Game On (2 page)

The
ones who could snap their fingers and I'd never play another day of baseball in Lewis Creek. My season would be over before it starts.

“Your boyfriend won't be happy,” I whisper. “He doesn't like me very much.” Ever since Brett and I TPed his house two years ago, Matt's had it out for me.

Okay, so maybe the whole “letting a pig loose in his house” thing didn't help, either. In our defense, he'd made a that's-what-she-said joke about our momma. And there are some lines you just don't cross.

All right, and there's a
chance
that I laughed in his face back in August, when he bragged about landing Bri. And then reminded him that I was her first kiss. And maybe told him that there's no way he could compete with that, even if we were ten when it happened.

But seriously, the look on his face? Freakin' priceless. Even if it did lead to him getting all pissy every time he spots me and Bri together, which is awkward when she and I live twenty feet away from each other. It's even more awkward that she and I used to actually talk for more than two minutes at a time, and then she started acting like she'd catch the plague by coming near me.

Until tonight, that is.

Bri tilts her head to the side. “Well, I won't tell him if you don't.”

I like the way she thinks. My stomach growls. “But I didn't get my cheese fries.”

“You're hopeless.”

“You're pretty.”

Pursing her lips, she pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “Go get some fresh air. I'm gonna tell Becca I'm leaving and text Matt to let him know I'll be late. I told him I'd be there by ten.”

“
He's an asshole, anyway.” The slurred words are out before I even realize they're there. But they're true, so I can't find it in me to care. Teammates are family; sometimes family hates each other. Bri blinks as I add, “Tell him that if he says anything mean to you, I'll beat him up.”

I smirk to let her know I'm kidding—slightly, anyway—but she nods toward the door. “Go wait in my car, Eric.”

Now the pity voice is gone. There's an edge there, one that tells me to back the hell off. So I do.

After forcing my legs to actually move, I shove through the door and step into the night, frigid air blasting my face as I head across the lot. The door's bell chimes again within seconds and I turn, expecting Bri.

But I'm not that lucky.

The cop starts toward me, holding up a hand, signaling me to stop. Once I finally make out his face, the alcohol burns my stomach like a furnace.

I am
really
not lucky.

“Eric Perry.” The cop, who I now recognize as Officer Martinez, crosses his arms. “Nice to see you again.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

Now would be a great time for my filter to kick in. But my filter left after the third beer. Or the fourth.

He lets out some mix of a snort and a laugh, looking at the ground. “I bet you do, considering I think we both know why I'm out here.” His eyes lock on mine. “Remind me: What were the terms of that deal we struck with Coach Taylor last month? You know, after I busted you with the fake ID and six-pack at the gas station.”

I
hold out my arms and shrug. “It was my eighteenth birthday. Can you really blame a guy for partying on his birthday?”

He takes a step forward. “You want to play games? Fine. How about the night I caught you trespassing on private property? Drunk. Again.”

Yeah, that was a good night. Until I got caught, anyway. “Even you can't tell me you'd turn down a girl's invitation to pull over beside the woods. She'd always wanted to screw around against a tree. I was happy to help.”

“And let's not forget my favorite,” he continues, undeterred. “Last January. Old Cotton Road. One Eric Perry, arrested for drinking and driving. And then, as always, Coach Taylor to the rescue.”

My heart slams against my chest. I drop my gaze to the ground, where his boots gleam beneath the parking lot lights. He wins. And he knows it.

Those boots take another step toward me. “We're trying to help you out around here, Eric. Bulldog blood runs through every one of us. Now, what were the terms that kept your ass out of jail last month?”

The door of the restaurant opens. My head pops up.
Now
Bri decides to show up. She starts toward us as I mumble, “No more drinking.”

Martinez leans in, turning his ear to me. “Couldn't quite hear you.”

“No more drinking,” I repeat, verging on a shout. “Loud enough for you that time?”

Bri slows as she approaches, inching to my side. She grasps my arm lightly. “It's okay. I'm taking him home.”

The officer's gaze doesn't waver as he says, “Don't make me take you in, son. Coach has sweet-talked your way out of jail every time, out of even letting me call your parents to let them
know
what a damn mess you've been lately, and all you had to do was leave the booze alone. How do you expect to lead a team and win games like this?” He gestures toward me. “I bet you can't even tell me your middle name right now.”

I shrug. “You're the one with the handcuffs, sir. I'll be whoever you want me to be.”

His eyes widen, but Bri's grip tightens like a bear trap as she yanks me back. “I'm taking him home,” she repeats. “Promise.”

I stumble behind her on the way to her car. “Stop being an idiot,” she whispers sharply, storming to the driver's side.

She's clearly forgotten who she's talking to. At least I remembered to call him sir. That should count for something.

As soon as I sink into the passenger seat, I close my eyes, relieved to almost be done with the night. When you're right on the edge of sleep, of the world fading away, you can almost forget that some people think you're a complete and total screw-up. And you can almost forget that maybe they're right. That you're easily replaceable at parties, that cops chase you away from restaurants, that your neighbor has to yank you out of a parking lot because you're about to get your ass locked up. Again.

Officer Martinez wasn't lying when he said that Bulldog blood runs through this town—that fact has gotten me out of every run-in I've had with the cops over the past couple of years. It's why “warnings” are nothing more than a chuckle and a “keep yourself out of trouble, son.” But just because they forgive you doesn't mean they forget.

Lewis Creek never forgets. And they'll hold it over your head for the rest of your life.

When I landed in a jail cell for drinking and driving after a party this time last year, the sheriff called Coach Taylor because if there's anything good about a baseball-obsessed town, it's
that
your coach is practically God. And when I looked into Coach's eyes and swore to the Lord in heaven above that I'd never be so stupid again, he agreed not to tell anyone else about that night. He did make me walk home from the police station while he followed me with his truck. And sentenced me to practice clean-up every day for the entire season.

