Game On (16 page)

Everyone's pouring out of the halls and into the parking lot as I make my way to Mr. Matthews's classroom for the monthly National Honor Society meeting after school. As president, I have to be there, even if the vice president is a certifiable douche canoe.

With Valentine's Day this week and its dance coming up on Saturday night, the dance committee must have spent the afternoon decorating for the “festivities.” (Barf.) The hallway is filled with bright red and pink streamers, along with heart balloons whose strings I have to dodge as I walk through.

I wish I had a pair of scissors.

I turn down the final hall, which is empty except for two people down by the double doors: Laura Decker and Eric. Her back's against the wall, and there's barely an inch between them as he leans in, his hand beside her head. And for some inexplicable reason, my stomach twists at the sight. Which is ridiculous. He's just a friend.

He is.

But before I can rip my eyes away, his face shifts, his lips falling into a frown. He pushes off the wall. Shoves through the double doors, the clattering metal echoing through the hall.
Laura
seems completely unaffected, pulling her phone from her purse as she walks in my direction. I duck into the room before she notices the creepy girl spying on her.

Matt's already here, along with Sara Stringer and Landon Stephens, yet another baseball player. On instinct, my gaze falls to Matt. A couple months ago, that lost-puppy expression would've made me melt. Now, it makes me want to kick him in the face.

I sit in the first row, right in front of Mr. Matthews's desk. Matt's whispering my name, and he's clearing his throat, and he's doing everything under the sun to get my attention except for coming near me. So I guess Coach Taylor's warning actually stuck. And I've never been more grateful to a baseball coach in my life.

It's mind-boggling how someone can spend so much time tearing you down, only to grasp at straws when they finally lose you.

My phone buzzes for the hundredth time today. For the heck of it, I grab it from my bag.

Matt
:
You're not fooling anyone.

I swear, he used to be a nice guy. Once upon a time. And I should just remove his number entirely, but keeping it gives me a heads-up whenever he decides to grace my phone with his presence. Basically the very definition of necessary evil.
Swipe. Delete.

Matt
:
Everyone knows you fucked him.

A charmer. Really.
Delete.

Matt
:
I could ruin that precious rep even more. We've covered screwing around on me. What about a test-cheating scandal next?

My breath catches in my throat. Freaking. Liar. I glance over my shoulder, only to catch him smirking. He holds up his phone right as mine buzzes again.

Matt
:
you know they'd all believe me.

Instead
of tears hitting my eyes yet again, something else hits me: Pure freaking
rage
.

I've worked damn hard for everything I've gotten. I don't like being threatened. The line that separates hurt and anger? He didn't just cross it—he took a flying freaking leap. And now I. Am. Pissed. But a reaction is exactly what he wants, and that's exactly what he's not going to get.

I drop my phone into my bag. Cross my legs. Stare straight ahead, waiting for Mr. Matthews to call the meeting to order while everyone else files in.

“I don't get it,” Sara says from beside me.

I glance over at her. She's a super-smart junior, one who could probably give me a run for my money in Chemistry. She must see the confusion on my face, because she subtly tilts her head toward Matt. “Why you're dragging this breakup thing out,” she continues more quietly. “You could be a little nicer to him. Talk to him. It's not like he hit you or anything.” Her eyes widen slightly behind her glasses. “Right?”

I wish I had something to say to that. I wish I could at least do something other than sit here with my mouth hanging open. I wish I could tell her that she just doesn't get it. That you don't have to hit someone to bruise them.

But I think the saddest thing is that she's saying it with this wide-eyed innocence. That she really believes what she's saying. That there's no way the golden boy behind us can be capable of anything other than perfection. If anyone understands perfection, it's me—I've worked my ass off at perfecting my mask for years. And I know that you can look perfect on the outside, but the inside is a giant mess of puzzle pieces that've been stepped on and chewed and ripped to shreds. And even when you've kind-of-sort-of moved on from someone, even when
you're
healing, those puzzle pieces don't just fix themselves. Even with crazy glue and tape and lots of TLC, you're still going to have frayed ends and pieces that just don't fit anymore.

