Game On (11 page)

Did I say something wrong? All I can do is stare at her.

She takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says on an exhale. “Here's how it's gonna go: I'm doing you a favor. So if you want me to continue doing this favor, you can sit there and, as hard as it may be, not complain. Deal?”

Someone is clearly not a morning person. “Can we at least turn on the radio?”

“I'm getting there.” She cranks the engine, which makes this weird gurgling sound that can't be good at all. The radio kicks on, sending “Carry On Wayward Son” blaring through the speakers.

Holy freakin' crap. This may actually make up for the smushed legs. I glance at her out the corner of my eye as she backs out of the driveway. Since when is she into old-school rock? The Bri I remember couldn't be pried away from her country music station.

Just to be sure, I ask, “Did you make this pre-set, or did your dad?”

She pauses at the stop sign before turning onto the highway. She settles back against her seat. “Are you complaining? Again?”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Just askin' a question. No one in his right mind would complain about Kansas.”

“Good,” she says. “Because I did make the pre-set. And driver picks the music.”

“I thought shotgun got to choose?”

“
Negative. Shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

That's not the way it works in my truck, or my brother's, or any other person's I've ridden with, for that matter. At least she's got good taste in music. I drop my head against the headrest, gazing out the window. The trees fly by as she speeds down the deserted highway. Normal people are either eating breakfast or still sleeping right now. My stomach rumbles. I turn my head toward her. “I'm missing pancakes, you know.”

She glances at me quickly. “Excuse me?”

“Pancakes. Momma always cooks them on the weekends. They're just the kind that come from the box-mix, but she puts something in them that makes ‘em killer. Well, not
killer
, but—”

Her mouth drops open. Again. “What'd I say this time?” I ask.

“I'm so sorry you're missing your pancakes while you're on your way to help the less fortunate. Really. I can see how that would traumatize you.”

“Bacon, too,” I add. “And syrup. And more bacon.”

She blows out a breath. The car slows, and she pulls onto the side of the highway, her car bumping over the shoulder of the road. “Fine,” she says.“ Go home.”

I shake my head. “Huh?”

“If you're so upset about your precious pancakes and bacon, get the heck out of my car and let me finish driving in peace.”

Well. That escalated quickly. Who pissed in her Lucky Charms this morning? “You're serious right now?”

“I'm seriously serious. I've had a hell of a week, Eric. Don't test me.”

She's not the only one. But judging by the look in her eyes, testing her wouldn't be the best idea. In all the years I've known her, she's never had this much venom in her voice, let
alone
snapped at me without
some
hint of a smile. So instead of making things worse, I flop back against the seat and pretend to zip my lips. It must be good enough for her, because she pulls back onto the road.

Yeah. So this is going to be fun.

~

At five minutes before nine, Bri swerves into the parking lot of Serenity Valley Community Center. The car jerks to a stop at the back of the lot. Thank God for seatbelts.

She shoves her keys into her pocket. Grabs her Chapstick from the center console. Checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Does everything except acknowledge that I'm sitting right beside her.

“So,” I drawl. “What exactly am I doing on this fan-freaking-tastic Saturday morning?”

Without so much as a glance at me, she opens her door. “Just follow me,” she says, stepping out of the car. “Don't say anything stupid. Be nice to people. It's that easy.”

You know, for someone who volunteered to bring me here, she doesn't exactly seem thrilled to have me. Glaring at her through the windshield, I climb out of my own seat. “That doesn't tell me anything,” I call to her.

She turns, walking backward as she says, “We're serving breakfast. And then you'll have to fill out a volunteer application, agree to a background check for the whole working-with-kids thing, and do an interview with the head of the center.”

She stops at the door, waiting long enough for me to catch up. The wind gusts around me as I slowly make my way to her. The drinking and driving was supposedly wiped off my record last year, but I have no clue if it would still show up on a background check or not. There was never an issue with my college applications, so maybe not? But if it does, I was right: this
is
going
to be fun. Because now, not only will people in Lewis Creek think I'm a screw-up, but so will everyone here. Awesome.

