson's beside me, staring at me with those big brown eyes of hers. And if I thought my insides were jelly before, they're downright liquefied now. The navy sweater
she's
wearing hangs off one shoulder, and her dark waves fall across bare skin that I'd do unspeakable things to touch.
I shove my hands into my pockets.
Bri's my neighbor, and was voted our class's Most Likely to Become a Mad Scientist While Also Providing Everyone with a Rescue Puppy. Or something like that. She also has a way of getting inexplicably hotter every time I see her, which should be illegal for a girl who used to share your sleeping bag during campouts in your backyard. Ten-year-old Eric had no idea how good he had it.
On top of all that, she's our center fielder's girlfriend. So the untouchable neighbor girl shouldn't be knocking me off my rocker. Even if she kind of always has.
But I'll never tell her that. I'll never tell anyone that.
“Hey,” she says. I fight a cringe and lose miserably. I know that voiceâit's the one people use for scared animals or a sick kid. The pity voice. “You all right?”
If by “all right” she means about to puke all over those cowboy boots of hers, then I'm freakin' golden. “What're you doin' here?” I ask instead.
She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. I look past her to a table beside the wall, where her friend, Becca Daniels, waves back at me. “Dinner with Becca before meeting Matt at Randy's party,” she says.
Ah, there's the boyfriend mention. “Blondie let you out without him tonight? I'm impressed.”
Her face falls, along with her gaze. At last weekend's party, Matt made a dumbass joke in front of everyone, including Bri, about “letting” her go out with her friends (whatever bullshit
that's
supposed to mean). So I have no clue why I would throw that back in her face. Am I really
that
much of an asshole? I'm totally blaming it on the alcohol.
She clears her throat, looking up at me with renewed fire in her eyes. “You really are a dick sometimes, you know that?”
My mouth drops open right as someone calls, “Perry,” from the table behind us. I turn, catching some sophomore guy grinning. “I know vodka
looks
like water, but you've gotta learn how to read, man.”
A wave of laughter ripples throughout the restaurant. My heart races, my vision zeroing in on him, clearer than it's been all night. He just made JV as a third basemanâJared something. Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I make my way to his table, my boots trudging across the floor. His buddies settle down, looking at their plates while his grin fades. I lean onto the table. “You're really damn funny when you're sittin' across the room,” I tell him. “How about saying it straight to my face?”
Bri tugs my arm, pulling me back toward her. “Better idea,” she says. “Why don't I give you a ride home, tough guy?”
I sway a little, my gaze shifting to her. My head spins as I ask, “And why would you do that? Especially if I'm such a dick?”
Her eyes dart to the side. Leaning in, she whispers, “Because
everyone
is staring at you. Including the cop at the table in back. I can't leave you to the wolves.”
I glance around, only now noticing that the place has gone quiet. Still. It's not the people from school I'm worried about. It's not even the cop sitting in the back. It's the old-timers crowding the table right beside himâthe booster club members. The ones who halfway run not only our team, but the town.