Game On (29 page)

Brett slaps my back, coming up beside me. “If I'm pushing too hard, tell me to shut the hell up, but I'm your brother; I get a pass. Are y'all a thing?”

Stopping at the edge of the lot, I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Not a thing,” I tell him. “We could maybe be a thing. I'm a dumbass who actually wants us to be a
thing.
We were glued together all last night. Not like
that
,” I say when he tries to cut in. “But…” I trail off, not really knowing what else to say.

“We've only got five months before college anyway,” I murmur, starting toward the field. “So even if we were a thing, it'd only hurt come August.”

“Five months is enough time to make some damn good memories,” he says. “And summer makes those memories even hotter.” He winks and hops over the chain-link fence.

I am a fan of the hot memories.

“Besides,” he says. “College isn't some death sentence for relationships. You should know that by now.”

Maybe not for him and Jay, or Austin and his girlfriend, Marisa, for that matter. Or Jay's older brother, who just married his high school girlfriend a few months ago.

Wait. There's a trend here.

Shaking my head, I climb over the fence. “Braxton!” I yell. “You better not be messing up my dirt.”

His cackle echoes across the field. “Junior, for tonight, this mound is mine. It's like comin' home.” He fires another ball into Jay's mitt. But the second Jay spots my brother, the mitt's history. He tosses it to the ground and stands, his grin stretching from ear-to-ear.

Breaks are the only time they get together since Jay left for college in Arizona and Brett went to North Carolina. It shouldn't surprise me that they're still together after being split up for seven months, but it does. You hear all those horror stories about couples who ditch each other after the first day apart—the high-school relationship curse. But I guess my brother was right—college isn't always a death sentence.

Brett's
idiot grin matches Jay's as he pulls him in for a kiss. I meet Braxton on the mound, plopping onto the dirt. “We're gonna be here a while,” I tell him.

He lets out an
oof
as he sits. “No kiddin'. How you been, Junior? Still riding the high of the Beaufort win?”

I shrug, leaning on my bent knees. “How's college ball?” I ask instead.

“Really damn good.” He nods toward Brett and Jay, who've finally come up for air, but are still hanging on for dear life. “Miss those guys like hell. But I've got Marisa, and I've got my team there. Makes things easier.”

I bet it does. Once he and Marisa hooked up last spring, you couldn't find an inch between them. Part of me was jaded and wanted nothing to do with them. Part of me was jealous as all get-out.

He nudges me. “How you been?” he asks again. “Honestly.”

I look at him this time, catching him watching me. I could make up some crap. Tell him that things are perfect, despite having the weight of an entire town sitting on my shoulders. But that'd be a bunch of BS.

“Honestly?” He nods, signaling for me to continue. “I don't have a damn clue how you did this for years and held it together.” Shaking my head, I look back toward home plate. Toward the bleachers, where the cheers of the crowd still seem to echo in the night. “They don't give you room to breathe, dude,” I tell him. “It's like—”

“It's like they need you to win to keep this town alive,” he cuts in. I glance over. Now he's staring at the bleachers, like he's lost in his own world. He shrugs. Looks back to me. “I get it. All the other guys on the team? They feel it, too—just not nearly as much as we do. We're the
ones
who get the W or L beside our names. Win? Everyone gets the credit. Lose? We get the blame.”

A-freakin'-men. As good as it is to have Kellen and Blake around, this is exactly what they don't get. “So how did you survive?” I ask.

He lets out a breathless laugh. “It's either sink or swim, man. Remember why you love the game. Remember that this town isn't forever. And remember that Coach wouldn't put you on the mound unless you can handle it.” He pauses. “For what it's worth? Coach knew last year that you'd be a starter.”

That's actually worth a lot.

Jay grabs his glove and whistles sharply. “Braxton! Back in the game.”

Braxton slaps my back and pushes to his feet, dusting the dirt off his jeans. “You're the one who broke the rhythm, dumbass.”

