Play On (2 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “There’s nothing in there that could be ruined, right? I’ll pay for it.”

She shrugs a shoulder, keeping her gaze on the sidewalk. This night just keeps getting better.

“You okay?” I ask.

She shrugs again. “Fine,” she mutters. “It’s just been a really bad day and my parents decided they wanted chicken and barbecue at ten o’clock at night. I mean, who
does
that? So they sent me in here while they wait in the warm car, and I don’t even
like
barbecue
so I have no idea why they came here, and all I want is Diet Coke and my bed and—” She takes a deep breath, and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen finally meet mine. Holy wow. “I have no clue why I’m telling you all this.”

Her lips quirk into this insanely adorable smirk, and I can’t help but grin back. “For what it’s worth,” I say, “I’ve had an awful night, too. And it’s the worst kind of awful because it started off awesome and ended with getting my ass handed to me. So, I get it. Even if I think you’re nuts for not liking barbecue.” Really, who the heck doesn’t like barbecue?

She bites her bottom lip, like she’s fighting her smile, and shuffles the bag into the crook of her elbow. She holds out her free hand. For me to shake, I guess? I eye her before taking it carefully. Pretty sure I’ve never shaken a girl’s hand before, but there’s a first time for everything.

“Here’s to hoping for better nights,” she says.

At least, I think that’s what she says. It’s hard to know for sure when all I can do is stare into those pretty eyes, which are nearly as wide as the moon. She’s tiny, almost a foot shorter than me, with wavy hair spilling across her shoulders. And she’s definitely new around here. Everyone our age has been born and bred in this place.

Her handshake slows. “Can I have my hand back now?”

Shaking my head, I let go immediately. Smooth. Really smooth. “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Sorry ’bout that. You have a good night.”

She moves past me and laughs a little, but it sounds like one of those nervous I-think-I-just-met-a-serial-killer laughs. “Good night, Barbecue Guy.”

I whirl around, watching her walk to the BMW SUV parked right up front. Sure enough, a man and woman are sitting in the front seats. She yanks the door open and climbs inside.

“Barbecue Guy,” I mumble as they pull away. Safe to say that’s one I’ve never heard before. Now I kind of wish I’d told her my name. Barbecue Guy ranks down there with Right Field Randy.

The restaurant’s loud and bustling as I head inside. A couple junior girls lingering at the front counter call my name. I shoot them a grin and wave. I guess everybody else wanted chicken and barbecue at ten o’clock, too. Take
that
, Shrieking Girl. My chair screeches against the floor as I pull it out and plop down at the guys’ table. Leaning forward, I pull off my cap and run a hand over my hair. The three of them stare at me until I say, “What?”

“You look like shit, that’s what,” Jay says. “Seriously, like you just got dog shit shoved in your face.”

“Come on, man.” Eric gestures to his mountain of barbecue and fries. “Trying to eat here.”

Actually, I feel like I got mowed down by a combine tractor, but that works. I snatch a fry from Eric’s plate. “Dog shit covers it.”

Eric and Brett share a worried look. They’re a year apart, but they might as well be twins.

Eric clears his throat and bites into a fry. “The hell
did
Coach want? You’re good for the season, right? He didn’t even keep me behind, and I’m the one who got locked up last week. I was scared as hell that I was a goner this year.” He snorts. “But we can’t have the USC hotshot screwin’ up, I guess.”

He’s got a good freakin’ point. “Seriously, dude. You get thrown in a cell for drivin’ drunk—which was really damn stupid, if I haven’t told you enough—but the man lays into
me
for my grades.” I rub my face. “I don’t know, y’all. He reminded me how much of a dumbass I am, and that I can’t afford to be a dumbass anymore if I want to keep the mound. That’s what I got out of it.”

Brett narrows his eyes. “You all right, man?” he asks.

Nope
. I bang my head on the table. “I will be.”

chapter two

Momma’s dainty little flower shop is a freakin’ shrine to my baseball career, with newspaper clippings practically wallpapering the place. It’s sort of embarrassing, but I
am
pretty proud of the write-up the paper did on me last year.