Instead of telling her all that, all I can do is shake my head as Mr. Matthews begins the meeting.

~

The downside of NHS meetings is that I miss soccer practice. Which especially sucks on days like today, when I really, really need to kick something.

So after the meeting, I change into my practice shorts and head out to the field, my own soccer ball tucked beneath my arm. Coach Weeks locks up the gear after every practice, which is why keeping a ball in my car at all times comes in handy during rage emergencies.

Our field lights have flipped on, now that the sun has disappeared for the day. The other girls are crowded around the bench, grabbing their bags. I nod to them as they file into the parking lot, with Becca and Coach Weeks bringing up the rear.

“Missed you tonight, Johnson!” Coach says. “Good to see you out here.”

Becca lifts her eyebrows, walking backward. “You good?” she asks.

“Great,” I say with a smile. “Perfect. Couldn't be better.”

She narrows her eyes, knowing good and well that I'm lying. “Text me later,” she says and jogs to catch up with Coach.

I'll totally text, after I take my aggression out on a poor, defenseless ball, while pretending it's someone else's balls.

I center myself in front of the goal and drop the ball into the grass.

I need to listen.

I need to let him apologize.

I
need to stop dragging out this breakup.

I need to give the poor guy a chance.

I need to be
nice
.

My heart slams against my chest as I back up. Run. And kick as hard as I possibly can, the
thump
like music to my ears. Leaning forward, I rest my hands on my knees. The only thing I
need
to do is breathe. To remember why I'm here. Remember that their words mean shit. Remember that the only person I need to make happy is me.

I jog to the goal and grab the ball. Return to my spot. Rinse and repeat.

Chapter
Eleven

Eric

It's one thing for people to tell you that you're crazy for thinking everyone is out to get you. That you're imagining things when you feel like no one takes you seriously. But actually finding out that you're a joke? Screw that.

Practice today is a joke in itself. Which, of course, is my fault. The cold wind beats my face as I wind up and fire another weak fastball into Blake's mitt. My fastball's been at least 10 mph under its normal today.

“Watch your balance,” Coach calls from behind me.

Hanging my head, I breathe in deeply. Again, and again. I straighten. Wind up. Let another one fly.

“You're not using your whole body,” Coach says, his voice closer “Where's your head at, Perry?”

Not here, that's for damn sure. Laura's words from this afternoon are on replay in my mind, and as much as I wish I could say they don't mean shit, they mean a whole hell of a lot.

Coach moves in front of me, his eyes boring into mine. “First game is in three weeks.”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“I don't know what's goin' on, but when you're on this field, you need to pull it together. If your technique is shot, your pitches won't be worth a thing. And you'll blow that arm out within an inning.”

He's
not wrong. But when voices get in your head, it's really damn hard to push them aside.

“Everyone thinks it. I'm just saying it.”

I squeeze my eyes closed. Nod again. “Yes, sir.”

Coach slaps my shoulder. “Tunnel vision,” he says. “Braxton always needed that reminder, too. When you're on this field, it's you and your catcher—that's it. Nothing else matters. I know it's tough, but it's necessary.”

He walks away and whistles practice to a close, and finally, I exhale. Blake yanks off his mask as he jogs to meet me on my way to the dugout. “What's with you today?” he asks. “We won't win any games with your head all over the place, man.”

I shove my glove into my gear bag. Zip it closed. Don't say a word, because if I do open my mouth, I'm gonna snap on one of the few people I actually like around here. Blake's a good buddy, but I'm stretched tighter than an old rubber band right now. If I don't get five minutes to myself, it won't be pretty.

Kellen steps to my side and grabs his own bag. “Think he needs a minute,” he tells Blake. I glance up and meet his eyes. Nod once, which he returns with one of his own.

