Game On (32 page)

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I focus on my hands, which are folded on top of the table. “I wish he hadn't done that,” I admit quietly. “I can fight my own fights. It's like…”

“Like what?”

Chewing my lower lip, I look up at her. There's a gentleness in her eyes and on her face that my mom never had. And she's watching me with this quiet patience, this willingness to let me speak on my own terms and at my own pace, that somehow eases the tremble in my hands.

“It makes me feel weak, I guess?” I finally say. A knot lodges in my throat. I swallow hard, but it doesn't budge. “I've been trying so hard these last few months. And I know that I'm not the strongest girl in the world. I know I'm weak. I know that I cry too much, and I feel like I'm sad all the freaking time—”

Her hand rests on top of mine, cutting me off. She shakes her head. “I want you to listen to me,” she says, her voice soft yet firm. “Crying doesn't mean you're weak. Being sad doesn't mean you're weak. Those things—they mean you're human. Those things can knock you on your backside, and it still doesn't mean you're weak in the slightest. Strength is in the standing. And I've seen you do an awful lot of standing over these past few months.”

She means the words—I know she does. And that only makes them hit me harder. Maybe it's not always about how many times you get knocked down. Maybe it's about how many times you get back up.

“For what it's worth,” she says, “I know my son pretty well. And I doubt he was fighting because he thought you were too weak; I think he was fighting because he was tired of seeing
someone
hurt you. And that doesn't make it right,” she adds. “But he watches out for the people he cares about.”

It's a good thing that she doesn't think tears are weak—a flood of them rushes to my eyes, while the knot in my throat grows until breathing is a luxury.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my leg. “Carry on Wayward Son” blasts through the kitchen, the ringtone I set for Dad. He only calls every few days, so I can't decide if his timing is impeccable or absolutely terrible. Mrs. Perry squeezes my hand and slides away from the table.

Clearing my throat the best I can, I pull out my phone. “Hello?” I answer quietly.

“Hey, Little Bit.” His voice booms in my ear. “How's it goin'?”

I just watched my boyfriend beat up my ex and now I can't stop shaking.

I'm at the Perrys' house because I really, really can't handle being alone right now, and you're not here.

You're never here.

But I can't tell him that.

“Bri?” he says. “What's going on?”

My mouth opens, but no words come.
Open. Close. Come on, words.
A moment passes before “Eric got into a fight with Matt and it was mostly because of me” spills out.

Brett and Grace turn, looking at me over the back of the couch. Emma's little head pops up between them so
she
can gawk, too. I shrug, wincing. I mean, it's the truth.

There's rustling on the other end of the line. “What the hell? Are you all right?”

Crap. “Dad, I'm fine,” I say. “Promise. I—”

Mrs.
Perry walks into the living room. Pausing at the back of the couch, she grabs Emma's shoulders gently and turns her back toward the TV. She sneaks a glance at me over her shoulder, and for some reason, that tiny acknowledgement that I'm here and that I matter means more than anything.

“I'm next door,” I tell Dad. “And I'm okay. I just… I miss you.”

I'm met with silence. The clock in the kitchen ticks as I wait for some sort of response. “I miss you, too,” he finally says. “You say Eric helped you out there?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “In his own way. He really did.”

More rustling. Dad swears under his breath. “Darlin', I've gotta—”

The knot returns to my throat. Of course he's got to go. “It's okay,” I cut in. “No problem. I'll talk to you at the next stop, all right?”

He sighs. “I love you.”

He says the words every time we talk. And every time, they're the best medicine. Because even if I miss him like crazy, even if it's hard as crap for me to go without him, I know he loves me. I do.

“Love you too, Dad.” I stuff the phone back into my pocket right as the screen door creaks open.

Eric steps inside the living room, his dad right behind him. He's still dressed in his uniform, though the top's unbuttoned and untucked. He stops in the kitchen's doorway, toying with the cap in his hands. He tilts his head toward the hallway. “Want to talk?” he asks.

