Game On (3 page)

“He's not straight-out mean,” she said. “He's hide-it-under-a-joke mean. Passive-aggressive mean. And I think that's even worse.”

And the sad thing is that she didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. But when other people start noticing those things, it brings this strange sort of validation, along with relief that maybe you're not just being sensitive, like he says. That you're not being emotional, like he says.

That you're not really an annoying bitch, like he says.

But what people don't take into account is how hard the right thing can be. Why you've been avoiding the inevitable for so long in the first place:

Sometimes,
doing the right thing will also be your undoing. Especially when the right thing means that you're contemplating breaking up with the town's golden boy. The star center fielder. The student council president.

The guy who has everyone, including you, wrapped around his pinky finger. And who won't hesitate to bring you down with him. Matt Harris always gets what he wants.

I step out of my car, my boots sinking into the mud. My eyes fall on Matt immediately, accustomed to singling him out in the crowd. And despite the burn of anxiety in the pit of my stomach, my heart does its little flutter. Hearts are funny things. They can be bruised and stomped on and torn to shreds, but they recover so easily that it's deceptive.

It's horrifying, actually. When you think about it, hearts get us into an awful lot of trouble.

Music thumps across the field—Randy's favorite, Luke Bryan's “Country Girl,” which gets all the girls shaking their butts because Luke is telling them to. I make my way toward the bonfire, where Matt's standing with Randy. Plastic cup in hand, he grins even wider when he spots me.

“Bri!” Randy shouts, holding his cup in the air. “Best-looking ass in town. It's about damn time you brought it here.”

I roll my eyes. It's a very real possibility that Randy has zero clue how to survive without being glued to Matt's side. Worse than a leech, to be honest. “You're disgusting,” I tell him.

He tilts his head, giving me an
oh please
look. “Accept the compliment. Be nice.”

Matt holds out his arms as I approach, ignoring Randy. “There's my girl.” Despite the burn in my gut, I can't hold back my own smile as he wraps me in one of his massive hugs. He
smells
like smoke and wood and beer, no doubt passing the smell along to my freshly washed hair, but these hugs—they're everything.

This is the Matt I fell head over heels for last fall. This is the guy I agreed to date. This is the guy who makes the bad days manageable.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. Grabbing my hand, he leads me to the cheapo lawn chairs set up around the fire. He plops into one with a grunt before pulling me into his lap.

“You're late,” he says. His blue eyes meet mine over the brim of his cup as he takes a sip. “You missed half the night. And my killer keg-stands. I kicked Randy's ass.”

“I texted you.”

“Didn't get it.”

“Not my fault.”

His mouth curves into a smirk before planting a quick kiss on my lips. He pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans, relaxing against the back of the chair as he scrolls through. Leaning against his chest, I scan the crowd. Sara Stringer is a fixture on Blake Thompson's lap, and I guess they've forgotten that trucks are a thing that exist, because I'm 99 percent certain his hands are—

Yes. Yes, his hands
are
under her skirt.

“Harris!” Lance, one of the other baseball guys, appears behind us, slapping Matt's shoulder. “Ready for this year, bro? More homers?”

Matt hit the home run that won last season's state championship, making him more of a baseball god than he's ever been in this town. That game was freaking amazing. Which he never lets anyone forget.

Matt's
eyes are glued to his phone, reading whatever's there. He lets out a laugh, one that'd pass as lighthearted for Lance. But it's a laugh I've heard plenty of times before, one that's fake as all get-out. One that triggers a scattering of goose bumps down my arms.

Matt's championship ring catches the light of the bonfire as he fist-bumps Lance. “I'm gonna bring a whole new level of kickass this year, man.” He shoves his phone back into his pocket, his gaze trained on the fire while Lance stumbles off.

And the anxiety burn is back in my stomach. That look on his face? That look is the reason for the bruised and stomped-on heart currently racing in my chest. If he's Dr. Jekyll, it's the look that always precedes Mr. Hyde. And I'm getting so, so tired of recognizing the switch.