The mark of a best friend: knowing when to leave each other the hell alone.

“No, Blake's got a point.”

My eyes close at the voice behind me. Now is
really
not a good time.

“We're not gonna win games if Perry doesn't learn how to throw a damn ball,” Matt continues. I spot him out the corner of my eye, picking up his bag from the bench. “So maybe he needs to get his head out of his ass and actually play.”

I turn. “I swear to all that's holy, if you don't shut your fu—”

Coach's
whistle pierces through me. My mouth snaps closed.

“Out,” is all he says, and it's loud and clear.

The guys file out of the dugout, leaving me with blessed silence. I plop onto the bench and lean forward, resting my head in my hands.

The problem is that nothing horrible even happened. But when one bad thought seeps into your head, it sends you plummeting into a black hole.

Valentine's Day is this week. The dance is on Saturday. And call me crazy, but I wanted to take someone to the dance. I don't even know why it felt like a huge deal, but it did. So I asked Laura, because why not, and her words have echoed in my head ever since.

“You're not boyfriend material. You're Saturday night stress release. You're fun.”

She added the “fun” part like it was supposed to make me feel better. She said it with this smile that I think was meant to be sweet, but it was more like those old ladies who go around blessing hearts all day.

And when I didn't smile back? “
Everyone thinks it. I'm just saying it.”

I shove to my feet and sling my gear bag over my shoulder. The field lights shine against the night, highlighting the diamond. I have to pull it together. I
need
to pull it together.

The parking lot's nearly empty as I head toward my truck. I drop my bag into the back and my eyes pass over the soccer field across the lot, where one girl lingers midfield. Considering Bri's car is one of the handful left out here, it's pretty clear who the mystery girl is.

I haven't seen her since Saturday night, after she dropped me off at home. Clearly I need to take lessons from her on keeping a low profile. But after getting a front-row seat to the whispers making their way around school today, she has a reason for that low profile.

People talk crap about dudes. People talk pure shit about girls.

My
cleats click against the pavement as I walk to the field. Leaning onto the fence, all I can do is watch—she doesn't even notice I'm here. I don't pay much attention to soccer, considering baseball takes up half my time between January and May, but word has it she's one of the best forwards to ever step on this field. She rears back and kicks the ball, sending it soaring into the goal.

The girl is awesome. And I hope I never give her a reason to kick me.

She jogs to the goal and grabs the ball. On her way back to midfield, she finally spots me. “What are you doing here?” she bites.

Yikes.

Shrugging, I say, “Watching. Unless you want me to leave. Then I'll leave.”

She shakes her head. “No, like,
why
are you here? Did you literally decide, ‘Hey, I'm gonna go spy on Bri,' or what?”

Her cheeks are flushed, with strands of hair matted to her sweat-streaked face. Judging from the fact that she's out here alone and kicking the life out of that ball, I have a feeling I'm not the one she's pissed at. Hopefully, anyway.

“I was worried about you,” I admit. “Sort of. After Saturday night—”

“What about Saturday night?”

The messages I saw while looking at your phone
. I clear my throat. “The, uh, the party. Everyone's talking about it.”

She raises her eyebrows. Waits.

And I've been caught.

“And the texts. Which I saw,” I admit.

Her
eyes widen with pure rage, so I rush to add, “I swear, I wasn't snooping—not really. Your phone lit up and I looked and—” I blow out a breath. “And I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. That was stupid.”

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Really stupid.” Regardless, my backside must be out of trouble because she turns away, dropping the ball into the grass.

“Does that work?” I ask.

She glances at me. “Does what work?”

I nod toward the ball. “The rage kicking.”

She eyes me up and down. “Come try. You look like you could use it, too.”

She doesn't have to tell me twice. I hop the fence and jog over, meeting her in the middle. She moves aside and gestures for me to go ahead. Taking a deep breath, I back up. Run. Slam my foot into the ball for all it's worth. My foot vibrates with the impact, adrenaline soaring through me.