Once the ball starts flying again, I move to Brett's side in the catcher's box. “How do y'all do it?” I ask him. When he glances over, I nod to Jay. “You two, bein' split up all the time.”

Without even turning, Jay says, “Skype makes some things really, really easy. As long as your roommate's gone, at least.”

I cringe. “Holy hell, I didn't need to hear that.”

Brett kicks him lightly in the back, making him snort as he lofts the ball back to Braxton. “Seriously,” Jay continues. “You make it work, dude. And it'll get easier in August anyway.”

My eyebrows scrunch. “Why?”

Brett folds his arms. “Jay's transferring after this semester. Coming back to USC. Goin' from a thirty hour drive apart to three.”

Jay
straightens, tossing the ball in the air as he faces us. “Yep. Closer to home. Closer to my family. Closer to this dude.”

“What about your team in Arizona?” I ask. “Weren't you on scholarship?”

He shrugs as Braxton jogs over to us. “I only had a one-year agreement. They're good guys. But every single person I care about is on this side of the country. Being far away is too damn exhausting.”

“Moving across the country sounds like a dream when you're living here,” Brett says, “but actually being split up from everyone? Freakin' torture. You made your choice yet?”

I shake my head.

“My advice? Go somewhere you can imagine living, and with people you can't imagine living without. Don't settle, man. Never settle.”

“I miss you.” It's out before I can stop it. But the truth is a tricky bastard—it always finds its way to the surface. I glance at him out the corner of my eye. “I'm never repeating that, so remember.”

He smacks me on the back. “Miss you too, Junior.”

~

We pull into our driveway close to midnight, after getting Braxton and Jay to join brotherly duties that included cow crap and a football player's front porch. Once part of the Bulldog family, always part of the Bulldog family.

Our house is dark, except for the porch light. I can't help but notice that the porch light is on next door, too. With a girl sitting by herself on that porch. And an empty driveway, aside from her car. She never mentioned that her dad was leaving again.

“You should go over there,” Brett says.

I
want to go over there. Seeing her alone on that swing at midnight has my chest clenching. But maybe she wants to be left alone and I'd be blowing everything just by walking over.

“What if she tells me to get lost?”

The Jeep chimes as he opens his door. Taking a deep breath, I step onto the driveway as he comes around, meeting me. “If she tells you to get lost, then get lost,” he says. “But there's a chance that being on that porch alone is the last thing she wants. So go find out. I'll cover for you.”

He heads to the house, leaving me on my own. I probably look like a creep standing out here staring, but I can't make my feet budge. She may be scared of getting her heart broken, but now—now I'm damn near terrified of getting mine broken again. And every step I take in her direction brings me closer to that possibility. See, people toss around “broken heart” like word vomit, but it's more than they give it credit for. It's like having your heart ripped to shreds, and then stomped on, and then put back together so it can be ripped apart and stomped on again. It's a vicious cycle.

So I have no idea why people are so stupid to risk that, and I have no idea why
I'm
so stupid to risk that, but I have a feeling that if Bri were to break my heart, the time leading up to it would be completely and totally worth it. And if all she wants is someone who'll sit on her living room floor, eat frozen pizza, and watch demon-hunting brothers while kissing the daylights out of her during commercials, I'll do that any day of the week.

Straightening my shoulders, I start across her lawn, my shoes sinking into the dew-soaked grass. She says nothing as I climb her porch steps—just continues to swing, her eyes
trained
straight ahead. Tears stain her cheeks, and if I thought seeing the girl cry tore me up before, it's getting to the point of physical pain. I sit beside her. Wait.

Minutes pass before she says, “He left again, you know.”

I nod. What else can I do or say?
I figured. Sorry your dad left you for the gazillionth time
?

She sniffles. “I wonder if he realizes that I'd rather eat ramen for the rest of my life than have him gone all the time.” She rests her head on my shoulder, surprising the hell out of me, but whatever. Going with it. “He used to send me to stay with friends,” she continues. “Back when he started his job. He didn't want me by myself for so long. But now he expects me to be okay with it.”

