Play On (23 page)

Jay’s the first to stand and grab his own bag from the pavement. “On that note, we should be on the field already. Coach’ll have our asses.”

The sun blazes as we start across the lot toward the field. The bleachers are filled to the brim, with people lined up all the way down the fence. Three of Barton High’s players linger behind the bleachers, laughing about God knows what. The middle guy, their pitcher, spots us heading their way and holds up his hands, silencing the others. I’ve batted against the guy before, but I can’t remember his name for the life of me. I do know he’s got a God-awful slider.

“How’s it goin’, fellas?” he calls as we walk past. “Heard you’re not startin’ today, Hotshot. Resting that gold-plated arm?”

I stop where the pavement meets grass, and chuckle. He’s baiting me. It’s working. I turn, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “Not gonna risk blowin’ out my arm in a game that doesn’t mean anything.”

He crosses his arms and grins. “Right, right. God forbid you pitch a game for the fun of it. It’s all about the glory, isn’t it?”

His slider isn’t the only thing that’s pathetic. His trash-talk sucks, too.

He nods toward Brett and Jay. “What about you two? Y’all playin’? Because I didn’t realize they let prisspots on the ball field.”

I narrow my eyes. “The hell did you just say?” I’m not even touching him, but I can feel Brett go stiff as a sheet of plywood beside me. Jay crosses the distance between them, coming face-to-face with Bastard Pitcher.

That’s his name now. Bastard Pitcher.

“Braxton just asked you a question,” Jay says in a voice that’d have me pissing my pants. “What the hell did you say?”

The crowd grows louder in the bleachers, but it’s nothing more than a dull noise. The pitcher holds Jay’s stare, smirking. “I saw y’all two across the lot when you got here. Wouldn’t have been able to get a hose in between you if I’d tried. Not sure who you think you’re foolin’.” He looks over at Brett. “And ain’t you Pastor Perry’s kid? How’s he feel about his boy bein’ a fag?”

Oh, hell no. Brett disappears, high-tailing it to the field. Probably a good thing; I’ve seen the dude’s right hook. I grab Jay’s arm, yanking him back so he doesn’t get locked up today, either. He rips out of my hold and follows Brett.

Bastard Pitcher cackles, his two buddies going right along with him. “You see it all in this town: a Mexican queer and his pastor-kid boyfriend. It’s classic, really.”

Me? I’m not playing today. I can spend a day in a cell if he keeps runnin’ off at the mouth. “You wanna try saying that to their faces?” I ask. “Or are you just gonna hide behind the bleachers all day like a pansy-ass piece of shit?”

The fool snorts and starts toward the field with his lackeys in tow. “Nah, I’ll see ’em once I’m on the mound later,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll let ’em know how I feel then. Trust me.”

So much for it being a good day.

The dugout’s quiet as I approach, way too quiet for game day. Jay and Brett’s tension has spread across the team like wildfire, even if the other guys don’t know why it’s there to begin with. After checking in with Coach, who’s still ticked that two of his starters showed up late and pissed, I sit next to Jay on the bench. It’s no different than sitting beside a rock, stone-cold and silent.

I catch him glancing at Brett, who’s taking warm-up swings in the on-deck circle. They’re finally moving forward, then this shit happens.

“Y’all gonna be all right?” I ask him.

Jay shrugs. “No idea.”

“
You
gonna be all right?”

“No idea.”

As Brett steps up to the plate, Barton’s pitcher, the smartass from the lot, grins and toes the dirt. My chest tightens. I head to the fence that separates the dugout from the field, standing beside Eric. I know that grin. I’ve had that grin. It’s one a pitcher flashes when he’s up to no good. He winds up and fires a fastball so fast I’m surprised Brett doesn’t have whiplash.

His fastball’s definitely better than his slider.

“Strike one!” the ump yells.

Jay’s by my side in an instant, rattling the fence. “Come on, Perry!” he shouts. “Smack the hell out of it!”

