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?”
My lips twitch. I nod again. “Yes, sir.”
He moves aside, allowing me through the gate. I hurry to the dugout to drop my bag and pull out my glove. If he’s willing to give me a shot, I’m gonna give him the best damn shot I’ve got.
Coach has taken his place in front of the other guys. I jog to the infield, falling in at the end of the line beside Blake. He holds out his hand, which I smack in a low-five. “You good, man?” he asks, and I nod once. He was on the bench with me last season. We both did our time. We did our waiting. And now, it’s time to get this party started.
Clipboard in hand, Coach starts down the line, toward first base. And as I look across the field, where the darkening tree line meets the slowly setting sun, I feel it.
The burn in my arm. The air in my lungs. My heart racing and my pulse pounding. For the first time since this weekend’s bombshell, I feel alive. I feel like me. On this field, everything makes sense. It’s our sanctuary. Our safe haven. Our home. Screw the people in this town—this is where I belong. Nothing they say can hold me back from it.
“Gentlemen,” Coach begins, his voice booming. My attention snaps to him. “Welcome to another year of Bulldogs baseball.” He folds his arms as he makes his way down the line, back in my direction. “We’ve got a few ground rules to cover before practice kicks into gear, but there’s one thing I want to make loud and clear before we even get to those.”
He stops. Stares. The blood in my ears is relentless, steadily thump thump thumping away.
“This town is your backbone,” Coach continues, “and it can also be your downfall. These people, fine as they are, are not members of this team, no matter how much they believe otherwise. You do not listen to them—you listen to me. You listen to each other. And you listen to yourselves. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I shout with the rest of the guys.
His gaze moves down the line. The moment it lands on me, I swallow hard. His expression gives nothing away, but when he gives me a quick, subtle nod and continues with the rest of his yearly speech, the thumping in my ears subsides. Now I know that he’s got my back. And that maybe, just maybe, this season won’t be a complete disaster.
~
By the time practice wraps up, the sun is gone and the evening’s chill has settled over the field. The field lights have kicked on, shining across the diamond as all of us head for the parking lot. Slinging my gear bag over my shoulder, I cringe. We had conditioning—a week we use to ease back into shape—a couple weeks ago, but it still takes a while to get into the swing of things. Which would explain the screaming muscles. But even with the grass stains and downright ache shooting through me, there’s nothing better.
I trail behind Kellen and Blake on the way to my truck. Kellen turns, walking backward as he asks, “You in for Joyner’s? Or is your drunk backside even allowed there anymore?”
My stomach doesn’t just growl—it roars. “Ol’ Man Joyner would never ban a Lewis Creek player from his restaurant. That’d be asking for a riot.”
After piling into our trucks, the three of us hightail it to Joyner’s and pull into the packed parking lot. Looks like we weren’t the only ones starving after practice—half our team’s here already. Not that there are a ton of options for food in this town. Plus, Mr. Joyner doesn’t charge the team once the season kicks into gear. Long live Bulldogs baseball.
I squeeze into a space at the back of the lot that’s technically not a parking spot, but whatever. Kellen and Blake wave from beneath the restaurant’s awning as I hop down. As soon as I lock up the truck, though, I hear a voice that’s worse than a fork scraping a glass plate. And a laugh that rivals a freakin’ hyena’s.
I glance over. Matt (the hyena) and Randy (the plate-scraper) beat us here, only they’re not heading inside—Matt’s sitting on the hood of a car that’s suspiciously similar to my neighbor’s, laughing along with Randy like it’s completely normal to follow a girl who’s told you to leave her alone.
Yeah, so that’s not cool.
“Eric!” Kellen shouts.
Only now do I notice I’m standing right smack in the middle of the lot, gawking. Kellen and Blake walk toward me, Kellen shaking his head the entire way. “Don’t go startin’ crap you can’t finish,” he tells me. “Mind your business.”
Good ol’ Jiminy Cricket. I hold out my arms. “Who says I can’t finish it?”
Stopping in front of me, he raises his eyebrows. “Your dad. And Coach. Remember? The whole ‘low profile’ thing you told us about?”
Oh, yeah. That.
But the longer I stare at Matt, with his smug ass sitting on the hood of Bri’s car, with the way he’s laughing at Randy like there isn’t a damn thing wrong with what he’s doing, with the fact that he just can’t take a freakin’ no for an answer…
Screw it. I’m goin’ in.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I tell Kellen, “I’m just gonna talk to him.”
