Game On (12 page)

You still joke around in the driveway. Still stop by his house for dinner every few weeks when his mom invites you over. Still catch a ride with each other every now and then when
someone's
car won't start (hint: mine). Still say hi in the hallway. Technically, you're still friends. But your paths never really cross in the same way again.

Until now, that is.

He shakes his head. “You don't have anything to be sorry for. I get pissed off, too. It happens.” He leans in and adds, “Even if you
did
make me feel bad for loving bacon. Which is just cruel.”

I
shove him playfully, making him laugh as I let out one of my own. “Still. Having a crappy week doesn't mean I should've taken it out on you.” Crappy is the understatement of the century, but we'll go with it. An ex who won't stop leaving me voicemails at midnight is more along the lines of shitty.

I swallow hard, forcing away the lump in my throat.

One of the kids screams. My attention snaps back to them, only to spot them laughing as Brantley, an eight-year-old, red-headed firecracker, soars down the field with the ball.

I'm not one to brag, but he had a good teacher.

“That crappy week was partially my fault,” Eric says, and I finally look back to him. “You seem better now, though.”

Because this is my element. The kids, and the people inside, and the feeling of actually being
needed
? It's a miracle worker. No matter how many phone calls I get, no matter how many times I have to delete, and delete, and delete voicemails, this is one thing that Matt can't ruin.

“It's this place,” I say.

“Why do you do it?”

He holds my gaze, waiting. Genuinely interested in whatever answer I have for him. But what he doesn't know is that the full answer would keep us here all day. There's only so much you can describe. When it comes to the thing that makes you thrive, that fills you with so much happiness that you could burst, it's better to show instead of tell.

But he did ask for an answer, so I tell him, “Because I love people. And I love helping them.”

His lips twitch as he folds his own arms. “You can't save the world, you know.”

I know that. Trust me, I know that. “If I can help one person, it's worth it.”

“
Your optimism is showing.”

A smile spreads across my face. “Maybe the world needs a little more optimism.” I pause, and add, “I'll introduce you to them next week. The kids, I mean.”

His eyebrows scrunch together. “Why not today?”

I could tell him about the dozen volunteers I've seen come and go over the past year, about the people these kids have gotten to know and then bolted after one session. I could tell him how much it breaks my heart to watch their smiles fall when they realize someone isn't coming back. And I don't
think
Eric would pull something like that, but I can't risk it. I can't.

“You can hang out and watch this week,” I tell him. “Make sure it's something you want to stick with. And we'll do intros next time.”

“You're the boss.” He sighs dramatically, tossing an arm across my shoulder. It's something he's done dozens of times in the years we've known each other, but for some reason, my cheeks flush in response. “Truce, Little Miss Sunshine?” he asks.

My smile grows as I nod once. “Truce.”

He flashes another grin—a genuine Eric Perry grin—before looking back to the kids, and for a split second, it feels like maybe, just maybe, there's a chance we're tip-toeing back toward the friend territory that was off-limits for the past few months.

Or maybe we never really left to begin with.

Chapter
Eight

Bri

I shouldn't be surprised when Matt's waiting outside school on Monday morning.

The parking lot's buzzing with people, everyone completely oblivious to the anxiety gripping my stomach. The air's thick with cold, the kind that seeps into your bones and might as well freeze you to the ground. I stand at the back of my car, staring at the door and the guy beside it.

I'm supposed to meet Coach Taylor this morning to talk about Eric's first weekend at Serenity Valley. I
could
walk around the building and go in through the locker room, which is where his office is. But then I'd be late. And that's not really an option either.

Dang it.

Deep breath. Exhale.
I repeat it over and over on my way across the lot.

Matt opens the door for me. I stop in my tracks, allowing the cold to actually root me in place, if need be. Because even if anxiety is sweeping through me, walking through his open door would be like accepting some peace offering that I can't bring myself to take.

Sara Stringer brushes past me in her hurry into the building, calling a “Thank you!” to Matt over her shoulder.

Looking at me, he tilts his head toward Sara. “See? That's how you act when someone holds the door for you.”

Rolling
my eyes, I stride into the building, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. The metal door clamors shut behind us, locking me inside. I feel him before he falls into step beside me.

“Where you headed?” he asks as I turn down the right hallway, instead of my usual left toward homeroom. Considering this hallway only leads to the locker rooms and the gym, I don't bother to reply. Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out.

“I tried calling you last night,” he keeps on. His arm brushes mine as he adjusts his backpack. “Got a message that said something about the number not being in service.”

Because I changed my number
. Despite him leaving zero space between us, the tiniest of smiles threatens my lips. That round goes to me.

“I just wanted to ask about that night at the station,” he continues, as if he's having a conversation with someone who actually wants to speak to him. “Why you would show up if you didn't care at all about Eric Perry, like you always told me.”

Keep walking. Eyes ahead. Almost there.

We pass the gym and come to the end of the hallway, the guys' locker room on my right. Everyone's on their way to homeroom, so I shouldn't walk in on anyone in their boxers. Or less. Hopefully.

Matt slides between me and the door. My pulse kicks into high gear, my skin burning from head to toe, and I pray to anyone who'll listen that he doesn't notice. “Move, please,” I tell him, somehow managing to keep the tremble from my voice.

“How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?” His eyes search mine. “That's all I'm trying to do here. I'm sorry, Bri. I. Am. Sorry.”

“You can say it as many times as you want. Doesn't mean I have to believe you.”

A
throat clears nearby. My head snaps to the side. Coach Taylor stands in the middle of the hallway, dressed in khakis and a Bulldogs polo shirt. He nods toward the locker room door. “Mind if I get to my office?”

My cheeks flush even hotter. I stare at the floor and mutter a “Sorry, sir” while moving out of the way.