I wrap my arm across her shoulders, hoping it helps at least a little. “Sometimes what people expect from us is the furthest thing from reality.”

“Yeah,” she whispers. She pauses, and says, “I'm sorry you've had to see me cry so much.”

I shake my head. “Nothin' to be sorry for,” I tell her, meaning every single word. Her words from that night in my truck flash through my head, about needing to just be held, to know that someone's there. So I'll be here. However long she wants me around, I'll be here.

We swing in silence, and I have no clue how much time passes, but I'm not sure I really even care. I'll sit here all night, if she lets me.

“Do you want to go inside?” she asks suddenly.

Her question hangs in the air. The swing slows to a stop, right along with my breathing. I look down, meeting her gaze. Going inside sounds amazing, but now all I can hear are her words from earlier:
I had fun.

I
don't just want to be fun anymore. Not with her.

She must see my hesitation, because she continues, “I want to go inside with you. I want to curl up on my couch. I want to fall asleep with you holding me. And I want us to wake up in the morning and plan a date, because I really want to go on a date with you.”

My lips twitch. “Are you saying I'm boyfriend material, Bri?”

She rests her chin on my shoulder, those brown eyes boring into mine. “I'm saying that I'm sorry it took me this long to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

She gives me a tired smile. “That I'm crazy about you.”

Chapter
Twenty-Six

Eric

Sneaking into the house at 6:00 a.m. is an art. Luckily, it's an art I've perfected, especially when my brother's home. The secret?

He leaves the bedroom window open for me. We're geniuses, I tell you. It helps that our room isn't right beside our parents'. Which sucks royally for Grace. Better her than me.

One downfall of a nowhere town is that there's nowhere decent to take a date. You've got the river, or Joyner's, or a baseball game, and that's pretty much it. A guy's got to get creative around here. Bri and I have a few things in common that help with that: sports (not to be confused with running, because no.), and a love for nights. But since the sports scene in Lewis Creek is sorely lacking after dark on Sundays, I had to come up with something different.

Once the rest of my family leaves for church Sunday night, I scrawl out a note that says I won't be home until late, if not morning, and I know I'll be grounded forever, but to please have mercy on my soul, because believe it or not, I'm going for gold here. After getting the go-ahead text from Blake, who left for Florida with his aunt and uncle this morning, I gear my truck up for the night. And then I walk over to Bri's house. Swallow hard. Knock on her door.

Here goes nothin'.

The door swings open, and there she is. And I don't know why it hits me harder than any other time I've seen her—maybe because this is one of those make-it-or-break-it moments. One of those things I absolutely can't screw up. Which sucks, because I'm kind of a pro at screwing things up.

She
steps out onto the porch, the screen door creaking closed behind her. “What's the plan for tonight?” she asks. “Joyner's? River? Or are we goin' fancy with the grill downtown?”

I gesture for her to go ahead of me. “None of the above,” I tell her. “We've got to take a drive first, though.”

She turns, walking backward toward my truck. “Driving where, exactly?”

She steps aside, allowing me to open the door for her. “You trust me?” She narrows her eyes, but nods slowly. “Then you'll see.”

~

Blake's property isn't only good for bonfires.

With his aunt and uncle's blessing, my truck bounds over the path leading to their field. Their house looms way in the distance, practically a speck. They only had two terms and conditions: no screwing up the planting fields (easy enough) and no baby-making (more than easy enough).

I cut the engine, silence filling the cab as Bri stares out the windshield, scanning the field ahead of us. She turns to me. “Did you bring me out here to get laid?”

My eyes widen. Holy hell. “Bri, I swear I—shit, no.”

She bursts out laughing, the sound music to my freakin' ears. I'm glad she thinks it's funny, because I'm pretty sure I now know what a heart attack feels like.

“I'm trying to be creative,” I tell her. “Go with me here.”