Play On (14 page)

I narrow my eyes. He gives the mound one more kick before preparing for his pitch. All right, then. Let’s fight. But he should know better than to challenge someone who knows the game better than he does.

I’ve been studying this guy all night. He’s got a tell: he takes about two seconds longer to prep his fastball than any other pitch. He’s been clinging to that precious fastball all night, and he’s gearing up for another one. I square over the plate.
Windup
. He fires the ball right down the middle. I swing with all my might.

Crack
.

The ball shoots toward the outfield, and I take off to first. My pulse slams as I round the bag and, with a quick peek to the outfield, take the chance. I pump my legs as hard as they’ll go, drop to the dirt, and slide into second. The ball smacks against the second baseman’s glove above me.

“Safe!” the ump calls.

Damn straight
. Keeping a foot on the bag, I push to my feet. My white pants are smeared with dirt. Finally.

Brett strides to home plate as I hunch down, ready to take off. As our lead-off man, he’s one hell of a powerhouse.
Tunnel vision
.
Watch
.
Wait
. The pitcher glances over his shoulder, keeping me in place. Once he turns, I inch off the bag. A little farther. A little farther.

Sucker.

The bat’s
crack
echoes across the field. I’m already halfway to third when the ball soars over my head. A quick glance to Coach tells me to push toward home.

On it.

Push harder. Faster
. The catcher’s crowding the plate, his glove at the ready. I slide into home beneath him, dirt flying everywhere. The tag hits my chest right as the ump yells, “Safe!”

Game.

I jump to my feet. Brett trots toward the plate and high-fives me. And out of nowhere the guys are crowding around us, hootin’ and hollerin’ and slappin’ places hands have no right slappin’, but whatever.

We fall into our post-game lineup. The Cardinals do the same, and our teams make our ways toward one another. We shake hands down the line, muttering, “Good game,” over and over like a chant.

Our team spills into the dugout, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in my ears. I grab a towel and wipe off the sweat and grime covering my face. When I toss it into the pile of other nasty towels behind the bench, I see
him
talking to Coach Taylor next to the dugout.
Him
, as in USC’s Coach Barlow.

And now I’m sweating in places I didn’t even know had glands. He shouldn’t make me nervous. I’ve met him plenty of times and he’ll be my coach in a few months, but I didn’t realize he’d be here today. It’s a good thing I didn’t see him until now, or I would’ve been all out of sorts. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I squeeze through the guys and make my way toward him. Coach Taylor spots me first and curves his finger, signaling me over.

Coach Barlow turns as I approach, a huge smile on his face. He nudges the brim of his cap and holds out his hand. “Here’s my man,” he exclaims. “Hell of a game out there, Braxton.”

I shake his hand firmly. “Thank you, sir. Didn’t know you’d be here.”

He waves me off. “Our boys had an off day, so I thought I’d drop in and check on my new right-hander. I can’t remember the last time I saw someone end a game just as strong as he started.”

My cheeks flush. I manage a nod and another, “Thank you, sir.”

He nods toward Coach Taylor. “This old man tells me you’re workin’ your backside off. That’s what I like to hear. Keep it up, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turns back to Coach Taylor, who jerks his head to the side. Guess I’m done here. Spinning on my heel,
I search the crowd. Marisa’s still by the fence, talking to Hannah and Bri. She’s smiling and laughing and looking like she fits right in, which doesn’t shock me at all. The girl’s pretty awesome.

I head her way, stopping just short of the group so I don’t interrupt whatever it is they’re goin’ on about. But her smile grows when she sees me, shining brighter than all the field lights combined.

Bri stops talking when she notices Marisa’s stopped listening. She glances over her shoulder, spotting me. “Hey, hotshot,” she says. “Good game.” Her gaze darts from me to Marisa as she grabs Hannah’s hand. “We’ll get going. Nice meeting you, Marisa!” There’s no doubt that Hannah wants to play Twenty Questions, but she stumbles after Bri.

Marisa calls out a “bye” before jumping up and wrapping her arms around my neck, surprising the hell out of me. I stumble, but laugh and wrap my own arms around her waist, holding her close.

“You were
amazing
!” she squeals, pulling back. “Seriously, Austin. Seriously.”

“Seriously?”

She pushes me, still smiling from ear to ear. “That hug was okay, right? I mean, I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.”