The locker room door screeches open. “You here to see me, Miss Johnson?”

Oh, yeah. The reason I came down here in the first place. I lift my eyes. He holds the door open, but keeps his gaze on Matt. I go through the door gratefully.

If the hallway is polished, the locker room floor is pristine. Nothing but the best for the baseball boys, I guess. Coach moves ahead of me and leads the way into his office, his keys jingling as he juggles them with an armful of notebooks. The lockers, well kept despite their age, shine beneath the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Miss Johnson?” Coach gestures for me to head into his office, which I do. He leaves the door propped open and drops his notebooks onto his desk, along with his keys. I sit on the edge of one of the chairs in front of the desk while he takes his own seat.

My knee bounces. I have no idea how official this is supposed to be. Do I just tell him everything that Eric and I did this weekend? There's only so much to say.

We drove. We served. We played soccer. I drooled over his jawline. 'Kay thanks bye.

“So,” Coach says, scooting his chair forward. “How'd it go this weekend?”

I plaster a smile to my face, the one that teachers and counselors love to see: the confident smile. Even when I'm clueless about something, the confident smile fools them every time. “It went great,” I tell him brightly. “Eric was right on time—”

“You're lying.”

Or
not. My mouth snaps closed. “I'm sorry, what?”

He gives me a quick shake of his head. “Your voice when you said that. I spend my days with a group of guys who love to BS their way out of trouble. I can hear a lie a mile away.”

Well, this is new. “Technically, he
was
right on time. But I'd rather be early than late, so when I say eight o'clock—”

“You mean seven-fifty, at the latest.”

My eyes widen as excitement surges through me. I swear, people always think I'm nuts when I get itchy about time. “Yes! Exactly. So I'm not a freak?”

“If you are, then consider me part of the freak club, too.” He rolls his hand, gesturing for me to continue. So I tell him about the breakfast—leaving out the embarrassing utensil-bin incident—and Eric's time on the field. And when he asks if I think I can handle four more weeks of Eric Perry, there's no hesitation when I say, “Absolutely.” Not only that, but I'm actually kind of looking forward to it.

I have no clue what that means. I'm not about to confess it, either.

Coach nods once. The first bell rings, so now I only have ten minutes to haul butt across the building to make homeroom in time. He pushes away from his desk and crosses the office, I assume to see me out. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I head into the locker room.

“Bri?”

I turn. He steps into the room and glances around, I guess to make sure no extra ears have snuck inside, and places his hands on his hips. “What's going on between you and Harris?”

My mouth drops open. Despite the below-freezing temperatures outside, the air is suddenly too thick to breathe. What am I supposed to say to that? Matt's played for Coach Taylor for years. He's an all-star. A town god. It's pretty clear where the bias leans here.

A
moment passes before Coach adds, “The truth. I want to know what I saw in the hallway this morning.”

My pulse pounds, vibrating against my skin. I want to tell him. I
ache
to tell him the truth. But that's like telling a dad that his kid is horrible.

“He—” My voice falters. I clear my throat, composing myself. “We broke up,” I tell him. “He's not taking it well.”

His gaze doesn't waver the slightest bit. “Is he bothering you?”

Dear God, I may puke. All I can do is nod.

He presses his lips into a thin line, considering that. “All right, then. Here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to call him into this office. I'm going to tell him that if he comes within ten feet of you and I find out about it, his backside is off my team. And I'm going to need you to tell me if he breaks that rule. Deal?”

Relief floods over me. I have no idea why he'd take my word over Matt's, but to know that someone is on your side, to know that they believe you… I'm not sure there's anything better.

“Thank you,” I say, the words coming out as a shaky whisper.

The final bell rings, making me jump. Coach nods toward the door. “Who's your homeroom teacher?”

“Mr. Matthews.”

“I'll call and let him know you were with me.” He pauses. Continues to hold my gaze. “You've got a good heart, Johnson,” he finally says. “Don't let anyone take that from you.”

Eric

Most
people at school have stopped shooting me death glares, which is always a good thing. I kind of want to remind them that hey, I punched one of the douchiest guys to ever walk the halls—they should be thanking me. But people are always going to believe what they want. Especially when yesterday's
The Daily Gazette
had an “anonymous witness” spill the details about two Lewis Creek players who were beating each other's asses in the Joyner's parking lot, and how one player's volunteer community service is basically an admission of guilt.

Slightly different wording. But the sentiment's the same. So much for the volunteer work making me look good.

The cafeteria's loud as hell as I plop down in front of Kellen and Blake at lunch. They both stare me down until I ask, “What?”

Kellen rolls his hand, gesturing for me to talk. “You gonna tell us about this weekend, or—?”

I shrug, still confused. “What about this weekend?”

“The whole community service thing?” Blake says. “Being in a car with the hot neighbor? Ring any bells?”

Oh, yeah. That. I bite into a cheese fry. “Not much to talk about. We went. We worked. We conquered. And don't talk about her like that.” Speaking of Bri… I glance over my shoulder and scan the cafeteria, but she's nowhere in sight. Not that I should care or anything. Because I don't. Definitely don't.

Okay, so I kind of care.

But right on cue, like some kind of mind reader, she strolls through the doorway, her friend Becca in tow. Becca points at our table and starts toward us with Bri trailing behind her. Becca grins, her red hair bouncing as she plops down beside me. “I need you.”

“
Not the first time I've heard that. But in the cafeteria, Becca? Really?”

She shoves me just as a groaning Bri sits on my other side. Becca's smile grows along with mine while she pulls a notebook out of her purse. “Spring sports write-up for the paper,” she reminds me. “It's the most wonderful time of the year, Starting Pitcher. It's time for your spotlight interview.”