E
NTER
S
ANDMAN
: B
RAXTON
P
UTS
B
ATTERS TO
S
LEEP IN
N
O
-H
ITTER
S
TREAK

You really can’t go wrong with that headline. It makes being in here every afternoon more bearable. I’m going to miss these glory days once I’m in Columbia. Of course, there should be plenty more of those to come.

Hopefully.

Braxton’s Bouquets has been in business since before I was born. Once I was old enough to know the difference between a lily and a tulip, my parents put me to work. Whether you’re getting married or burying someone, Momma can hook you up with an arrangement that puts any big-city florist to shame.

Footsteps trail down the shop’s stairs, and Momma heads toward me and the counter with a clipboard in hand. She grins from ear-to-ear as she plops it onto the counter. As soon as I see the spreadsheet-style form in all its jumbled-number glory, I groan. It’s hell, I’m telling you.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she says. “The order needs to be done. We’re low on just about everything. All those funeral arrangements we did over the weekend nearly wiped us clean.”

She’s right; the display room is a lot emptier than normal. The rush we had this weekend didn’t help. Six people died, but Mr. Thornhill’s family and friends almost cleaned out the shop on their own. Even still, I hate doing the order. I’m terrible with numbers. I always screw something up.

“I’m convinced you love torturing me,” I tell her.

“I’ve got another interview coming in soon,” she continues, “so suck it up and make it look like you’re nice to work with. Gotta get someone in here to help me, since you’ll be abandoning me for a glove and ball soon.” She points to my Chemistry book, which is on the counter. “And school. You can abandon me for school. No slacking this semester, Austin. Think about that eligibility.”

Well, someone’s obviously been talking to Coach. My eyebrows scrunch together. “Wait, this is what? The sixth interview this week? You’ve managed without me every other year. Do you really need someone that bad?” We’re not exactly in the poor house, but I’m not even sure Momma can afford to pay someone else. We need that money to, you know, eat. I kind of like food.

“I’m not as young as I used to be.” She smiles and ruffles my hair. I bat her hand away just as the bell above the door chimes. She whirls around with her signature smile in place as she calls out, “Welcome!” She only wasted it on Jay, who’s walking toward us with a damn limp.

My eyes widen. I rush from behind the counter as Momma hurries toward him. “What the hell happened to you?” I ask.

Momma takes his arm and guides him to the counter, which he leans against with a wince. “I’m
fine,” he says, but his dark eyes tell me he’s full of it. He’s hurtin’. “Don’t yell. It makes the flowers sad.”

If he wasn’t already limping, I’d shove him, but this is bad enough. The two of us have been paired up for years, ever since JV. Going a season without him behind the plate isn’t an option. The guy’s my mind-reader. “What the hell happened? And how long’s this gonna last?”

“Watch your mouth,” Momma says, pointing at me. I hold up my hands. The woman’s small, but fierce. “Now what in the Lord’s name happened?”

“I’m
fine
,” Jay repeats. “Br—um, you-know-who was walking me to my car after class, and I tweaked my ankle tripping over a curb. Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

He glances at my momma out the corner of his eye. The only thing on her face is concern, so he’s safe. Not that she would give a flying crap about the truth, but there’s no convincing Jay of that. It’s a secret that the guy’s probably going to take to his deathbed. Or at least to Arizona in the fall. It’s not something you talk about around here.

“Someone’s finally got you stumbling over your feet, huh?” Momma asks. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

Jay’s not breathing. He’s definitely not breathing, and I really don’t feel like using mouth-to-mouth on this dude. I clear my throat and ask, “Momma? What time does your interview start?”

She glances at her watch. Jay rejoins the land of the living with a
whoosh
of breath. “Any minute now,” she says. “I’ll be in the office, so send her on up when she gets here.” She squeezes Jay’s shoulder. “Rest that ankle. I don’t want Austin throwing a hissy fit about having to pitch to a second-string catcher this year. You hear me?”

He gives her a tight smile. “Yes, ma’am.” His gaze meets mine as Momma heads for the stairs, and once
the door to her office opens, he groans and smacks his head on the counter. “This sucks,” he moans against the wood before straightening, pushing his shaggy dark hair away from his forehead.