“Okay? Girl, if that’s what a win gets me, I need to pitch every game this season.” I wrap my arm around her, pulling her in for a side-hug. Everything else disappears; there’s no cheering, no whoops, no pats on the back. All that matters is the way she fits perfectly beside me, and the fact that I can’t do a damn thing about it.

Being crazy about one of your friends is great, until it’s not. Soon, it actually starts to hurt. But telling her that would only hurt
her
, and that’s out of the question.

She squeezes me back, snapping me to reality. “Hey,” she says. “You all right?”

I grin and say, “Hell yeah, I’m all right,” and she rolls her eyes and laughs before giving me one last hug, because that’s what friends do. And besides, I am all right.

I am.

As she pulls away, I glance over my shoulder, catching Hannah and Bri staring and pointing from the parking lot. Hannah grins and waves. Marisa returns it with a weak wave of her own.

“Yeah,” she drawls, dropping her hand. “How should I feel about them? Bri seems nice, but I’m not sure if Hannah’s
nice
-nice or Regina George-nice.”

Not entirely sure who Regina George is, but Hannah’s harmless. A little overly excited, maybe, but harmless. “Hannah’s good people. And she’s a great one-girl cheering squad.”

Marisa nods slowly. “I think she makes her tea with glitter instead of sugar. Maybe that’s her secret to being so, um,
her
.”

I snort. That’s the most accurate description of Hannah in history.

Someone’s car lets out a long, annoying honk. I whip my head to the side. Jay and Brett pile into Brett’s Jeep, waving at me.

“River!” Jay yells. “Ass in motion!”

Marisa laughs. I wish I could laugh, but now it’s time for her to go, and I really don’t want that to happen. I look her up and down, unable to hold back my smile, and as she backs away one tiny step at a time, she returns it with one of her own.

“I should get home, anyway,” she says. “Parents. Dinner. You know the drill.” She offers a small wave. “Have fun.” And just like that, she’s gone. Now I’m not even sure if I want to go to the river. But tradition
trumps throwing myself a pity party, so instead of pouting, I head to my truck.

By the time I reach the river, the sun’s gone and darkness is inching its way over town. For years, our team’s claimed the wooded area for drinking, parties, and, well, more drinking. There’s a clearing that’s perfect for nights like tonight, when a dozen trucks are crowded along the riverbank.

I back my own tailgate up to the water’s edge. After changing into gym shorts and a clean T-shirt in my driver’s seat, I hop out of the truck. Everyone else beat me here. Brett and Eric have already broken out their old, cheapo lawn chairs and formed them in a circle next to the riverbank. Right Field Randy’s got his truck’s KC lights on, shining like a blinding spotlight on our patch of woods. Matt jumps into the bed of his truck and tugs his jumbo-sized cooler to the edge of the tailgate. He pulls out a few beers, tossing cans to Randy and Eric. He looks to me, but I hold up my hands.

“It’s Monday,” I remind him.

Jay appears at his side and slaps him on the shoulder. “You know good and well Braxton doesn’t drink during the week.” He snatches the can. “I, on the other hand, do.”

Jay digs a bottle of water out of Matt’s cooler and tosses it to me. I’m surprised Matt bothered to bring water, but I’m damn grateful. I twist off the top and chug half the bottle. Beer’s one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind, but the last thing I need is a hangover during tomorrow’s practice.

Someone cranks up his truck’s radio, sending Kenny Chesney blaring through its speakers. I head for the circle of chairs, where Kellen, Randy, Brett, Jay, and Matt are sitting. Matt lifts his chin to me.

“You’ve been keeping secrets, Braxton,” he says as I sit in an empty chair beside Brett.

The chair’s threading sinks beneath me, barely holding my weight. This thing’s been through its share of river parties. I gulp more water. “What’re you talking about?”

Randy takes a swig of beer. “The girl. We saw you hangin’ all over that hot brunette. You bangin’ her?”

Kellen smacks the back of his head. “Your momma would beat your ass for that. Braxton ought to, too.”

And Braxton really, really wants to. My bottle crackles as I squeeze it instead of the grease ball in front of me. “I’ll bang your damn head against my truck if you say somethin’ like that again, you hear me?”

He settles back in his chair, sprawling his legs in front of him. “All right, so you got shot down. That’s all you had to say.”

