Game On (21 page)

Pursing my lips, I shake my head. “Not at all.”

The machine spits the first ball out, and she swings, missing it by a longshot. “Are we ever gonna talk about the other night?” she asks, keeping her eyes fixed ahead.

Nope. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

She shrugs. Swings at the next ball, catching it on the end of her bat with a
ping
. “I need friends right now, Eric.” She glances at me again, just long enough for me to see the uncertainty on her face. Like she's trying to convince herself as much as me. “I've got to keep this heart safe. Know what I mean?”

I thought I was prepared for that. Heck, I've been standing here thinking the exact same thing. But hearing it come from her mouth is a kick to the stomach. Hearing her pretty much say, “You'll hurt me, and I won't let you” is hell on the heart.

But
she's here. She showed up here when she didn't have to, just to make sure I was okay. And if that's what a friend does, then I'd be more than happy calling her a friend.

I nod, even though she can't see me. “I know.”

The next ball shoots out, and she smacks it, dead center. She whirls around, grinning from ear to ear. “How was that?”

I can't help but grin back, even though it feels weak. “You'll be a pro in no time, Johnson.”

“Not nearly as good as you.” She glances over her shoulder and shrugs when she sees my face. “I've been watching you play for years. I'm an observer, remember?”

She's at most of the Bulldog games, but hearing that she actually watches me play? I stand a little taller. “Yeah? You gonna watch me play tomorrow?”

She smiles. Looks back to the machine. “I wouldn't miss it.”

Chapter
Sixteen

Eric

Early March is the greatest time of the damn year. Cool, crisp, early spring air. A slow descent into nightfall, with the sun lingering just above the tree line. And field lights that kick on at five o'clock on the dot.

It's almost show time.

I stand firm in the outfield and fire another fastball into Blake's mitt during pre-game warmup. Coach stands behind him, his arms crossed, his steady gaze trained on me. Out the corner of my eye, I glance to the bleachers—with at least ten minutes to go before game time, every single inch is already filled to the brim, with people still piling in.

Coach whistles sharply. My attention snaps back to him. He gives me a quick shake of his head. “Not them,” he says. “Tunnel vision, Perry. You and your catcher. That's all that matters.”

I nod once as Blake lofts the ball back to me. Coach walks over, nudging the brim of his cap so I can see his eyes. “You okay?” he asks.

No.
“Yes, sir.”

“You lyin' to me?”

I blow out a breath. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell me the problem.”

When I was the backup pitcher, I started the few games that Braxton couldn't, since a pitcher can only play so many games per week. But when you're the primary starter, when
you're
the one throwing the first pitch of the first game of the season, when you're supposed to be the team's go-to guy, there's no room for falling flat on your ass. And I'm scared as hell of falling flat on my ass. I'm even more scared of doing it in front of these people.

“I don't want to lose,” I finally admit.

He holds my gaze, unwavering. “So don't. You go out there, you do your job, and you pitch like you and I both know you can. I wouldn't put you out there if I didn't think you could handle it.”

Deep down, I do know that. I think. The trouble is believing that he's not an idiot for making that call. But I'd never tell him that.

He slaps my shoulder and heads for the mound, to the circle of umps and the other team's coach.

Blake jogs over as I start toward the dugout. “We've got this,” he says, falling into step beside me. “We're ready. You know that, right?”

I hope to all that's holy that we are. If not, we can at least pretend.

The dugout buzzes with both voices and energy as I step inside. I keep my eyes trained on the end of the bench, where Kellen's sitting. I plop down beside him. Stare out at the field, my knee bouncing. Now, all I can do is wait. The waiting's the worst part. The waiting is when you can imagine the dozens of ways the night can go wrong.

“You all right?” Kellen asks.

I could lie. I could tell him that I'm fine, that I'll be fine, that I'm completely sure we'll win tonight and I won't embarrass myself in front of half the town. But for some reason, all I can say is, “No.” Thankfully, he leaves it at that.

