Game On (15 page)

“I bet.” She smiles, a tiny half smile. “Have you made your decision for next year?”

Here we go.
It's the same conversation I've had with my parents over and over and over since getting my acceptance letters. Kicking my feet against the stage, I admit, “Nope.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh. Well, what do you want to do? Like, major-wise.”

I shrug. “Don't know.”

“No idea at all?”

I should probably be figuring all this crap out, especially when the admission acceptance deadline will be here before I know it. But that's kind of a problem when you really don't know
what
you want to do for the rest of your life. “My dad went to Campbell, up in North Carolina. Brett's at Campbell. And I got accepted there, but come on—me, at a Baptist college?”

Dropping her head, she laughs lightly.

“I'm in at Clemson and Winthrop, too,” I continue. “Just no clue where I want to spend four years of my life.” Which must be unimaginable to her, considering she snagged a full ride to University of South Carolina after applying for early admission in the fall; she's known exactly what she wants for months. Complete opposite of me, the dude who just applied to the same schools his brother did and hoped for the best.

I clasp my hands in front of me. “So,” I say, “how did
you
decide? Help me out here. Give me a future, Johnson.”

She stretches out her legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I can't give you a future, but I'll give you the same advice that Harry gave me: Think about what you're good at. Then, think about the thing that makes your heart so full, it feels like it'll explode from the passion. Combine them, and there you go. I'm going for Biology, and eventually teaching—science, plus kids. It's perfect.”

It does sound perfect for her. And her explanation is all well and good, but the twist is that, other than baseball, I have no clue what I'm even good at. “What if I don't know what I'm passionate about?”

She tilts her head. “Then I think you have a bigger issue than where to go for college.” She smiles, and this time, there's no hope of looking away. I smile right along with her.

Her phone buzzes and chimes with a text, the sound magnified in our silence. She cringes.

“
That's a sin,” I joke as she pulls the phone out of her hoodie's pocket. “Phones aren't allowed to ring in God's house.” Mine did that once. Momma took it away for a week.

She swipes the screen and reads whatever's there. Blinking rapidly, her face falls as she tosses the phone onto the pew. And just like that, the mood in the room plummets.

“Everything all right?” I ask.

She presses her lips into a thin line. A moment passes before she says, “That was Becca. Looks like I'm the hot topic at Randy's party this week.”

“At least you're famous?”

“Everyone's famous in a small town, Eric. You know that. And not always for good reason.”

That should be engraved on the city limits sign. “Do I want to know what they're talking about?”

“Nope.” Inhaling deeply, she pushes to her feet. “You need any help? I'd rather do something than sit here and hate people. Or go home and hate people. Basically, I need a distraction so I don't hate everyone in this town.”

“Hating people is underrated. I hate a lot of people.”

She
tsks
and points to the ceiling. “Pretty sure that breaks some of His rules, too.”

“Pastors' kids get free passes.”

“Is that like a get-out-of-Hell-free card?”

“Well played.” I pause, studying her. She stands in front of me, arms crossed and rocking back on her heels. She won't meet my eyes, but her anxiety is plain as day. And I get that she needs a distraction, but I can't, in good conscience, let her do my job, either. “You know, you really don't have to help me. You don't even have to stay.”

Her
shoulders drop. “I'm staying because I want to, remember?” Shoving her hands into her hoodie, she starts toward the hallway that leads behind the stage. “I'll take bathrooms. Where's the cleaning stuff? In the supply closet?”

Hell, if she's cleaning bathrooms, she can stay as long as she wants. “Yeah. Back behind the stage.”

Once she disappears through the doorway, my gaze passes over the pew, where she left her phone. They say that curiosity kills the cat. I wonder if it kills baseball players.

Curiosity's a bastard.

I hop off the stage and linger beside the pew. Glance at her phone, which she left in plain sight.
No peeking. You are not a creep.
Pretty sure her ex is enough of a creep to last a lifetime.

The phone buzzes. Chimes. And lights up.

Becca:
WARNING: Matt will not SHUT UP. Keeps telling people u were screwing Eric P behind his back.

Becca:
Monday is gonna be hell, chick.

I can't help that I'm a speed-reader. And damn it, now I need brain bleach. It's not like it's some huge secret that guys talk shit about the girls around here—I've been hanging out in locker rooms for years—but it sucks when someone like Bri is the target of that crap. My getting dragged into it doesn't help, either.

Surviving in this town is tough enough, but being a girl? It's gotta be downright Godawful.

Chapter
Ten

Bri

I usually love Mondays. This week, I dread it. Yet another small joy Matt's managed to snatch.

While Coach Taylor's office is warm, my blood is as cold as an Appalachian stream, mid-winter. I sit in the chair across from his desk and cross my legs, chewing my thumbnail as my gaze drops to the floor. Becca's texts from Saturday play on repeat in my head, about Matt telling everyone I wasn't only screwing Eric, but doing it behind his back. And I'm not sure what's worse: the fact that he was lying about me, or the fact that my name is basically no better than a pile of mud at this point. I've worked so hard to get to where I am, and in a matter of weeks…
poof.

I have no clue what I'm going to face when I get to class today. Maybe everyone will realize he was drunk and full of crap. Or, as Eric would say, maybe that's just my optimism showing.

“Bri?” Coach says. My head snaps up. He eyes me carefully. “Everything all right?”

Not even close.

When I met with Coach Taylor last week to talk about Eric's first weekend at the center, he let me know that he'd warn Matt to stay away from me. That if he was caught within a few feet of me, he'd be suspended from the team—almost like a restraining order, baseball-god style. But there's a problem with that logic:

Matt's
words can travel a lot further than a few feet. They've probably already made their way around school, and it's not even 8:00 a.m.