Randy sinks into the chair beside Matt's with an
oof
, but this time, my boyfriend doesn't ignore me for his best friend; his gaze shifts to me. And though his eyes are glazed from a night that's been chock full of cheap beer, his voice is clearer than ever as he says, “Where'd you and Perry go tonight?”

Crap.

My face must sink right along with my stomach, because that smirk of his returns. “Just saw your text. Came in right after Jared's. He said he saw you leaving Joyner's together.” He takes another sip of beer. “Did you fuck him? Because you know Perry loves to fuck people.”

Randy snorts from beside him, no doubt eavesdropping. I shoot him a glare. He holds up his hands in surrender, but says nothing.

“I gave a friend a ride home,” I say, though I'm not even sure Eric and I count as friends anymore. For some reason, when Matt and I started dating, Matt made this huge deal about Eric and me even talking, let alone hanging out. Seeing Eric was enough to send him to extremes, whether it was red-faced jealousy, or the total-shut-down silent treatment.

I
used to think that the jealousy was flattering. That it meant he cared. But now, I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for letting him come between me and the guy who once gave me a piggyback ride so I wouldn't have to walk through a flooded ditch in the woods.

“I'm with
you
,” I tell him. “I've been with you for five months. You really think I'd screw my neighbor in the backseat of my car or something?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I don't know what y'all do. Hell, he probably would've screwed you in the front yard while his sisters watched, for all I know.”

And this—this is where Becca was wrong. Because sometimes, he
is
straight-out mean.

I slide off his lap before following through on the urge to junk-punch him. He shouts my name, but I stomp through the mud on the way to my car, the sounds of the party fading to a dim roar. I slide into the driver's seat. Slam the door closed. Close my eyes and count to ten. Twenty. My breathing doesn't relax until I reach fifty-six.

Becca's words reappear in my head, twisting and mingling with Matt's, and I wish more than anything that my brain would just shut the hell up until the only words in my head are my own.

You deserve better. Don't be scared of being alone. Be more scared of someone sucking the life out of you.

Don't cry.

You are so much stronger than you think.

Don't you dare cry.

You don't have to make ANYONE else happy. Make yourself happy.

Tears spill on to my cheeks, faster and harder than the freaking Mississippi, and my chest clenches and there's
no air
and why don't they ever tell you about this part of loving people?
Why
don't they ever tell you how much their words can hurt, how much they can seep into your brain and cloud every other thing that you thought you knew about yourself?

Why don't they tell you how hard it is to do what you know needs to be done?

A sob escapes me as I grab my phone from the dashboard, where I tossed it after getting into the car with Eric. I glance at the empty passenger seat. Maybe tonight
was
my fault. Maybe I shouldn't have given him a ride home. I should've known better. I should've known it would piss Matt off.

I wonder what life is like when you're not living for other people's happiness.

With trembling fingers, I scroll through my phone's contacts to call Becca. I can't drive like this. I can't sit here alone, either.

My passenger door opens and I jump, the phone clattering to the floorboard. Matt's eyes widen as they pass over my tear-streaked face. Sighing, he closes the door. My heart's on standby, my chest tighter than a steel cage because the poor heart has no clue whether it's in the car with Jekyll or Hyde.

“Baby,” Matt breathes. “Baby, I'm sorry.” He takes my hand, pulling me toward him. Wraps me in a hug as the gear shift digs into my leg.

And as always, I let him. I let him hug me, and I let him whisper that he's sorry, and I let him cling to me like I'm the only girl in the world.

I close my eyes. I don't let any more tears fall. Not in front of him. Never in front of him.

“I'll forget all about it,” he whispers into my hair. “I forgive you.”

And for some reason, those three words break through the brain fog. Those three words are all the confirmation I need. This needed to be over a long, long time ago. He shouldn't have
to
forgive
me for helping a friend. I shouldn't be sobbing in my car at a party because he can't keep his mouth shut.

