Game On (9 page)

I nod as I mutter “Yes, sir” along with Matt.

“Unless you're on my field, I want you two apart,” Coach adds. “Show up and shut up. End of story.” He points to the door. “Harris, go out and wait by my truck. I'll give you a lift once I'm done with Perry.”

Matt's out the door faster than I can blink. Coach settles that glare on me again, the ticking of the clock echoing in our silence. I swallow hard and finally admit, “Coach, Matt barely touched me. I mean, he shoved me, but I should've walked away.”

“
You just turned eighteen,” he says without missing a beat. “Matt's seventeen. If he and his parents were so inclined, they could press charges for that busted nose. That's assault and battery on a minor, and your backside would be in here for good. This way, he might actually keep his mouth shut.”

Coach's smooth talking to the rescue again. I sigh with relief. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head. “Don't. Don't start thanking me, because I have no idea what I'm going to do with you yet.”

My eyebrows scrunch. “What do you mean?”

He blows out a breath and heads for the door, gesturing for me to follow. I trail behind him, lowering my head as he holds the door open for me.

The night's cold, but it feels like heaven—my blood's pumped into overdrive. The moon looms overhead, our only light aside from the tiny bulb flickering above the station's door. Matt's sitting on the back bumper of Coach's truck, talking to Officer Concord. I can't help but roll my eyes. I scan the parking lot, which is all but abandoned except for the officer's cruiser, Coach's truck, and—

Bri's car. Which is parked beside Kellen's truck. They're both standing a few yards away, staring straight at us. Kellen's predictable; he's like freakin' Batman, always showing up when you need him. But what's Bri doing here?

“I'm really damn worried about you, Eric,” Coach says. I look back to him. “Officer Martinez told me about you stumbling into Joyner's like an old drunk the other night. And we've got you drinking and driving last season, run-ins with the law all last semester, beating your own teammate in the middle of a parking lot, for Christ's sake—”

“You didn't hear what he said.”

He
shakes his head. “That's not the point. This town is looking to bench you before the season even starts. I'm on your side, but I told you to stay low, and busting a teammate's nose isn't it. What would it look like if you were out on the mound the first night of the season?”

I'm not crazy about the direction he's heading. Despite the frigid air, sweat pricks my hairline. “It'd look like you're a man of grace, and forgiveness, and—”

“Cut the shit. Nearly all your teammates were in that parking lot. How am I going to explain this to guys you're supposed to be leading?”

“I'm tellin' you, you didn't hear—”

“I don't give a damn what he said!” He glances around. “All I'm hearing are excuses,” he says more quietly, “and it's getting old. I've got half a mind to cut you from the team.”

My heart plummets.
Spinning
. The world is spinning, and I have no idea if it's from his words or the coldness or the smack of my head against the pavement. “W-what?”

“I keep bailing you out of messes, but it's not doing any good when you dig yourself deeper and deeper.” He rubs his face. “Of course, if I did kick you off the team, you'd probably get into
more
trouble.”

No. No, no, no. This isn't happening. Damage control. Lord almighty, I need damage control.

“This team's all I've got, Coach,” I try. My voice cracks, but I can't even care. “I screwed up, okay? Royally. I know that. But you can't take this from me.”

He points toward the road. “You are this town's new starting pitcher. In their minds, you are second only to the sweet baby Jesus. They're already on the edges of their seats, waiting for what's next on The Eric Perry Show. So the sheriff and I can only make so much disappear when
an
entire restaurant full of people saw you being hauled away in the back of a police cruiser.” He pauses, and adds, “I'm starting to wonder if I should even try to make it disappear.”

I imagined this moment this afternoon—the moment when Coach Taylor, of all people, finally decided to give up on me. That I'm not worth the effort. I knew it'd suck. I didn't know it'd make me feel half an inch tall.

