Game On (23 page)

The clipboard clatters as he sets it beside him. He leans back against the bench, staring out at the field. “You ready for tonight?” he asks.

Nope. “Ready as I'm gonna be,” I tell him.

“Good of an answer as any.” He nods toward the field. “There's been talk, Eric. Talk that I don't involve myself in, and that I sure as hell don't listen to.”

There's no telling what he's heard. But I have a feeling some of it has to do with Mr. Joyner's ambush at practice yesterday. I stay quiet, waiting for him to keep going.

“
I don't need you to be perfect,” he says. “I don't need you to be the best.”

“No offense,” I cut in, “but that kind of goes against everything you've ever taught us.” For the first time, he looks over. “You've always told us that we
are
the best. That we should play that way.”

He holds my gaze. “I don't need you to be the best,” he repeats. “I need you to be
your
best.”

That sounds nice. It sounds good. It sounds like one of those perfectly scripted pep talks from the movies. But what happens when my best flat-out might not be good enough? “It's tough,” I say after a moment. “The pressure. The spotlight. It's hard as hell. And I don't know if I can handle it.”

“You can,” he says with zero uncertainty. “I didn't say it would be easy. But it'll be damn well worth it.”

Footsteps come toward us, and he pushes to his feet as Kellen and Blake appear at the dugout's opening. Kellen drops his bag onto the bench, his eyebrows pulled together as he looks from me to Coach. “You all right?”

I nod, standing.

Blake slaps my shoulder while dropping his own bag. “Good, 'cause one loss is enough for me. I didn't sit on the bench all last year to blow a bunch of games.”

That's one way to look at it.

A line of other guys stream into the dugout, with Matt bringing up the rear. I train my eyes on my bag, focusing on digging out my glove. The last thing I need is to deal with him right now.

“
Perry.” He obviously didn't get the memo. I glance up, finding him right in front of me. “Ready to choke out again?”

The dugout falls silent. I can feel a dozen gazes trained on me, with Coach's practically boring a hole into the back of my head. There's only one reason he wouldn't have kicked Matt's ass out of here: he's waiting to see what I'll do. And I can't blow it. Not this time.

So I squeeze my hands closed. Take a deep breath and say, “Anyone ever told you how teams work, Harris? You trash the
other
team. Not your own, dumbass.” And I brush past him on my way out of the dugout, away from the silence, away from the audience. Because I've got some people to prove wrong out there tonight, and I need to work my backside off to do it.

~

By the time I reach the mound, the gray sky's opened just enough for a cool drizzle. I tug the brim of my cap, shielding my face. Despite Monday night's disappointment, the stands are still packed, with fans cooped up beneath their umbrellas. My parents are in their same spots right up front, but they've got an extra person squeezed in between them and Grace:

Bri.

She's got Emma on her lap, pointing at the field. At me. And she's smiling, this crazy-bright smile that's even crazier because she's looking at me while she's doing it.

Wow.

Inhaling deeply, I turn my attention to Blake and the batter stepping to the plate. The dude's huge, even taller than me or my brother, with an ego I can feel all the way out here.

Blake signals for a fastball, which is as good of a start as any. So I wind up. Send the ball flying. It hits Blake's mitt, its smack against the leather like a gunshot. And it's the greatest damn sound I've ever heard.

The
crowd claps, but it's nothing compared to the roars this team is used to. And as much as I kind of hate myself for it, my ears crave those roars. Their approval shouldn't matter. But it does. So when Blake signals for another fastball, I fire my best straight into his mitt; the batter never saw it coming. A changeup rounds out the at-bat, sending the guy packing. Now I just have to get through seven innings of that. No big deal.

~

Needless to say, I have not had seven innings to match the first. When I stride to the mound at the top of the seventh, we're barely winning, 8-7. Awesome: We've scored eight runs. Not awesome: I've allowed seven.

My arm hurts like a bastard. I rotate it a few times, praying it holds out for just a little longer. I've never wished that Coach would take me out of a game, but I guess there really is a first time for everything.