Brett steadies his stance, prepared for the next pitch.
Wind up. Release
. Brett slices nothing but air. He’s our lead-off man for a reason. He can do better than this. Mental blockage is a batter’s worst enemy.

Wind up. Release
. The ball cuts sharp inside. Brett dodges, but the pitch still catches him on the elbow. He drops the bat, his face clenched. I cringe. I’ve had that happen before. It hurts like nobody’s business. The crowd boos as he takes his base, and I’m pretty sure Jay’s about to combust next to me.

“He’ll be all right,” I say. “He’s good.”

There’s fire in Jay’s eyes as he glares at the field. “That shit was on purpose. Look at the pitcher.”

I do.

The bastard winks.

Damn it to hell.

This is pretty much the worst our team’s ever played. By the top of the fourth, no one’s managed more than a base hit. We’re already back to the beginning of
the batting order. It’s embarrassing as hell. We were state champions last year, for Christ’s sake.

Jay, Eric, and I line up along the fence with the rest of the team as Brett steps up to the plate again. Good ol’ Super Douche looks primed and ready. He didn’t try any funny business with Jay; he’s got his eyes set on Brett, for whatever reason. Everyone else has noticed, so I don’t know why his coach is keeping him in the game. He just better keep it clean this time.

The first pitch shoots straight by the nuts. I grab Jay’s shoulder to keep him from charging out there, but he shakes me off and smacks the fence. Eric isn’t much better. Brett aims his bat at the pitcher, who just shrugs when the ump yells out a warning for both of them.

“Watch him, Perry,” Coach shouts. He moves just outside the dugout’s opening, arms crossed. “He’s dirty. Eyes open.”

Brett raises his bat, ready and waiting. The pitcher studies him for a minute before going into his windup.
Release
. Brett turns, but the pitch nails him right smack in the shoulder.

And now he’s charging the damn mound.

“Fucking hell,” Eric says as I mutter, “Shit.”

We follow Coach in a dash to the mound just as Barton’s dugout clears and piles on the field. Brett lowers his shoulder and rams into the pitcher, sending them to the dirt. Both of them are yellin’ and punchin’ and scramblin’ and I have no clue who’s hurt what, but I grab Brett’s elbow, trying to yank him off. The dude’s turned into the freakin’ Hulk. Coach grabs his other arm and helps me pull him off the pitcher, whose nose and mouth are both bloody messes.

Jay snatches Brett’s arm from my grip, slinging it across his shoulder to help Coach guide him off the field. Brett cringes and swears, leaning his weight against Jay.

“I got you,” Jay says. “I’m right here, babe. Breathe.”

Coach’s eyes widen, right along with Eric’s. Neither says anything as Jay helps Brett hobble to the bench. The other guys file back to their dugout as Barton’s coach pulls the pitcher to his feet.

“Learn your lesson?” I ask.
Don’t spit in his face. Don’t do it
.

He sneers. “What’s it matter to you? You a fag, too?”

That’s it. I step forward and his coach moves between us, but I’m not going to hit the bastard. Brett did well enough on his own. “It doesn’t matter if I am,” I say. “But when you mess with one of us, you get all of us. Remember that.”

His coach shoves him on toward the dugout, and I turn to ours, my pulse pounding like a jackhammer. The crowd’s all standing, most of them with their phones up and at the ready. Vultures probably just recorded every second of what happened. But when my eyes land on a pretty brunette standing off to the side with her parents, the crowd disappears.

I swallow the lump in my throat. She waves. I want nothing more than to run up to her, hug her, kiss her, tell her that I’ve been going nuts without her, but now’s not the time for that. I tip my cap to her and head for the dugout, where the trainer’s inspecting Brett’s shoulder. Randy passes me on his way to the plate. He better line-drive that sucker out of the park.

Jay and Eric hover behind Brett, Jay chewing his nail as he watches the trainer’s every move. “How bad is it?” I ask as I come up beside him.

“It’s probably dislocated,” he says, not breaking his gaze for a second. “May need the ER.”