“Coach, I—”

“Your parents know about last year.” His words slam into me with more force than a hurricane. All I can do is gape as he says, “I called them on my way up here tonight and told them all about the drinking-and-driving charge. I should have told them back when it happened, but I thought…” He blows out a breath. “I thought I was helping, but I never should've agreed to keep it quiet. When I say I'm worried, I mean I'm worried, son.”

Fuck. Just… fuck.

“Coach Taylor?”

He and I both turn. Bri's standing beside us now, still in those practice clothes, her arms crossed tightly. The wind gusts, sending her ponytail all over the place. The girl's probably freezing out here.

“Sorry,” Coach says, “what's your name again? And why are you here?”

She clears her throat. “Um, Bri, sir. Bri Johnson.”

“Oh, yeah. Matt's girlfriend.”

Right on cue, Matt hollers, “You here to tell him what really happened tonight, Bri?”

Coach closes his eyes and holds up a hand, signaling for Matt to knock it off.

“Ex,” Bri says quietly, and Coach's eyes open. “His ex-girlfriend. And I'm here because this is my fault—wait, no, it's not my fault. Eric's the one acting like an idiot. But I'd bet
anything
that he was fighting ‘for me'”—she uses air quotes—“and I wanted to make sure he didn't get completely screwed over.”

She's right—I got this swollen eye for her. A little appreciation might be nice.

Coach blows out a breath. “So this was over a girl. It's getting even better.”

“A girl Matt won't leave alone,” I cut in. “He's stalking her like a damn nutjob.”

He shoots me a glare before adding, “Then I guess he and I are having a conversation on the way home. And I appreciate what you're trying to do, Bri, but I've already told Eric that I'm at a loss here.”

“There's got to be something you can do. You can't kick him off the team when—” She sighs. “When he was trying to do a nice thing. Kind of. Sort of.”

Coach shrugs. “If you've got any suggestions, I'm all ears.”

Yes. We are
all
ears.

Bri chews her lower lip. I study her face, trying to figuring out exactly what the heck's going through that head of hers, until she lights up. “What about community service?”

“What?” Coach and I both ask.

Bri's beaming, practically giddy. “Hear me out. You know how people get community service when they go to court? I volunteer every Saturday at the community center right outside Summerville. Maybe Eric can come with me.”

Hold up. Now that practice has started, Saturday is my only free day of the week. I'd have to give
that
up?

His eyes trained on Bri, Coach crosses his arms. “I'm listening.”

Of course, Saturdays are so overrated.

“
We serve breakfast that morning, and I'm in charge of athletic time for the kids—I head up soccer there. So from, like, nine until noon.”

He tilts his head toward me. “You wouldn't mind hauling this kid around every week?”

“I'm not sure I'd go that far, but the center could use the help.”

I look back and forth between them, like I'm watching some amazing, life-saving ping-pong game.
Keep talking
.

“How long are you thinking?” Coach asks.

Wait. Since when does my neighbor get to decide my punishment?

Bri shrugs. “I'll be there every weekend until summer, so as long as you want him there.”

“Let's say five weeks?”

I raise my hand. “Hey,” I say. “Yeah, remember me? Do I get any say in this at all?”

Coach levels me with a glare. “You want to keep your spot on this team?”

So that'd be a resounding
no.
And I'm strangely okay with that.

“Then it's settled,” Coach says, that glare lingering on me. “You'll help Bri at the community center every Saturday morning for five weeks. It'll be good for all of us if it looks like you're actually trying to work this off. I'll let the boosters know, and I'm sure they'll be more than willing to spread the word.” He looks to Bri. “And you'll keep me posted on this guy. My office, Monday mornings?”

Bri nods. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

Coach claps his hands together. “Great. Fantastic. Let's get the hell out of here.” He turns to me. “This is your last chance, Eric. I mean it. I used to let you boys have it out when you needed to, but you have your brother to thank for kissing that goodbye.”