Bri's eyebrows pull together as I approach. “You okay?” Her voice is a heck of a lot softer than it was a couple minutes ago.

I shrug, taking in the building. “They won't care if I'm kind of an eff-up?”

Her face falls. Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head. “The people here won't care. If anything, they'll appreciate you more for being real.” She pauses. “Give yourself some credit. We all make mistakes. Getting in a little trouble doesn't make you an eff-up.”

She has no idea what I'm talking about—that whole shitstorm was miraculously kept under wraps—but her words do make me feel a little better. Somewhat.

She holds the door for me, allowing me in first. Stepping inside is like wrapping myself in an electric blanket. She walks ahead of me down the narrow hallway and turns into the first door on the left, which I take as my cue to do the same. And I freeze inside that doorframe.

The room, about half the size of the school's cafeteria, is packed. There are tables set up throughout the room, complete with cheap tablecloths and metal foldup chairs. The open kitchen on the far side holds a handful of people dressed in aprons, scurrying around. All sorts of people—some kids, some my parents' age, some older folks—are crammed into a line that wraps along the wall, waiting patiently. A girl about Emma's age grabs her momma's hand near the back of the line, dressed in too-short-pants and a thin excuse for a shirt. It's barely thirty degrees outside, for crying out loud.

Now I know why they keep it so warm in here. And now I feel like complete and utter shit for complaining about
leg room
in Bri's car. Dad's talked about all the times he helped at shelters and soup kitchens, but I've never actually seen one.

Bri turns
to me. “You want to whine about pancakes anymore?”

I'll never whine another day in my life.

She stares at me for a beat longer before starting toward the kitchen. I trail behind her, my boots trudging across the floor, and stop at the kitchen's entrance until she waves me over. She grabs an apron from beneath the counter and ties it on, smiling at some tall dude who looks old enough to be my grandpa. She gestures to me. The guy looks me up and down, studying me as he walks over.

“You're Eric?” he asks, holding out his hand for a shake. “I'm Harry. Good to have you.”

Bri moves around him, her hands on her hips. With that smile plastered to her face, I swear the girl downright glows.

I clear my head of the thought. I'm not here for her smile—I'm here to get my ass out of hot water.

“Harry's in charge here,” she says. “You'll go to the office with him after breakfast.”

Harry claps his hands together. “Right. But first, eggs. Bacon. Waffles.” He points to the end of the counter, where there's a bin full of wrapped plastic utensils. “Think you can handle those?”

Can I handle those
. Give me a break. Emma could do something like that. Pushing up my sleeves, I walk toward the end of the counter.

“Eric, watch out—”

And trip over a box on the floor. And, arms flailing, slam right into the bin. And send utensils crashing to the floor.

And ow.

Pretty
sure my cheeks are redder than a hot-house tomato. Using the counter as leverage, I straighten and risk a glance to Bri. She's staring on with wide eyes, her hand covering her mouth.

Forcing the most pitiful smile I can muster, I say, “I can totally handle it.”

~

After breakfast, Bri's out the door in a flash, leaving me with the cleanup crew while she plays soccer with a bunch of kids.

I think I'm getting the short end of the stick here.

Once the room's in halfway decent shape, Harry leads me down the hall to his office. It's tiny, with a desk crammed between two beat-up leather chairs. I sink into the chair on the opposite side of his desk. He sits and yanks open one of his drawers, its screech piercing the silence.

Folder in hand, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Nice bruise you got there.”

My throat tightens. Please don't let this screw me over before I even get started. “You should see the other guy.”

He chuckles lightly. “Let's get down to it, son. Why, exactly, do you want to volunteer with our center?”

To keep my butt on the baseball team
. “Because I want to help?”

