Game On (7 page)

I toss my phone onto the floor. Grab the remote from my nightstand. Turn on the TV and thank heaven for the
Supernatural
reruns on basic cable. And I try to forget that stupid boys and their stupid grins exist.

Because just like life has been much better without my mom, life will be so much better without Matt Harris. Eventually.

~

Monday morning brings clouds instead of sunshine, which makes it infinitely harder to get out of bed. I'm the weird person who adores Mondays. They test you, show you what you're made of. And after a weekend from hell, I'm up for anything Monday has to offer.

Bring it.

After my morning run, I get ready for school and shove my soccer practice sweats into my gear bag. With the new season starting up, at least I'll have one more distraction. I snatch my phone from the floor and stuff it into my backpack. Without turning it on. Which should be celebrated with a freaking parade.

If I turn it on, I'll snap. I'll break. I'm teetering on a fine, fine line of some semblance of sanity, and if I feel the buzz of another voicemail waiting for me—which there no doubt will be—I'll fall right over the edge.

Smile's on. And out the door I go.

The old porch steps creak beneath my boots as I jog down. The Perrys' door slams just as I reach my car. They file out one-by-one, almost like a family of ducks. Pastor Perry slides into his car, Grace and Emma hop into their mom's van, and Eric slings his own gear bag into the bed of his truck. Before he climbs in, he catches me watching. Even though they're slightly shielded beneath that ratty baseball cap of his, his dark eyes are shining. And then, he grins.

Stupid boys and their stupid grins.

“Mornin', sunshine,” he calls.

Opening my car door, I roll my eyes, but there's no holding back my smile. If there's one thing he's always been good at, it's making me smile like an idiot. “That's beyond cheesy,” I call back. “Like, master-level cheese.” And kind of sweet. But no way am I telling him that.

He
points at me, that grin of his only widening. “But you're smiling. My work here is done.” He climbs into his truck, and it roars to life. All I can do is shake my head. Which seems to be a running theme when I'm around him lately.

While his engine roars to life, mine sputters. Which can't be a good sign, but considering my dad is always gone just so we can afford actual food, the Check Engine light is a permanent fixture on my dashboard.

By the time I pull into the senior lot at school, it's almost packed full. And the closer I get to my spot, the more my stomach sinks. And then it straight-up plummets.

Matt's here already, his truck parked beside my usual spot.

It's not that I'm scared of him. He wouldn't actually do anything
to
me—at least, I don't think he would. Not here. Not in front of everyone, in front of the people he's managed to fool into thinking he's perfection personified. But that doesn't mean he won't do something.

He's a master of words, of twisting and turning them until my brain twists and turns to fall in line with them. It's the downside of falling head over heels for someone—your brain falls for whatever they have to say, even if it's a load of shit.

I park and take a deep breath, and then another. Slide out of the car, grab my things, and start for the school, keeping my eyes trained ahead.

“Bri,” he says on an exhale, like he's relieved to see me, and just like that, I melt.

I hate myself for it. But I do keep walking. Which slightly makes up for the hatred.

He grabs my shoulder just as I touch the door handle. Without turning, I say, “What.”

“I'm sorry.”

He's always sorry.

I
peer through the narrow glass on the door, into the hallway. School is my safe place. It's my haven. And he's keeping me from it.

“Is all this because of the Perry thing?” he says. “You know that was your fault in the first place, right? If you hadn't—”

I shrug out of his hold and yank the door open. My boots click on the polished floor as I stride toward homeroom, leaving him as far away as possible. My cheeks heat and my tears pool and my throat tightens, but I slip into the room just before the final bell, closing the door behind me. One more door between me and Matt. It's not enough. But it's a start.

Keeping my head low, I make my way across the room, where Becca's sitting in the back corner. I slide into the desk in front of hers. Release the breath that I think I've been holding since Matt grabbed my shoulder. Remind myself that I actually have to breathe to survive.