Coach
waves us onto the field for the national anthem. I jog out there with the rest of the guys, lining up on the foul line as Grace strides to the mound. She sings the anthem every year, partly because her voice is freakin' amazing and partly because she's a Perry. Each one of us craves this field for some reason or another. It's why Emma's over on the sidelines in her Bulldogs jersey and oversized cap that Brett gave her last year.

I could, however, do without the assholes in the bleachers whistling at my kid sister.

After the benediction, we file back into the dugout to grab our gear. My stomach flips, and it flops, and it flips some more. Everyone lines up at the dugout's opening, waiting as the stadium's speakers screech to life.

“Welcome to a brand-new season of Bulldogs baseball!” the announcer booms. “Jerry Cox here, along with Skip Harris for our seventeenth season of bringing you the greatest game to ever grace God's green earth.”

Applause erupts from the bleachers, whoops and hollers echoing over Jerry's voice. The blood in my ears is louder than all of them.

“And now,” Skip says, “let's hear it for your starting lineup! At first base, we've got the one and only Kellen Winthrop!”

“Shortstop: Landon Stephens.”

“Second base: Jackson Davis.”

“On third, newcomer Nick Lucas.”

“Out in right field, we've got Randy Eldredge.”

“Your center fielder is the incomparable Matt Harris.”

“Left field: Chris Lincoln.”

“This year's catcher is Blake Thompson.”

Blake
charges out ahead of me, leaving me alone with Coach. This moment used to pump me up, but the more the crowd's roar dies down, the more my throat tightens. I scan the field, my gaze falling on the mound. My mound. The patch of dirt I've been looking forward to owning for years.

It's show time. And stage fright's a bastard.

Coach squeezes my shoulder, bringing me back to the moment. “You and your catcher,” he reminds me. “That's all I want you to focus on. You've pitched plenty of games, Eric.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I've never been in the spotlight.”

“And last,” Jerry says, “but certainly not least, your starting pitcher: Eric Perry!”

I can't breathe. Pretty sure I need to be able to breathe for this.

Coach gives me a small shove, urging me on. “Get out there and prove 'em wrong, son.”

The crowd's on their feet, cheering as I step onto the field. Lights flash all over the place, so many that I don't have a damn clue where they're all coming from. My parents are on the bottom bleacher with Grace, while Emma runs around with a bunch of other kids. Girl after girl is lined up across the fence, holding neon posters with players' names and numbers. Laura and Addison are front and center, their posters covered with my lucky number 7. Let's just hope it actually
brings
me luck.

And—Bri's here. She's off to the side with Becca, behind the girls who'd put the Cowboys' cheerleaders to shame, but she's here. Yesterday, she told me that she actually watches me play when she shows up to games, which has never really hit me before. Now I hope to high heaven that I don't screw this up.

Keeping
my head low, I head for the mound as the crowd's cheers lower to a murmur. My blood slams against my veins, my heart going into overdrive while the Cardinals' first batter steps to the plate.

Ready or not, here we go.

There's one thing I always look for in a batter: his stance. It can tell you just about everything you need to know. This guy's knees are bent way too much, and his legs are a little too far apart. The wider the stance, the less power you have when you hit the ball—any rookie batter knows that. Not only that; even from here I can see that he's tense.

Bad for him. Good for me.

Behind the plate, Blake signals fastball. Taking a deep breath, I go into my windup and let the ball fly. The batter swings, getting nothing but air. The crowd erupts into cheers, hollering and clapping and making more noise than Yankees Stadium itself probably hears.

'Kay. Maybe I can actually do this.

Blake calls for a changeup. Sounds good to me.
Wind up. Pitch.

Smack.

The ball soars over my head. I whirl around, my heart sinking more with each second. No, no, for the love of sweet Jesus, no.

Going. Going.

Gone.

The cheers subside. The crowd takes a collective seat. And then, nothing but silence. The silence is always the worst.