He tilts his head, considering that. “Guess that's as good a start as any.” He pulls a sheet of paper out of the folder. “We're gonna need an application on file,” he continues, sliding the paper to me, “along with two references. Are you eighteen?” When I nod, he passes me another form. “Then we'll need your consent for a background check, too.”

I
scan the forms, zeroing in on the reference section. And it sucks to realize that I'm not even sure I know any non-family members who would vouch for me, other than Coach. I guess Kellen's dad would be willing to put in a good word, as long as he doesn't remember the time I got Kellen in trouble for that flaming bag of cow crap on Randy's front porch.

“You'll be working with kids who haven't gotten a lot of chances,” Harry says. “Kids who come from the rougher sections of town. Some of them live in government housing, some in shelters, some…” He trails off, sighing. “Some have perfectly fine houses, but their families just don't have the resources they need. We're here for all of them.”

I tilt my head toward the door. “What do y'all do here? Other than the breakfast stuff, I mean.”

He shrugs. “We've got the breakfasts for the families, we do dinners once a month, and we've got all kinds of stuff for the kids: sports, computer labs, tutoring, after-school care.” He holds my gaze, unwavering, as he adds, “These kids won't break—they're not made of glass, and I don't want you to treat them like they are. They come here for a chance at feeling like people who are worth a shot. Because they are. Do you understand?”

More than he knows. I nod. “Yes, sir.”

Bri

The center is my happy place. I started volunteering here last year, when I needed more hours for National Honor Society, and it just kind of stuck. I don't have a lot of places that feel like home, but this? This is one of them.

Serenity Valley is small, just big enough for the essentials. The “field” consists of a volleyball net and a couple of goalposts crammed into a space that's no bigger than my
backyard.
Folding my arms, I watch as the kids group up by one of the goalposts while they wait for me to blow the whistle. There are about a dozen regulars, kids that show up every Saturday like clockwork. The center has all kinds of stuff for them, everything from meals to soccer to tutoring. This is their happy place, too. This is one of their homes. For some of them, it may be the only place they consider home. Which means I need to make my hour with them one of the best of their week.

Footsteps approach from behind; I don't have to turn to know who it is. My pulse quickens as he steps to my side, bracing for him to let me have it after my attitude this morning. Instead, he stops without a word. Stands there, unmoving. I chance a glance at him. He simply stares at the field, at the kids. After the way I acted, the poor guy's probably scared to make a peep.

I was kind of a jerk. Okay, a huge jerk. And I know I should apologize, but dang it, apologizing is really freaking hard when you just want to be pissed for a while. Matt's been calling me all night, every night this week, and I've hardly had any sleep, and people at school won't stop whispering about how the “Great Division” between the Bulldogs is my fault. I'm just
tired.
Of everything. I was sure that breaking up with Matt would solve my problems, but it only kick-started even more.

Luckily, I have this place. And even though I was insanely crabby on the way up here, this morning's been the best distraction I could've asked for.

The kids keep glancing over, no doubt waiting for me to actually let them start kicking the crap out of that ball. I put the whistle to my lips and blow, signaling that it's A-okay for them to go to town.

Eric
jumps beside me. There's no point trying to hide my smirk. This whistle? It makes you a god on this field.

“Sorry for this morning,” I finally say as the ball shoots across the field.

He's silent for a moment, until I look up at him. Big mistake. I've never been one to go all gah-gah over someone, but that stubble lining his jaw should be a crime. Like, that's just common human decency. There's no reason for a dude to look that good when there's a 99 percent chance he didn't shower this morning.

And there is
really
no reason for my heart to be fluttering at the sight of my neighbor's jawline. Or his eyes. Or those lips, which are curving into the smallest of smiles. But it is.

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't used to have a sort-of thing for the boy next door. I mean, he was my first kiss, for crying out loud. But then you hit middle school, and you go the Quiz Bowl route and he's all baseball, all the time, and then it's high school and he's even
more
baseball and parties while you're volunteering a dozen hours every week. Before you realize what's happening, everything's just
different
.