Jay’s been my best friend since Little League. He always knows what to say when I whine about school or when I complain about Coach. (Usually it’s “shut up and grow a pair.”) But even though it’s been four years since he came out to me, I still have no clue what to say at times like this.

I want to make things easier for him, but as long as we live in Small Town USA, where life revolves around Jesus, baseball, and how high you can lift your truck, it’s just not gonna happen. I know it, and he knows it. Heaven forbid half of Lewis Creek’s All-Star Duo turns out to be gay. Or even worse, that the guy he’s nuts about is the pastor’s son and our team’s very own third baseman. It’s a damn shame that most guys in our class use and ditch girls within a week and no one bats an eye, but he and Brett have had to sneak around for six months, like they’ve been doing something wrong. It’s bullshit.

I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “Well, we’ll be out of this place in less than eight months,” is all I can think to say.

The smallest hint of relief crosses his face. “Thank the sweet baby Jesus. Eight months until freedom to kiss whoever I damn well please wherever I want.” He eyes me. “Speaking of which, when’re you going to get yourself a fresh girl? You’ve had one hell of a dry spell since Jamie left for college last year.”

And that’s my cue. Ignoring him, I grab the clipboard and head for the first display cooler. We definitely need more roses. The cooler could use a good cleaning before I leave tonight, too.

“All right, I know when you’re brushing me off,” Jay says. He limps over to me, his face scrunching with each step.

“Dang it, Jay, if you genuinely effed up your ankle, I’ll break the other one,” I tell him. “I’m
not
pitching to second-string. Not during my last season.”

He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and grins. “Nah, Brett checked it out before we left the lot. I’ll be good to go come practice time. Quit your whining.”

I move on to the next cooler and make a note to order more lilies of the valley. Mrs. Clark, the pianist down at First Baptist, cleans us out every Friday so she can take them to her son’s grave.

“Anyway, I’m not blowin’ you off,” I tell Jay, looking at the clipboard and making my way down the list. “I just need to actually focus until we graduate. Chemistry is going to be a bastard, and ball takes up my entire week. I don’t have time to squeeze girls onto that list.”

He nods slowly. “Right,” he drawls. “You said that last January. Remember? It was right before you hooked up with the hottie-hot-hot and lost your head in her ass for four months.”

“Five months,” I mumble, scribbling “5 dozen red” beside
roses
on the order sheet. “I dated Jamie for five months. Now can we drop it?”

The door’s bell jingles again, and my head pops up. Sweet Lord, have mercy.

Jay turns to see the brown-haired girl who’s already got my full attention, but it’s not just any girl—it’s
the
girl. The girl I nearly knocked down last night. Barbecue-Hatin’ Girl. My clipboard slips from my hands, but I snatch it just before it clatters to the floor. In the daylight, her pale skin is a clear sign that I was right: she’s definitely not from around Lewis Creek. Practically every girl here has her own tanning bed.

She pulls her blue-and-red jacket more tightly around her as her gaze lands on me, and holy mother, it’s an Atlanta Braves zip-up hoodie. So, in review: she’s a gorgeous, pint-sized girl who has the best possible taste in baseball. Did God just say
poof
and bring one of my dreams to life?

Jay nudges me a little too hard, making me stumble into the card rack. It crashes to the floor, sending cards and balloon packages flying all over the place. Shit. Barbecue-Hatin’ Girl rushes over and crouches down to help just as I kneel. She gathers up the cards, and when those eyes dart up to meet mine, her lips curve into this cute half-smirk, like she knows I’m watching her.

Busted.

I jump up, straightening my scrunched apron as she stands with her little grin still in place.

“If it isn’t Barbecue Guy. You work here?”

I think that’s what she says, but her words aren’t much more than gibberish because, like last night, I can’t stop staring.

She’s seriously going to believe that I am, in fact, a serial killer.

Jay coughs loudly, startling me. He tosses his arm across my shoulders and leans in between the girl and me. “I think my friend’s lost his people skills. I’m Jay.” He pats my chest. “And this dashing fella is Austin ‘Floral Prince of Lewis Creek’ Braxton. Who might you be?”

I shoot him a glare.
Floral Prince
? He’s getting his tail whooped for that. “Really, bro?”