I'm not sure why that's even a question. I push away from the table. He leads the way to his room, allowing me inside ahead of him. The late afternoon sun streams through his window,
dimmed
slightly by the dark curtains shielding the blinds. He closes the door behind him. Tosses his cap onto his bed. Meeting me in the middle of the room, he asks, “You okay?”

His face looks pitiful, his eye blue and swollen with a nose to match. I swallow hard again, finally dislodging the stupid lump in my throat. “Are
you
okay?”

Hanging his head, he nods. “I'm all right. Worth it.”

I can't hold back my sigh. “I wish you hadn't done that,” I tell him. “I know you were doing it for me, but I don't—”

“Need me to fight your fights.” His lips curve into a tiny smirk. “Yeah. I know.”

He takes a step forward, closing the space between us. I look at his hands, the knuckles scraped and swollen, and shake my head. “There are much better things you can do with these hands. Things that won't ruin them.”

And now that smirk of his is a full-blown grin. “Really, now? Like what?”

Shrugging, I take his hands, holding them in mine. “You could do this.”

He nods. “I do like this.”

Something in that grin gives me a burst of confidence. And I should be more careful considering his parents are right in the next room, but…

Doing what you should is boring.

I guide his hands to my hips, returning his smile with one of my own. “Or you could do this.”

“I like this, too.”

His grip on me tightens and I swallow hard, heat surging through me. My pulse pounds in my wrists, in my stomach, in my neck, in my
legs
—basically, I've been consumed. And it's the most amazing sort of feeling.

“
I really want to kiss you,” I whisper, “but I don't want to hurt your nose.”

He bursts out laughing right along with me, the most adorable blush covering his cheeks. “I'll take the risk. If you can get past the whole just-got-my-ass-kicked look.”

If anyone can pull it off, he can.

He leans down, catching my lips with his. His hands—those glorious, glorious hands—move down and bring me even closer, until I'm pressed against him. All of him.

Dear, sweet Lord have mercy.

Knock, knock.

My eyes pop open and I jump, but he holds me in place. Brings his lips back to mine.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He pulls away with a grunt. “What?” he groans.

“Doors open, please and thank you,” his mom calls through the door.

He drops his head, groaning again. “Sorry,” he says. “Full house.”

Taking a much-needed deep breath, I grab his hands again. “It's okay. I love your family.”

His eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he says with a smile. “So do I.”

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

Eric

By Monday morning, word gets out that Matt Harris, our star center fielder, is no longer a Lewis Creek Bulldog. I don't know how it went down or what Coach did exactly, but I've got to say, it's surprising to walk into the locker room Monday afternoon and spot Matt in front of his locker. Defying a Coach Taylor order? Not the best idea.

A room that's usually loud as hell is quiet as church on a Monday morning, even though it's full of all the other guys. Gripping the strap of my gear bag, I make my way toward my own locker, next to Kellen's.
What the hell?
I mouth to him, but he only shrugs. Apparently no one wants to be the one who calls him out. I'm more than happy to oblige.

Before I can say a word, the door to Coach's office swings open. He steps into the room, dressed in his own practice gear of khaki shorts and a Bulldogs T-shirt. He claps his hands together, about to go into his daily “Let's do this” talk, when his eyes fall on Matt. And judging from the soberness of Coach's face, he's just as shocked as the rest of us.

“Harris.”

The word's full of more ice than the damn Arctic Circle. Hell, it chills
me
to the bone. He curves his finger, signaling for Matt to cross the room. Which he does. Because he may be a douche, but he's not that much of an idiot.

Coach puts his hands on his hips. “I'm awfully confused. If memory serves, I thought I told you to stay out of this locker room.”

Maybe he is that much of an idiot.

Matt
shrugs. “And I think we need to talk some more. You never heard my side of the—”

Coach cuts him off with a shake of his head. “No. No, no, no. You don't get to think in this locker room—not anymore. There's no side of the story for me to hear when I've got two people telling me everything I need to know.”