Blake gets into position behind the mound, signaling that he's ready when the first batter comes to the plate. As always, Blake signals to start off with the fastball, but, no. Not this time. I give him a subtle shake of my head. There's a reason these guys have all smacked the hell out of the ball today—they know a fastball is coming first. Blake pauses, no doubt because I've knocked him completely off balance with the change, and finally signals curveball.

And now I have to pause. A stray curveball is what screwed me over the other night. A stray curveball is why I've got a price on my head. Coach's words from yesterday echo in my head:
It's awful hard to beat someone who doesn't give up.

Perrys aren't quitters.

Taking a deep breath, I nod once. Grip the ball just right. Wind up and let it go.

It hits Blake's glove with a smack heard 'round the world.
Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

Two
more. Just two more. Two more and it's over.

I repeat it to myself as the next batter comes to the plate, the other team's start-off-hitting beast of a dude. Blake must have caught on to my fastball epiphany, because instead of the trusty fastball signal, he goes for a slider.

Wind up. Pitch.
Blake catches it effortlessly. Holy shit, this game may actually end.

The next two pitches hit Blake's glove with glorious accuracy. And when the final batter comes to the plate—because he
will
be the final batter—my heart's ready to jump out of my chest. I ready myself on the mound, waiting for Blake's signal. Which is a fastball.

I shake my head. He signals fastball again. I shake my head again.

Fastball.

Dude—no.

Finally, I jerk my head, signaling him to get his ass to the mound. He pulls up his mask and jogs over, his face drenched in sweat. Before I can get a word in, he says, “You haven't thrown a fastball in six pitches. It'll confuse the hell out of him. Trust me.”

My mouth drops open to argue, but he might have a point. I nod once, and he heads back to the catcher's box. I swear to all that's holy, if I screw this up, it's his head on the chopping block with mine. But part of the pitcher-catcher partnership is actually
being
a partnership.

So I wind up and let the fastball fly. The batter slices nothing but air.

Blake signals for another fastball. Narrowing my eyes, I shake my head. He repeats the signal. Blowing out a breath, I go for it. And it goes straight into his glove.

One more strike. One more. One. More.

Time for a changeup? It's got to be time for a changeup.

Blake signals changeup. And now, I think we might have something going here.

A
bead of sweat escapes from my hair and falls down my cheek, mingled with the rain still drenching the field. I glance to the bleachers, where, despite the rain, most of the crowd's on their feet, umbrellas forgotten.

Here goes nothin'.

I wind up. Release the ball, praying it finds its mark.

It does. The crowd goes freakin' wild. And just like that, my name gets wiped off the hit list.

Right on cue, the sky spills open. Blake yanks up his mask and yells “I told you so!” as I run to home plate. I launch myself at the genius, grabbing him in a hug. The rest of the guys pour in, their whoops and hollers drowning out the cheers from the bleachers.

This
is why I love this damn game.

We fall into the post-game lineup with the other team, shaking their hands while rain soaks our uniforms and chills us to the bone. Forget Cloud 9—adrenaline's got me soaring to Cloud 99.

After grabbing my gear bag, I head for the bleachers. My parents are still waiting, Dad holding the umbrella for Momma. Bri's got Emma on her back, her eyes bright and her smile even brighter.

She looks
right
here. Perfect.

“So proud of you,” Momma says, and my gaze snaps to her. “Y'all did amazing.” She looks back and forth between me and Bri, smiling as she pries my sister off Bri's back. “We'll see you at home, all right? Don't be too late.”

“Keep it easy tonight,” Dad adds. “Got me?”

I
give him a thumbs-up, which he returns with a nod. Bri watches them head for the parking lot, but now, I can't stop watching her. She's soaked, her hair matted to her head, her clothes clinging to her skin.

Dear Lord in heaven above.

“You stuck around through the rain?” I asked.

She finally looks at me, raindrops clinging to her eyelashes. “I had to see you win.”

I can't help but grin and take a step closer. “So you knew I'd win?”

“Totally knew it.” And her smile widens, somehow even brighter.