I don't wake until tires crunch over gravel. Jerking up, I look around, only to see that we're in Bri's driveway. Her house is dark, but mine is brightly lit. Her dashboard clock says it's almost ten. My parents had a date night tonight, so thank God I made it home before they did. As long as my sisters don't rat me out, I'll be all right.

They don't know about everything that's happened over the past year. I mean, they know I'm no angel. They know about the drinking, the parties, and, thanks to not-so-quiet whispers, the occasional run-in with the cops here and there—all of that's pretty par for the course for every guy in this town. But we have this weird understanding that as long as I don't get into any serious shit, we're good. So the last thing I need is for them to catch me stumbling in like… well, like
this
.

“Why'd you do this to yourself?” Bri asks.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I glance over. She's staring at me, almost like she's trying to put together some sort of puzzle. If that's true, she's going to be looking for a long, long time, because I don't even know where all my pieces are.

“Coach released the team roster yesterday,” I tell her. “You're looking at the Bulldogs' new starting pitcher.”

“I know,” she says. “I was on my way to the big celebration, remember?”

Of course she knows. Everyone in town probably knows by now. “Well, I'm sorry for screwing up your night.”

She
rolls her eyes. “Starter is a good thing,” she continues. “Isn't that what you were waiting for? You were next in line to the pitching throne. Shouldn't you be celebratory drunk instead of”—she gestures to me—“mid-life-crisis, woe-is-me drunk?”

That's how the night started. And then my phone rang, and I checked my voicemail, and Coach Taylor's voice was in my ear, telling me that a buddy of his from
The Daily Gazette
gave him a heads-up about some article the paper is running tomorrow. An article about me.

Coach doesn't call you on Saturday night with good news. Coach calls when your life is about to get effed up.

And that's when the beer turned to shots, and the celebration turned to terrified-out-of-my-freakin'-mind.

Instead of telling Bri all that, I step out of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” I say and slam the door closed. My stomach flips, and flops, and clenches. I barely make it to the bushes before the entire night spills from my gut.

All hail the new king of Lewis Creek baseball.

Chapter
Two

Bri

Watching Eric stumble across his yard and puke in the perfectly landscaped bushes beside his porch is the saddest thing I've seen in a long time. I don't know what the heck happened to the Eric Perry I've lived next door to for ten years. This isn't the guy who used to give me a boost into his dad's deer stand in the woods by our house, or fixed my bike and my bloody knees when I didn't clear the curve on Taylor Store Road as well as he and his brother did. And it's definitely not the guy who's more confident than anyone I've ever met.

I have no idea why he's so out of it—this is supposed to be the night of his life. Any other guy in Lewis Creek would kill to be in his shoes right now. But sometimes, what seems perfect on the outside is a screwed-up mess beneath the surface. It's safe to say I know that better than just about anyone lately. I can only judge so much.

Time to shove him out of my head, though. The last thing I need is to be thinking about him when I'm supposed to be meeting my boyfriend, like, now. Of course, it'd be easier to forget him if my car didn't reek of the alcohol that I'm pretty sure seeped through his pores.

Once Eric's safely inside his house, I roll down the window of my old Toyota and take a deep breath of fresh air before backing out of my driveway. I shouldn't be
too
late getting to Randy's house. I would've been there way earlier if Becca hadn't run interference and dragged me to Joyner's beforehand.

My stomach twists as I slow for a stop sign, and it's not because of the stench clinging to the passenger seat. Becca's words from tonight play on repeat in my mind, words that I know are
true—
words that I've known to be true for longer than I should probably admit. But just because you know something is true doesn't make putting it into action any easier.

My lower lip quivers. I clear my throat and straighten in my seat. No time for tears. I gun the gas, my tires screeching as I push my little car through the intersection.

Randy's house sits on a cattle farm about a mile down the road from Joyner's. His parties are “legendary” and don't usually die down until well after midnight, but I'm pretty sure that's only because there's nothing else to actually do in Lewis Creek. Parties are no big deal, but Randy's are a little, um,
intense
and overwhelming for me—loud and wild, with booze flowing like water. Most definitely not my scene. But when you date the star center fielder, who also happens to be Randy's best friend, they kind of become a weekend fixture.

After passing through the well-worn path between the trees, I find a spot at the tree line of Randy's property and park next to the line of trucks. I was right: the party's still going strong, with the bonfire flames tickling the sky. Most of the seniors are always here on Saturday nights, but with the new team roster announced last week, it's even more packed than usual. The smallest bit of baseball news sends this town into an uproar. I squint a little, scanning the crowd through my windshield until I spot Matt right by the bonfire. Center of attention. His favorite place.

Meeting my boyfriend shouldn't make my stomach flare up and my heart race (and not in the good way). My anxiety levels shouldn't be through the roof, like a pot of water boiling over and rattling the lid. After last week's party, I'm not even sure I want to step foot on the field at all.

I
shake my head, blinking tears away. Now isn't time for memory lane. That's done. That's over. Another night that didn't destroy me. Tonight will be better. That's what Becca doesn't understand—it always gets better.

And then worse.

Dang it, Bri.

I flip down my mirror and cringe as the light illuminates my face. Mascara's smudged beneath my eyes, both from exhaustion and the constant tear-ups during dinner at Joyner's. I went there tonight knowing she would drop truth-bombs—I'm surprised she waited this long to let me have them. She didn't trust Matt when we started dating in August. She got pissed when he started calling me every time she and I tried to hang out.

She downright hates him after he embarrassed the hell out of me during last weekend's party. Which is why she took me to Joyner's tonight.