I
think back to last season, when my brother beat the shit out of a pitcher in the middle of a game for being a homophobic douchebag. He came out of it with a dislocated shoulder, but he didn't regret it for a second. “Well, sometimes people deserve to get their asses kicked.”

Pure silence falls over us as Coach gapes at me.

Not my brightest moment. In my defense, I'm pretty sure I have a concussion.

“This is your lucky day,” he finally says. “I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that. You need a ride home?”

“That's what I'm here for,” Kellen calls from across the lot. He holds up his keys. “I've got him covered.”

Coach waves and starts toward his truck, not sparing another glance. I can't blame him. The man's a saint for showing up here.

After even more chatting with the officer, Coach and Matt climb into the truck. Only when the officer slips back into the building does Bri face me full-on.

She's not exactly giddy anymore.

Bri

I'm not entirely sure why I came out here tonight.

Matt and Eric were fighting. They were freaking
arrested
. Eric nearly got kicked off the team. All because of me.

For a split second, I legit blamed myself, which is ridiculous considering whatever the heck is going on between them has been brewing for years and was bound to explode. But when they were thrown into the back of the police cruiser, I flipped into damage-control mode. I had to fix it. I had to make it right. As twisted as it was, Eric was trying to help, for the most part.

But
I'm pretty sure the other part of him just wanted an excuse to beat the crap out of Matt. And to be honest, it kind of pisses me off that he used me as that excuse. So when Eric scratches the back of his head and says, “Thanks for that,” something inside me snaps.

I step forward, closing the space between us. Closer. Closer, until I'm practically standing on his toes. And I can't help but ask, “What the
heck
is wrong with you?”

He narrows his eyes. “What the heck is wrong with
you
? I was sticking up for you!”

Yeah, two can play that game—I narrow my own eyes. “News flash: I don't need you to fight my fights for me.” I've been doing enough fighting these past few months. And sure, maybe it took me a while to actually
win
the fight, but I did. I don't need his help.

His shoulders drop. He swears under his breath. “You didn't hear what he said, all right?”

Something in my chest twinges. It's most likely my heart, because when you've spent months being a verbal punching bag for someone, the heart kind of takes a beating. Muscle memory, and all that fun stuff. “Trust me, I probably heard worse when we were dating. I'm used to it.”

He gapes at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. “You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better.”

It doesn't exactly make me feel like dancing through a field of poppies, either. The longer I look at him, at the swollen eye, the bruised nose, the split lip, the red, scraped cheek, the more I realize that yeah, maybe this was more than too much testosterone in one parking lot. Maybe this was a friend sticking up for another friend.

But that'd be easier to believe if we'd said more than a few words to each other over the past few months. It'd be even easier to believe if I was worth fighting for, considering I'm the
reason
why we haven't really spoken in those months. My stomach sinks, knowing I actually let someone bully me into staying away from the guy who used to be my friend.

Shaking his head, he says, “Why'd you even come? If what I did was so Godawful, why are you here?”

The wind swirls around us, the breeze whistling by my ear. I don't know why I came. Maybe because I'm a fixer. Maybe because I can't stand to see others in trouble. Maybe because I really am stupid. Who knows.

Instead of answering, I back away. “We leave at eight on Saturday,” I tell him. “You're either in my driveway on time, or I tell Coach to drop your butt. And don't think I won't.”

And I mean it. Mostly.

The drive home is quiet, except for Bon Jovi crooning through my speakers. I beat Eric home by a longshot, pulling into my driveway just past ten o'clock. I waited outside that police station for two hours.
Two hours
. I better not regret this whole saving-his-butt thing.

I cut the engine, sending me into complete silence. My house is dark. Inside, it'll be even darker. Quieter. Tears spring to my eyes at the realization that I really, really can't handle the silence tonight. Literally, cannot handle it. Blending into the shadows can provide this strange sort of comfort. But the downside is that if you stay in those shadows for too long, the darkness overwhelms you. Seeps into you. Weighs you down.