Letting out a heavy breath, I lean over the back of the bench. “Bro, you did a number on that prick,” I tell Brett. “Did a number on yourself, too. Worth it?”

He winces, but says, “Worth breakin’ every bone in my body.”

“Better not be every bone in that body,” Coach says. “Even though I’m tempted to break ’em myself after what y’all just pulled, actin’ like a bunch of damn kids.” He slaps my glove against my chest. “Eric’s out so he can take Brett to the hospital. I need a closing pitcher and a third baseman. You want to take over the mound?”

I cringe. “I haven’t warmed up at all. I’ll have to take third.”

Coach sighs and waves over Lance, the sophomore left-handed pitcher. He sucks. But it’s better to have someone who sucks than someone who hasn’t warmed up.
Sorry, guys
.

Randy trots back to the dugout after striking out, shaking his head as he tosses his helmet onto the bench. Coach would usually chew his ass out for that, but I guess he figures we all need some leeway right about now. Sliding on my glove, I follow the rest of the guys onto the field. I scan the bleachers and the fence, hoping to get a glimpse of Marisa before finishing this hell of a game.

She’s right there, at the fence, watching me. Waiting for me.

chapter twenty-three

As the hosting team, all of us are supposed to stay by the field, being supportive of the other guys participating in the tournament once our game’s up (or maybe I should say, once we lost miserably). But I’m pretty sure that rule’s meant to be broken in times like these. There are extenuating circumstances here.

I find Marisa behind the bleachers at the edge of the parking lot. She fidgets with her hands as I walk toward her. Rocks back on her heels. Tugs the brim of her Braves cap over her face. Thank God she’s nervous, too. Double-thank God she’s still got my cap. That’s a good sign.

“That was a heck of a fight,” she says. “Is Brett okay?”

Coach will make sure we pay for that fight. I see a lot of laps in our team’s future. “They think he dislocated his shoulder. Eric took him to the hospital. You should see the other guy.” Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my uniform, I say, “You didn’t call me.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t call you.”

I lift my shoulders. “Why?”

She tilts her head, signaling for me to come closer. She sits in the grass, facing the parking lot. As soon as I sit beside her, she reaches over and grabs my hand, like she’s been waiting two weeks to do just that.

“I needed to be away, I think,” she says. “Those spirals, those crashes, are draining. I needed to just
breathe
. Reconnect.”

“With?”

“Myself. My family.” She stretches out her legs and crosses them. “Do you know the last time my family and I did anything together? Like, together-together?”

Not a clue. I shake my head.

“Me neither. But while we were gone, my dad and I went to the Orioles’ opening day and pigged out on hot dogs and nachos. My mom and I spent two days planting a flower garden with my grandma.” She smiles a tiny half-smile. “It was kind of perfect.” She nudges me. “I was serious when I told you to take that time to think, you know.”

“And I was serious when I told you that you were worth it. There was nothing to think about.” Glancing down at our hands, I rub my thumb across her knuckles. “Marisa, I’m in this. I want you. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“I don’t want easy. I want you.”

She hangs her head and giggles, which turns into a laugh and, finally, a snort. Looking over at her, I grin, my shoulders shaking as I laugh along with her. It’s so good to see her smile. I was scared I’d never get to see that smile again.

“
I
needed the time to think,” she says softly. “That’s why I didn’t call.” Her gaze moves to the parking lot, where people are already starting to call it a day. “There’s something I thought about a lot while I was gone.” She looks back to me. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. The whole ‘I’m okay’ thing just kind of flows out. A way of making people not worry about me, because that’s the last thing I want. I don’t want to be a burden, you know? Putting up with me has to be a pain.”

I wonder if that’s how Dad felt. If he didn’t want to bother us with his problems, or if he thought that he’d be some kind of burden. And I don’t know if I’m on to something or way off base, but not talking about his problems might have had a lot to do with why he gave up.

My heart races as I hold Marisa’s gaze. Confusion wrinkles her forehead. I never told her exactly how Dad died. I don’t know if now’s the right time—probably not, actually. But I do know that not having her here, having her give up, would gut me.