“Hey,” Becca whispers.

I turn. Becca Daniels and I have been friends ever since we tried out for JV soccer together during freshman year. She's the best goalie in the state, hands-down. At any given moment, she looks like she just stepped off a runway—all perfect hair and makeup, usually with killer heels to match. She could also kick your ass into oblivion on the soccer field.

“You never texted me last night,” she says, eyeing me carefully. “Did you do it?”

The tears still line my eyes, because no matter how hard I try, no matter how many doors I put between us, that boy will always, always find a way to make me cry. All I can do is nod.

Relief floods her face as she straightens in her seat. “Good,” she says. “Let's keep it that way.”

She doesn't have to tell me twice.

Chapter
Five

Eric

Why
can't we ever take our own advice? Yesterday, I was telling Grace to screw the people who can't stop whispering, or gossiping, or gawking (and not the good gawking). But it's hard. Especially when you just want to scream “Eff you” to all of them, but manners and all that. My momma didn't raise a total asshole.

With my hood tugged over my head, I walk into the cafeteria at lunch on Monday, staring at the polished floor as I hurry to my table at the back. But no matter how much I try to block it out, I hear all of it.

The whispering.

And no, I'm not some conspiracy theorist. All through first period English, they stared. Second period? Staring contests. Hell, even Señora Hernandez joined in during third period. They stared and they whispered and they smirked and I kind of want to shove my fist through a wall.

But:
low profile
.

I slide onto the table's bench, across from Kellen and Blake. Kellen and I have been in most of the same classes all our lives, while Blake's a year below us. They're two of maybe five people I can still trust around this school, now that my brother and all his buddies are gone. Last year, half the team sat at this table. This year, it's the three of us.

Kellen's dad is the pastor of the Pentecostal church downtown and he's the team's first baseman, so he's one of the few people who actually understands the crap that comes from both
sides.
You have to be perfect for the fans. Perfect for the church congregation. Perfect for everydamn-body, which blows when you're far from perfection. The difference is that Kellen is actually, you know, a decent pastor's kid. People aren't writing articles about how much he sucks as a player and a person.

I push back my hood and lean onto the table. He and Blake stare at me like I'm downright certifiable, which I might be heading toward, but whatever.

“No food?” Kellen asks. “You won't be worth crap at practice.”

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “Couldn't go through the lunch line.”

He narrows his dark eyes. “Why?”

“Because they won't stop staring at me.”

He and Blake share a can-you-believe-this look before Blake tosses me his barbecue chips. Blake's this year's catcher, and a party junkie who's probably screwed more girls in this school than I have. But he was adopted by his aunt and uncle when he was a baby and his parents decided they didn't want to be parents anymore, so the people here give him the “poor, abandoned soul” pass.

I want a pass.

“You sound like one of those guys who stands on the street corner yelling about the apocalypse,” Blake says.

“This
is
world-ending,” I tell him, opening the bag. “What if Coach sees that everyone hates me because of one stupid article and benches me before the season even starts?” My eyes widen. “Shit. What if he kicks me off the team? Would he do that? I don't think he would do that. He wouldn't do that, right?”

Kellen rubs his face. “I'm actually starting to feel sorry for you.”

I
shove a chip into my mouth. “You don't have to feel sorry for me, man.”

He shakes his head. “It's not good pity, bro. Trust me.”

A girl shouts “Move!” across the cafeteria, a yell that shoots straight through me. I'd know that voice anywhere—I heard it last night. I glance over my shoulder just as Bri storms out of the room, with Matt following right behind her. Some dudes just don't understand what it means to back off. A girl tells you to leave her alone, leave her the hell alone.

And now that the entertainment's left, all eyes in the room not-so-subtly shift to our table. I'm gonna have to transfer, damn it. I turn back around.

“
That's
mainly why they're staring at you,” Kellen says. “A few people are talking about the paper, but Matt's going around telling everyone that you swiped Bri from him last night.”