Water trickles down my face, slow and steady, as an overwhelming urge hits me. All I wanna do is grab the girl and kiss her. And judging from the way she's holding my gaze, I think she knows.

But I can't. Because these stupidly fragile hearts need protecting.

“I should get going,” she says. “Dad's coming in tonight.”

Of course he is. I swallow hard. Force my grin to stay in place. “No dinner with the family?”

“You've got partying to do tonight,” she says. “Big win. Live it up. Celebrate.” She backs away, waving. “Congrats, Eric.”

I want her to keep saying my name. Like, maybe even just make a video of her saying my name over and over and over. That sounds better than a fastball hitting Blake's mitt.

A hand lands on my shoulder. Kellen steps to my side. “You goin' to the river?” he asks.

It's team tradition—after every win, we pile into our trucks and drive down to the riverbank. But as good as that win felt tonight, I kind of want to go home with the girl walking away from me. “Not sure,” I tell him.

He
moves in front of me, his uniform soaked through. “Bullcrap.” He holds out his hands, gesturing to me. “You are Eric Freakin' Perry. Who else is gonna initiate the noobs? This is your job. Your purpose. Your divine calling.”

The guy's got a point. Besides, if Bri's dad
is
home, then chances are I'm not getting within throwing distance of her tonight.

So I follow Kellen to our trucks, waving while climbing into mine. The drive across town is quick, bringing me to the river within minutes. There's a section of shaded dockside that our team's claimed for years, mostly for nights like this—for the beer and for the celebration. I park my truck at the end of the line, beside Kellen's, and change into a pair of gym shorts and a clean t-shirt before stepping out. The rain's stopped, leaving patches of mud and scattered puddles. I pop my tailgate and hop up as Kellen comes around, climbing up beside me.

The other guys have already dragged out a bunch of lawn chairs, which are lined up along the shoreline. Those chairs look brand new compared to the raggedy ones my brother brought to these parties for all his years on varsity. I could've brought them tonight. Probably should have, for old time's sake. But it looks like the old times are long gone.

Blake's truck roars through the trees, parking next to mine. He jumps down, his hood pulled up as he walks over and hoists himself onto my tailgate. “This is dull as hell,” he murmurs. He nudges me. “Get somethin' going, Perry. By this time last year, you had me freezin' my balls off in the river.”

Eyeing the group by the water, I grin. All the sophomores are sitting on their rears in the lawn chairs with entirely too many clothes on. After the first win of each season, every new Bulldog has to take a dip in the Lewis Creek River. It's tradition. And you don't mess with tradition.

I
hop off the tailgate. “Rookies!” I shout. Everyone shifts, turning to look our direction. “What makes y'all think you're gettin' by without gettin' your asses in the water? You ain't a Bulldog until you take a dive!”

That's all it takes for the guys to jump from their chairs. My grin widens as I start for the dock. It may not be much, but this moment is mine, damn it. Kellen's right: my divine calling involves getting dudes to strip down and jump in the river. And I'm okay with that.

I stop at the edge of the dock, waiting for the guys to fall into line at the other end. They tug off their shirts and shorts; I can see the poor bastards shivering from here.

“Fellas,” I begin, rubbing my hands together. “You're about to partake in the oldest tradition of Bulldogs baseball.” Pursing my lips, I tilt my head to the side. “Okay, maybe not the oldest. But definitely one of the greatest.” I gesture to the water behind me. “This water? It's like your baptism. You'll go under a rookie, and come out washed in the sweet holy water of Lewis Creek.”

“And he's a pastor's kid,” Blake shouts from my truck. “He knows all about that shit.”

I point at him. “He's right. I know all about that shit. Take my word for it.” Stepping aside, I wave on the first kid, Nick Lucas. “Let's get this goin'.”

Nick Lucas ventures onto the dock, peering over at the water. He catches my eye. I flash him a smirk. Taking a deep breath, he runs and takes a flying leap into the river. I turn, shielding myself from the splash. One by one, the others follow right behind him, with the veterans cheering them on from the sidelines.