“This weekend was good,” I hear myself saying. I blink, bringing myself back to the moment. “Eric was good. The center was good. Everything is good.”

The clock ticks in Coach's silence. “And how are
you
?” he finally asks.

Scared
. The word pops into my head immediately. I feel like I should be crying, but I'm just… numb.

“It's not going to stop.” The words are out before I realize they're there. But Coach Taylor says nothing—just waits. “People like him—they don't stop until they get everything they want, do they?” I continue. “People who've never heard no. People who've been handed anything they could ask for. People who don't have bills and collection notices stuffed in every drawer of their drafty house, and whose dads aren't gone for half the year just to keep that stupid house.”

“Bri—”

Shaking my head, I grab my backpack and stand. “It's fine. I'm fine. I just get to hear what a whore I am for the rest of the year. No big deal.” I reach the doorway right as Coach asks, “What is it you think he wants?”

I turn. Coach is standing now, his arms crossed as he waits for an answer.

“I think…” I glance to the ceiling, looking for the right words. But there's no reason to try shining up the ugly truth: “He wants to see me fall,” I finish. “He wants to see how low I can go. And he wants to be the one left standing, just so he can look down and know he's the reason I'm there.”

Coach
continues to stare, silent for a long moment. And now I'm officially a basketcase, considering the man only asked me in here to talk about Eric, and I'm tossing all my issues out there for him to see. He doesn't even know me. Sure, last week, he was genuinely concerned about Matt being a jerk, but he's one of his players—of course he's going to try and clear it up. That doesn't give me an excuse to spill my guts like he's some sort of therapist. He's a coach, not a guidance counselor.

Arms still crossed, he leans back against his desk. The first bell rings, but neither of us budges. Instead, he says, “The problem with high school—and with life, in general—is that the assholes always seem to be the loudest.”

Despite the twisting of my stomach, I manage a tiny, barely there smile. “Did you just call one of your players an asshole?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that I'm referring to a player.”

I may be pushing my luck here, but I can't help but ask, “If he's such an asshole, why is he still on your team?”

Silence.

And I have officially overstepped.

“I'm sorry,” I rush to say. “I shouldn't have—”

“No, no. It's a valid question.” He pauses. “You remember what you said about some people not stopping until they get what they want? That doesn't just apply to people your age; parents love to play that game, too. So unless the person in question actually
does
something to warrant getting kicked off the team they've been on for years, and the team their parents have invested a hell of a lot of money into, my hands are tied.”

That
makes sense. It does. I just wish people realized that you don't have to come near someone to destroy them.

“I'm trying,” he says, his voice low. “I've got your back here.”

“I know,” I tell him, and I do. It's more than I can say for a lot of others. “Thanks, Coach.”

The second bell rings as I make my way through the locker room, and he calls that he'll let Mr. Matthews know why I'm late for the second week in a row. I hurry through the halls, my boots clattering against the floor. Once I reach homeroom, I slow down, catching my breath before stepping inside the room.

And I wish I hadn't left Coach Taylor's office at all.

Everyone—
everyone
—stops to stare at me, Mr. Matthews included. Becca's eyes meet mine from across the room, and she mouths
I'm so sorry.
No clue why; it's not her fault. She even tried to warn me. Taking a deep breath, I stride across the room. Keep my head high. But I can still feel them staring. And even though they're whispering, my name rings loud and clear.

When people are talking about you, whispers are louder than screams.

Settling into my seat, I blink quickly, forcing the tears away from my eyes. I'm no stranger to scandal—when Mom left us, people talked about our family for weeks. Mom turned into everything from a hooker to a crack addict, instead of someone who'd just had enough. Pretty sure a few people even said she offed herself.

But it's different when it's about you. When you've spent years and years sculpting your life into something you're kind-of-sort-of proud of, hearing your name come out of others' mouths rips a piece of your soul. Especially when the only thing you actually did “wrong” is cut
the
dead weight that you've been dragging around for months. When you think you did something good, and they throw you under the bus.

Becca squeezes my shoulders from behind. “Poker face, babe,” she says under her breath. “Don't let them see you cry.”

Don't let them see you cry.

Don't let them see you cry.

They're about to see me cry.

Snatching my backpack from the floor, I hightail it out of the room just as the bell rings, sending a shock through me. I shove through the bathroom door and slip into the last stall. Latch the door. Sink to the floor as my chest flutters and my throat tightens and my vision blurs from all the stupid, stupid tears gathering in my eyes.

The bathroom door opens, and heels click against the tiles, heading in my direction. Someone knocks softly on the stall. Wiping my nose with my sleeve, I lean over just enough to undo the lock. Without a word, Becca sits beside me on the disgusting, grout-covered bathroom floor. And I think that means more than anything she could possibly say.

~

Privacy in Lewis Creek is non-existent; somehow, in the week since I've changed my cell number, Matt's already gotten his hands on it. I only gave it to my coach, some of the girls on the team, and the school's secretary, for crying out loud. There's no telling who I can and can't trust. My money's on the secretary, who turned to goo whenever Matt flashed his grin the few times he made us late to homeroom. By the time the final bell rings, I'm surprised my phone hasn't died from all the texts and voicemails. All from him.

He's
sorry
.

He
was
drunk.
He didn't know what he was saying at the party. He doesn't even
remember
what he said.

I just need to
listen
to his side of the story.

Why won't I be
nice
to him?

And it feels like my heart is being ripped to shreds. Because why should my soul take all the damage in one day? No matter how much you hate someone, no matter how much you wish to the heavens that you could just be
done
with them, if they were once the reason that you smiled, it's impossible to remind your heart of the atrocities they've committed.