“What?”

“You're the reason she dumped him,” Blake adds, snatching a chip from the bag. “According to that loudmouth. Half the girls in AP Bio this morning were talking crap about her, and the guys—well, you know.”

Damn it. Yeah, I do know. I've spent plenty of time in locker rooms.

Blake stares at me for a moment before tossing me his foil-wrapped chicken sandwich. “Eat more. I'm not gonna peel you off the field later. I'll grab something from the machine.”

Gladly. “Thanks, man.” I tear off the wrapper and scarf nearly half the sandwich in one bite. “I don't get it,” I tell them. “The Matt/Bri thing is one thing—even though you can't swipe a girl, for Christ's sake. She's not a pet or anything. But how do they all know about the article? There's no way these people read the newspaper.”

They share another look. I swear, they're as bad as my parents. “What?” I ask, polishing off my food.

Kellen
winces. “Don't tell him,” he says. “He can't handle it. He's fragile.”

“Someone should tell him,” Blake argues. “He's not some precious snowflake.”

“Tell me
what
?”

Blake pulls his phone out of his pocket. Swipes the screen a few times, and turns it so I can see: the article is a local trending topic on his newsfeed.

So I wasn't just paranoid. Everyone and their momma
is
talking about me.

The food in my stomach sinks like a brick. Definitely shouldn't have eaten.

“It'll blow over soon,” Kellen tries, but I shake my head. He knows just as well as I do that it's not even close to being over. It's only the beginning.

Balling the foil wrapper, I mutter, “Thanks” and slide off the bench. Kellen calls my name, but I pull up my hood and maneuver through the tables, hightailing it to the door. Once I reach the hallway, the noise fades. And finally, I can breathe. But if walking through a freakin' cafeteria makes me sweat through my hoodie, I'm not just screwed—I'm fucked.

~

By the time I reach the field for the first practice of the season, it's already full of the guys making up this year's team, waiting along the first base foul line. There are a bunch of veterans—Randy, Matt, Kellen, Blake, Jackson, Lance, Landon, and me—but still plenty of new sophomores moving up from JV. I would call them fresh meat, but I'm almost starting to believe that they'd be more suited for starting pitcher than I am.

I've put in my time on the bench. I shouldn't be worried about today. I shouldn't see the field full of guys and be downright terrified that Coach is gonna wise up and drop me like a dead weight.

But I am.

I've
always been good enough—I've never been great. As ready as I've been for this season, as much as I've wanted that patch of dirt to myself, I'm not so sure it's mine to claim anymore. Maybe the article was right.

Decent arm.

Mildly impressive
.

Doesn't hold a candle to Austin Braxton
. They did get that part right. There's a reason I rode the bench. I just hate that they reminded me of it.

Coach is standing at the entrance to the field, his arms crossed and sunglasses shielding his eyes. Which is a bad sign in itself, considering he usually lords over the pre-practice lineup until everyone's accounted for. Maybe I'm just not worth counting.

Damn, that's depressing. Get it together, Perry.

Coach clears his throat as I approach. My muscles tense and my wall shoots up, preparing me for the onslaught. I can hear him now:
Sorry, no room for drama-stirrers on my team. Thanks, though.

I stop at the gate's entrance. Wait for the blow.

He slides his sunglasses onto the brim of his hat. Eyes me. And, shocking the hell out of me, opens the gate. “I'm sorry,” is all he says, but that's all he has to say. I can tell he means it.

My shoulders sag with relief and I nod. Not sure what else there is to do. Maybe
I
should apologize. Tell him it's okay to drop me while we're ahead. That I'll understand. Remind him that my “moral compass” isn't up to standard for the fine, upstanding folks of Lewis Creek.

Excuse me while I puke up the brick sandwich.

“
Just keep your head low,” he continues. “Don't give them what they want.” Before I have a chance to say anything, he flashes the quickest hint of a smile. “Let's prove 'em wrong, all right?”