I glance up at the lights. I've always loved those lights, but right now? They're my worst enemy.

~

By some grace from heaven above, by the top of the seventh and final inning, we've managed to creep to a 4-3 lead. All I have to do is send the next three guys packing. That's it. That's all. Three up, three down, and I'll have survived my first season opener, and maybe, just maybe, have earned some ounce of respect around here.

I trudge to the mound, keeping my eyes on the ground until it's time to check Blake's signal—fastball. I can handle fastballs all night long.

This batter's stance is perfect. There's more confidence in his smirk than there is in my head. Swallowing hard, I wind up and let the fastball go.

Smack.

I'm not even surprised when it soars to the outfield, dropping to the gap between Matt and Randy. Matt snatches it up. I can see his glare all the way across the field as he throws it to second. Jackson throws it back to me, the ball feeling more like a hot coal than a prized possession.

I miss the prized possession days.

I turn to the next batter, glancing at Blake for the next signal. He gives me a thumbs-up.

At least someone doesn't hate me.

I wind up. Another fastball. And another
smack.

This one goes to center—the first runner only makes it to third. The second runner stops at first. With no outs.

I'm gonna puke. I'm definitely gonna puke. There's no way in hell I can blow this lead. I yank off my cap and wipe the sweat lining my forehead, but that doesn't do much good when
your
hair's soaked. My gaze passes over Coach, who's staring on from his place at the foul line. Waiting. Unfazed. He gives me a small nod.

I look to Blake, who signals for a curveball. It's worth a shot.
Wind up. Pitch.

It's wild. And it flies right past Blake.

He yanks up his mask and darts to the side, chasing down the ball as I charge to cover home plate. Blake snatches the ball and fires it. It soars over my head right as the first runner slides into home.

Shit.

I whirl around. Spot the ball rolling toward the fence. Sprint over and grab it. Turn. The second runner pushes to his feet, dusting the dirt off his pants from
his
slide into home.

You've got to be shittin' me.

I look to the crowd, where people are walking away from the stands. You don't leave a Bulldogs game—period. Leaving the season opener? That's a cardinal sin.

If I thought the lights were bright before, they're downright blinding now. They're shining like spotlights. And what happens when you crash right in the middle of that spotlight?

You burn.

~

For the first time in years, the Bulldogs lost the season opener. 5-4.

It doesn't matter that I struck out the next three guys after my wild throw. It doesn't matter that I finished the game I started. What matters is the big, fat L beside tonight's game, and the name responsible for that L.

When I walked through the front door, my parents and sisters were already home. Momma tried to make me feel better, bribing me with mac and cheese and banana pudding. Not
even
pudding can make this shit better. So I've been lying here, on my bed, still in my uniform, for the past half hour. All I want to see are the walls of my room for the rest of the year.

The room is dark. Quiet. Cold. Perfect. I squeeze my eyes closed. The boos. Dear God, the freakin' boos just won't go away. My phone buzzes with a text, vibrating against my nightstand.

Brett
:
How did it go?

Yeah, no. Not right now. I toss the phone onto the floor and rub the heels of my hands into my eyes. Brett's up there at Campbell, probably hitting grand slams and throwing people out at home and relaxing in front of bonfires. And I'm here, running the reigning state champs into the ground.

I'm happy for him. But I could use him more than ever tonight.

There's a knock on my door. I bury my face into the pillow. “Go away,” I groan. They either don't hear or don't care, because the door creaks open.

“Eric?”

I roll over. Bri's standing just inside my room. “I thought you might want company. Fresh air, maybe?”

Not really, no. In fact, that's the exact opposite of what I want. But kicking her out would be pretty damn rude. I push myself up. My uniform feels more like a straitjacket, but I don't even have the energy to change.

I follow her down the hallway and into the living room, where my parents and sisters are on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between Dad and Emma. They turned on the movie to cheer me up. But apparently I'm an asshole who can't even watch a movie with my family.