Game On (14 page)

She looks genuinely sorry, so I can't even be mad. Okay, maybe a little mad. “Seriously, you don't have to come with me this week. I'll make up something for Coach.”

She's giving you an out, dude. TAKE THE OUT.
Ignoring the voice screaming in my brain, I shake my head and round the car to the passenger side. I agreed to do this whole weekly thing, and I'm going to do this whole weekly thing. Plus, Coach has eyes everywhere. I'd be an idiot to bail out.

“I'll go,” I tell her, leaning against the car. “I just—I have this thing I do on Saturday nights. At the church. I have to clean it every week now.”
So there goes my entire day
, I leave out.

“Oh,” she says in a small voice. “I didn't know that.”

“Yep,” I say through a yawn. “So come on. Let's party.” I slide into my seat, which I have to reposition again. “Last night's date have miniature legs?”

Ah, there's the eye roll I know and love. “No dates. I've been giving Becca rides all week. Her legs aren't gargantuan.”

“I wouldn't call them gargantuan. That makes me sound so unattractive. Can't we go with tall, dark, and handsome?”

She flushes as she cranks the engine. And there's a smile.
Score
. “You think you're so charming, don't you?”

Despite
the dull ache in my head, I can't help but grin. “I think I'm all right, yeah. Pretty adorable, actually.”

She stares at me for a few seconds before bursting out laughing. And as she backs out of the driveway, her smile stays in place. Which means today might not totally suck, after all.

~

Once again, the center's dining room is packed. And once again, my shoulders drop as soon as I walk inside. Only this time, it feels like the wind's been knocked out of me. I mean, people are lining up for eggs and bacon and waffles, when I can look in the fridge or freezer and find all of those things. Heck, I can even go into my backyard and get eggs from the chickens, if I want.

I pause in the doorway, taking in the same scene as last week: people lined up all around the room, watching. Waiting.

Bri glances over her shoulder. “You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say quietly and leave it at that.

She nods once, though I'm sure she knows I'm full of crap. “Then let's get to work.”

I follow her to the kitchen, where she ties on an apron. I linger at the end of the counter, my hands stuffed in my pockets. Not crazy about embarrassing myself again this week.

Harry spots me and heads over. He slaps my shoulder, grinning. “Think you can handle utensils this week?”

My lips twitch. “I'll give it a try.”

Bri mans her spot at the beginning of the line, the same place she took last week to spoon out the eggs. She glances at me out the corner of her eye. Smiles. And I kind of hate her for it,
because
now I can't stop staring at her when I'm supposed to be focused on not making an idiot of myself again.

Sliding on her gloves, she grins at the first man in line. “Good morning, Martin!”

Martin's an older black man, wearing a flannel coat and camo pants. He gives Bri a smile that's just as bright as hers. “Bri! How you doin'?”

“I can't complain,” she says.

He nods. “That's what I like to hear.” He moves on down the line, pausing for each item. He comes to a full stop once he reaches me. Narrows his eyes. “You're new.”

“I was here last week.”

“But I wasn't here last week.”

“Which would explain why you don't know me.” Shit. Wait.
Shut up, smartass
.

Martin lifts his chin, eyeing me. “How you doin'?”

I'm exhausted. I'm about to fall asleep in this bin of plastic forks and spoons. My muscles still ache from a hellish week. And I'm really freakin' hungry because all I got for breakfast was a granola bar. But I don't think that's the appropriate answer here, so I go with, “I'm good. How about you?”

Holding his plate in one hand, he gestures to the ceiling with the other. “The sun is shining. I've got air in my lungs. My old heart's still beatin'. I can't complain.” He winks. “Have a
good
day, young man.”

~

“He said ‘good' like he was making fun of me,” I tell Bri as we head outside. Martin was right about one thing: the sun's shining crazy-bright today, so bright it's hard to believe it's only February instead of July. I toss the soccer ball from one hand to the other. “He acted
like ‘
good' was the last answer he was looking for. I didn't know there was a right way to answer a question like ‘how are you.'”