I drop the bottle onto the ground and rub my forehead, squeezing my eyes closed. Can’t kill him. Killing him would lead to jail, and jail’s no good. Why does not being with a girl automatically equal getting shot down? There is a middle. Douchebag.

Kellen leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs. He gestures to me, Brett, and Jay. “It’s y’all’s last season. Any of you crying about it yet?”

“Nope,” the three of us say at once.

Jay, who’s sitting on the other side of Brett, stretches out his legs. “Don’t know about these guys, but I’m flipping Lewis Creek the bird on my way out. Peace out, assholes.”

That covers it. “Big fat ditto,” I say.

Kellen chuckles and nods to Brett. “Perry?”

Brett holds up his can. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Ah, come on,” Randy says. “It can’t be that bad. You bastards run this town.”

“I’ll drink to that, too,” Brett says, sipping his beer.

I laugh along with the rest of them. Randy’s right—we do run this town. It’s like Coach said on the first day of practice: in Lewis Creek, we’re on pedestals. We’re
heroes. And that’s all well and good, but hero status comes with a price. From tonight until the end of the season, we’ll be tracked more closely than fourteen-point bucks. Come August, we’ll have paid our dues to the baseball gods and then some. We deserve to break out of this place.

I glance over to Brett and Jay, who’re whispering to each other. Brett laughs and settles back in his chair, grinning. Them, I’ll miss like hell.

“Gentlemen! I need your attention.”

What the hell? I turn to see Eric standing at the edge of the dock, a few yards down. The sophomore guys are lined up in front of him, and—wait. Are they…?

Yes. Yes, they are in their boxers. It’s initiation time, fellas.

Eric tips back his beer, chugging it before chucking the can into the grass. “I’m here to officially initiate the new Bulldogs of Lewis Creek varsity baseball.” He turns to the sophomores and holds out his arms, gesturing to the water behind him. “You’re not a true varsity Bulldog until you’ve gone balls to the wall. Or in this case, balls to the water. Luckily, I’m here to guide you.” He twirls his hand, like he’s waiting for a response. “Y’all should be thanking me. Get with it.”

All of us burst out laughing. Every single one of us has landed in that river at some point. It’s a rite of passage. At least Eric’s letting them keep their boxers. Jay, Brett, and I had to let it all hang. And that water’s damn cold in March.

Eric steps to the side. When the others remain still, Eric waves them forward. “Don’t be shy. You heard Coach; we’re your brothers.”

Maybe I’ll miss Eric a little, too.

I cup my hands around my mouth. “It’s family bonding, boys. Get in the water!”

The first guy, Chris, steps onto the dock. He breaks into a run and, with a flying jump, splashes into the
river. We clap along with Eric, who signals for the next guy. One by one, they leap into the bone-chilling water. And one by one, they learn what it takes to be a Bulldog: trust, with a healthy dose of humiliation.

chapter thirteen

Marisa’s waiting for me in the parking lot once practice wraps up on Friday night. I have no idea why she’s at the field instead of the shop, which is where she was, you know, hired to be. Not that I’m complaining, but Momma doesn’t even let me out early when I work. Doesn’t make much sense.

The other guys scatter as we exit the field and spill out into the parking lot. Marisa waves to Jay, Brett, and Eric, who all pile into Brett’s Jeep. Engines fire up and tires screech out of the lot as I head toward her.

“Hey,” I say, tossing my gear bag into the bed of my truck. “Managed to escape early?”

She pulls the hair-tie out of her knot, letting her waves spill across her shoulders. “Your mom kicked me out,” she says, ruffling her hair. “She said I was working too hard.”

Yeah, that’s really not like Momma. “What were you doing?”

“Sitting on the stool. Listening to the coolers come on. Shut off. Come on again. Repeat for about three hours. It’s fascinating stuff.”

I laugh along with her, even though I need to ask about this. But again, not complaining about extra Marisa time. I’ll take it whenever I can.

“So you got off work early and then came all the way here instead of going home?” She glares, one of those “I hate you for pointing that out” looks. I hold up my hands. “Can’t a guy ask a question?”

She runs a hand through her hair again. “I was thinking,” she says, playing with the ends, “that maybe we could get an early start on this weekend’s tutoring session. Study both tonight and tomorrow. You have your book, right?”