He shouldn't be able to control my emotions like a freaking puppetmaster.

But the problem is that, even when you know something needs to be done, it's hard as hell to get the words out when you have the chance.

Right now, I have the chance. I'm pulling away and staring into his eyes, but they're back to that clear blue that make me want to stay. Those eyes switch so quickly between rage and love that my brain is confused as all get-out.

He settles back against the seat and closes his eyes, lacing his fingers through mine beside the gear shift. And all I can do is stare at him, my mouth slightly open. My brain screams the words, but my heart keeps them tucked deep down. Because even when they've been beaten, hearts are stubborn.

“Matt?” I finally manage to say. “I—”

“Thanks for coming.” He turns his head, smiling at me. Brings my hand to his lips. “Seriously. No idea what I'd do without you.”

My voice fails me, along with coherent thought. “Yeah,” is all I can get out before his eyes close again.

The drive to his house across town is silent, just as it was with Eric. But as I watch a second Lewis Creek Bulldog stumble across his yard tonight, I don't feel an ounce of pity.

I feel done.

Chapter
Three

Eric

There's a human sitting on my chest. A tiny, giggly human.

I open one eye. My youngest sister, Emma, bounces, because I don't
need
to breathe or anything. “Get up, Eric! The sky's awake! And it's church day!”

A five-year-old's language might as well be called EVERYTHING IS AWESOME.

My head sinks into my pillow as I glance over at my clock. It's only seven in the morning. Emma's blond hair is sticking up all over the place, but her bright-blue eyes are proof that she woke up
way
before the sky.

I've got the hangover from hell, so as much as I love my sister, this isn't going to work. I put my arm over my eyes. “Go jump on Grace,” I murmur. “She'd be so upset if she overslept.”

Emma jumps off my bed, her feet hitting the hardwood floor with a thump. “Grace is awake. She's yelling at Momma in the kitchen. Momma's making pancakes! The box pancakes
again
. But it's okay 'cause we got blueberries…” Her voice trails off as she walks out of the room, talking to herself down the hallway.

Kids, dude.

She used to jump on Brett every morning. And once he was awake, he'd chuck something across the room to wake me up. Apparently that was only fair.

I glance over at his old bed, which Momma still keeps perfectly made on the off chance he decides to come home anytime other than holidays. She knows that'll never happen. Can't say
that
I blame him. Our family's good, but the town sucks. I will admit that I miss getting stuff thrown in my face every morning.

Really.

With a groan, I grab my phone from my nightstand and scroll through until I find Brett's name.

Me
:
Emma says to wake up, lazy ass

Five minutes pass before my phone buzzes.
Brett
:
You're a jackass

Snorting, I toss the phone back onto my nightstand. Now that I'm kind-of-sort-of-awake, my other sister's voice carries from the kitchen. Hers isn't nearly as perky. Yelling at Momma on Sunday morning is the worst possible thing one of us can do; it's her favorite day of the week, so she protects it like a pitcher hoards a perfect glove. Grace better like being grounded until she's seventy.

I roll out of bed with a grunt. After a trip to the bathroom, I follow the sound of coffee brewing to the kitchen. Sunlight spills into the room. The table's set with plates and syrup and glasses of juice, and it
would
look like something straight out of a breakfast commercial, if breakfast commercials starred a pissed-off blond girl and a mom who's clutching her coffee mug for dear life. I plop into my chair at the table, beside Grace and across from Emma, whose face is already smeared with blueberries. The kid attacks food with a vengeance.

“I still don't get how you caught me,” Grace says.

Momma sighs. “Darlin', I've raised two Perry boys. I could hear someone sneaking in or out if I were in a coma.”

“You're ruining my life,” Grace says. “You know that, right?”

Looks
like I didn't miss much; it's the same argument they have every other day. At least there are pancakes with this show. Pancakes, and…