Before he can argue, I stride toward Bri’s car, which is parked beneath one of the two streetlamps out here. Matt catches my eye, and that stupid-ass smirk grows as he crosses his arms. “Perry! You have got to stop following me, man. How’s it goin’?”
Cocky bastard. I flash a smirk of my own. “Goin’ really well. Except for the whole watching you stalk my neighbor thing. That could be better.”
He tilts his head to the side. “You know, I wouldn’t call it stalking—more like getting my girlfriend back. Nice try to start shit, though.”
“Last I heard, the girl was ready to walk three miles if it meant getting away from you.”
Someone snickers behind me. I glance over my shoulder. Half a dozen other guys from the team are crowded around, eating this shit up like vultures.
Witnesses are not awesome. Witnesses twist words and spread them like their lives depend on it.
Matt sighs dramatically. “All right, you caught me, bro.”
My throat tightens as I look back to him. “Don’t call me bro.”
“Bri hates me,” he keeps on. “Which is why I’m sitting here until she’s done eating. All I want to do is talk. Didn’t realize that was a crime.”
“Really?” I say. “That’s really a thing you’re going to do? Because sitting on her car in a dark parking lot isn’t creepy at all.”
“He’s got a point,” Blake chimes in, stepping to my side. “I’d be pretty damn creeped out if my ex was waiting on the hood of my truck.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank God someone out here has some sense.”
Matt stands and steps toward me. Flashbacks from last night play in my head, from when we were standing in almost this exact same spot, fighting about the exact same girl. Why do I keep getting into these messes, damn it?
“You do not know when to quit,” he says. “Why’ve you been so stuck up Bri’s ass lately? You’ve known the girl forever, but now that we’re on a break—”
“Broken up,” I correct him. “I was standing right here when she dumped you, so don’t try to bullshit me.”
“—you’re trying to be some weird-ass white knight,” he finishes. “It’s pathetic, actually.”
I shrug. “I’m just sayin’, there are plenty of girls in this town. Why chase one who doesn’t want anything to do with you?”
“What the heck is going on?”
Matt and I both whip our heads to the side. Bri and her friend Becca are standing at the edge of our audience, dressed in their soccer practice sweats, each holding a Styrofoam cup. Bri locks eyes with me, confusion all over her face. I wince. How do I explain that I’m kind-of-sort-of trying to help her?
“And here we have it,” Matt says. My attention snaps back to him. “You do have a thing for the neighbor girl. That is really damn cute, Perry.”
He laughs, and God help me, my muscles are tenser than a stretched rubber band. Breathe through it. Breathe. My heart slams against my chest as he steps closer. Closer. Closer.
All I hear is the blood in my ears. It’s rushing, and it’s thumping, and it’s pounding as I zero in on him like a hawk. Old Eric would’ve shoved him already. Knocked him to the pavement. Beat him ’til his face looked like ground round.
But I can’t be Old Eric. Old Eric is headline worthy. I ball my fists so tightly that my nails dig into my skin, and focus on that.
Your team is family. You can’t take a swing at family.
But suddenly Matt’s mouth is beside my ear, his voice whispering, “I don’t think you want her, man. She doesn’t put out much. And when she does, it’s nothin’ to brag about.”
He shoves my chest. I stumble back.
Oh, no. Oh, hell, no.
“Then again,” he adds, backing away, “I’d say she’s mildly impressive. So y’all actually have something in common.”
He starts toward his truck, but my heart’s raced into my throat and all I see is red. Red, red, red rage.
Fuck the headlines.
“Don’t—” Kellen begins right as I say, “Hey, Harris.”
Matt turns. My right hook slams into his nose. Pain screams through my arm, but adrenaline surges and the ache disappears. He rams into me with a grunt, taking me down, my head smacking the pavement. My vision blurs, barely making out the fist barreling toward my face. But I feel it. And again. And again.
And he’s gone. My eye’s swelling already, but the world comes back into focus just in time for someone to yank me to my feet.
Blue lights flashing, blindingly clashing against the darkness. Walkie-talkies squawking and cuffs scraping my wrists. Being led to a police car, which I stupidly, stupidly never even noticed before taking a swing at a teammate, of all people.
I. Am. Screwed.