“It's not that there's a right or wrong way,” she says, tugging her beanie lower. “But people here know a BS answer when they hear it.”

I stop in my tracks while she keeps on. “But I
am
good!” I call after her.

She turns, walking backward. “Are you really? Or is that just the answer you've been trained to use?”

I wince. “Dude, this is too deep for my brain to handle before noon.”

She laughs, surprising the heck out of me. She holds out her hands, and I toss her the soccer ball. “Seriously,” I continue, catching up to her, “what's the difference between ‘good' and ‘can't complain'? I need to know these things.”

Her face twists in thought. “‘Can't complain' means that things may suck, but you still appreciate everything that you do have. ‘Good' isn't terrible—it's just generic. The easy answer.” Smiling, she drops the ball and dribbles it toward the field. “Now come on, whine-o. Time to officially meet people who can spot BS faster than the ones inside.”

The kids are already hanging around the goal posts, waiting for us. I don't do so well around adults, but kids, I can handle. They're easygoing. Fun. Don't expect complex, life-pondering answers.

“Hey, guys!” she shouts. Every last one of them whirls around, giving her their full attention.

Whoa. Where the heck did she get that voice? That's like, gym teacher times fifty.

She jerks her thumb over her shoulder, toward me. “We've got fresh meat with us today,” she says. “Eric's gonna be hanging out with us for the next few weeks.”

Fresh
meat? Thanks. Really.

One of the kids, some red-haired boy who can't be more than eight or nine, walks straight to me. Looks me up and down. And kicks me right in the shin.

“Fuuuu… fudge,” I say quickly, grabbing my leg. “What the heck was that for?”

He shrugs. “Just seein' if you can take a kick. You gotta be able to take a kick in soccer.”

Kids are easygoing. Fun. LOADS OF FUN.

“You know what's even better than soccer?” I ask. “Baseball.”

He snorts and crosses his arms. “Baseball's boring.”

He might as well have kicked me in the stomach. Wincing, I grab my chest. “That was brutal, kid. Shot to the heart.”

“Can you kick people in baseball?”

I think for a second. Need a kid-appropriate response here. “I mean,
technically
—”

“You shouldn't be kicking people in soccer, either,” Bri calls out, shooting me a glare. All I do is smirk. “Or, you shouldn't be
trying
to kick people. Getting kicked is more of an occupational hazard. Bruises come with the territory.”

Crazy Kid runs back to the others. I catch Bri's eye, mouthing, “What the hell?”

She can't answer—she's too busy trying not to laugh. And for the second time today, I can't even be mad. Seeing her laugh is enough to make me grin, even if pain is still shooting through my shin. Falling into that boss mode voice again, she divides up the teams. All I can do is stand back and watch. She doesn't need my help at all.

Once the kids kick into gear, she walks over to me, still grinning. “You and Brantley hit it off.”

“Little punk,” I mutter. “Do I get to look forward to that every week?”

“
Maybe.” She eyes me. “I'm not gonna have to break up fights between you and an eight-year-old, am I?”

I cross my arms. “As long as he doesn't kick me again. Though I can't promise anything.”

She shoves my shoulder. “Mess with that kid, and I'll kick your face.”

“You'd kick this face? Really?”

She rolls her eyes. “You're not as charming as you think you are, Eric.”

“But that means you think I'm somewhat charming.”

Her silence, along with that tiny smile on her lips, is the only confirmation I need. Score one for me.

She leans against my arm, nudging me. “Seriously, thanks for coming. These kids need all the people they can get on their side.”

“Did I really have a choice?” I ask.

“You've got a choice every week,” she says. “But for what it's worth, I like having you here.”

I look to the field, where the kids are practically taking out each other's kneecaps like it's the greatest thing in the universe. And I remember when I used to think baseball was the best damn game in the world, before all the money and politics got tossed into the mix. When everyone in Lewis Creek didn't think I was a freakin' joke.