All eyes in the room not-so-subtly shift to me. “Yeah,” Matt says, looking back to Coach. “You're really gonna take his word over mine?”

Coach closes the distance between them. Keeps going. He inches further, and further, and further, until Matt's backed against the lockers. And for the first time, Matt has the decency to look a little worried that
maybe
coming here wasn't his brightest idea.

“I'm gonna give you one chance here,” Coach says, his voice barely audible. “You're going to walk out of this locker room, and you're not going to look back, and I'll forget that I let you off the hook really, really easily. Do we understand each other?”

Matt rolls his eyes. “Coach—”

Coach smacks the locker beside Matt's head. Matt jumps as the sound, loud as a gunshot, ricochets off the walls. Coach Taylor backs away, to the center of the room. “Not so tough when it's someone other than a girl half your size, are you?” He points to the door. “Out of my locker room.”

Matt holds his gaze for a long moment. I'm starting to think he's dumb enough to say something else when he starts toward the door. He yanks it open, letting it bang against the wall on his way out.

In all the years I've played for him, I've never seen anything rattle Coach Taylor. Ever. Keeping his eyes trained on the floor, he clears his throat. “Show's over. On the field.” When no one so much as budges, he adds, “Now!”

Yes,
sir.

Everyone breaks into a scramble, tugging on shirts and hunting down cleats. We're all outside within minutes—just in time to find our field crawling with spectators. It's not only full of booster club members—a handful of reps from both
The Daily Gazette
and the school paper line the fence and crowd the opening to the field, their recorders and notepads at the ready.

Shit.

Tightening my grip on my gear bag, I brace myself as I head for the gate. Instead of moving aside for me, the men stand their ground, guarding the entrance like they're some kind of trolls under a bridge. It's nice how they think that'll stop me.

I shove my way through.

After dropping my bag in the dugout, I grab my glove and jog to the outfield. Coach takes his usual spot, unfazed by our audience, as I fall into line beside Blake for stretches.

“The hell is goin' on around here?” he whispers sharply, but now, all I can do is shrug.

The others trickle onto the field one at a time, each with his own glance at me—some proud, some pissed, some who don't give a damn what happened. Instead of focusing on them, I keep my attention on Coach. He's watching us begin our stretches, cool and collected, like he didn't just switch into drill-sergeant mode ten minutes ago. Even as some reporter strides onto the field, calling “Coach Taylor!” with Mr. Joyner at his side, he doesn't flinch for a second.

He glances over his shoulder, calm as ever before looking back to us. Mr. Joyner and the reporter, who I now recognize as Lincoln Wallace from
The Daily Gazette
, surround him on either side. “Do you have a moment to chat, Coach Taylor?” Mr. Wallace asks.

Coach remains stone-faced. “I'm trying to run a practice here.”

Mr.
Wallace scribbles something before asking, “Do you have a comment regarding the Matt Harris situation?”

Coach shakes his head. “I do not.”

“But Coach Taylor,” the reporter presses, “with less than a month left in your regular season, Harris's suspension will no doubt cost y'all the playoffs. What do you have to say about that?”

“That's what backups are for,” he says. “Jason Bradford will do just fine in Matt's place.”

The reporter's gaze flashes to me. “Word has it that Matt was suspended from your team after this weekend's altercation with your starting pitcher, Eric Perry. Why was Harris dropped from your team, but not Perry?”

All of us go still, including Coach. His mouth twists as he stares straight ahead at us, and us alone. And then he claps his hands, walking forward. “All right, fellas,” he shouts to us. “As y'all have clearly heard by now, Matt Harris is no longer welcome on this field. At the beginning of your season, I made it loud and clear that any less-than-appropriate behavior would have you cut from this team so quickly, your heads would spin. Matt forgot that promise. He swung at your starting pitcher. And it was brought to my attention that his behavior behind closed doors was downright despicable.”