When people treated me like I mattered.

I miss that feeling. And I'd pay good money to make sure no kid ever loses it.

So when I tell Bri, “I like being here, too,” and her face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning, it's the best feeling I've had all week.

~

We don't head back to Lewis Creek until after seven. Dinner at the center was even more packed than breakfast, but there was one thing that didn't change a bit: the girl who's sitting in the driver's seat beside me. She smiled at every single person in that room. Laughed at their jokes. Made
them
laugh. All of them ate it up.

So did I.

She has this way of grabbing people's attention. Of grabbing my attention. She always has, really. And I don't know how she does it, but I'm not hatin' it.

The drive to town is quiet, except for the wind whistling through the open windows and her music pouring through the speakers. It's just past eight when she pulls into the church's parking lot. She cuts the engine. Sits. Waits.

I look over. I'm not entirely sure what she's doing. Does she want to stay? Because she doesn't have to. In fact, I'm not even sure I want her to. She's been on her feet all day. It'll probably take me a couple of hours to work my way through the building.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell her, “but you can go ahead and leave. I'll walk home.”

She scrunches her eyebrows. “Please. I wouldn't make you walk home. Soccer players are used to endurance. Baseball players, on the other hand—”

“Yeah, stop right there, Johnson.” She has no idea just how much endurance I've got. And we're not only talking about baseball. Though I
could
always show her…

She laughs, the sound filling the car. That smile of hers—it's hypnotizing. And suddenly, my heart's in my throat and it's really, really hard to breathe. Somehow, I force myself to look away.
Think of Grandma. Think of puppies. Or chickens.

THINK OF OSCAR.

Sliding
out of the car, I dig my dad's keys from my pocket. Jog up the church steps. Think of anything I possibly can, except for the girl behind me. Because once you start falling over a girl's smile, everything else comes tumbling down. And if it goes wrong, that tumble hurts like hell.

I hold the door open, allowing her inside ahead of me before flipping on the lights. She takes off her beanie and ruffles her hair.

No staring allowed.
I repeat it to myself over and over as I head into the sanctuary with her trailing behind me. Not only is she my neighbor, but she just broke up with my teammate, whom she dated for months. I guarantee the last thing she wants is to deal with another guy right now.

“This is your punishment?” she asks, her voice echoing throughout the sanctuary.

I shrug out of my jacket and toss it onto the front pew. “I don't really think of it as a punishment—more like a get-out-of-jail-free card, if jail means being grounded forever. Just don't tell my parents I said that.”

She sinks onto the pew, beside my jacket. “It's not so bad here at night. It's quiet. I've never been here without at least a hundred other people. Whenever I'm here on Sunday morning, it's buzzing.”

Scanning the room, I sit on the edge of the stage, letting my legs dangle over the side. I've spent a solid chunk of my life in these pews. There's a weird sort of peacefulness that comes with this place—at least, without the people who flood it every week. There are some awesome people around here. There are some not-awesome ones, too.

“
That's why I don't mind it,” I tell her. “I don't know. Sometimes being alone is better than being surrounded by people who don't give a sh—crap about you.” Glancing to the ceiling, I add, “Sorry 'bout that.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “This town is good for that. They act like they care, but…” She trails off, looking at her hands, which are folded in her lap.

“But what?” I can't help but ask.

She shakes her head. “It's just—nothing like a scandal to make people show their true colors. Like when my mom left. I learned more about these people than I would've wanted to know.” Picking at her nails, she shrugs. “Some brought meals for dad, and offered to let me sleep over and take me shopping—the stuff that's not really his thing, you know? But some of them only brought meals to judge how dirty our house was, or whether or not we had groceries in the fridge.”

Everyone does love a good scandal.

“College is better,” I tell her. “That's what Brett says, anyway. It's good enough to keep him away from here. But he also says Lewis Creek is a hard place to shake.”