Play On (3 page)

The girl narrows her eyes as her gaze darts between the two of us. She holds the cards out to me, and I know I should take them. My brain is screaming,
Take the stupid cards, you stupid, stupid idiot
, but my arms won’t listen. Jay grabs the cards and slaps them against my chest.
Thanks, buddy
.

“I’m Marisa,” she says. “I called about the ad in the paper? Ms. Braxton asked me to be here at four o’clock.”

Silence blankets the room as she stares at me. Why’s she staring at
me
? I glance over at Jay, but he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

“So,” Marisa says slowly, “where would I find Ms. Braxton?”

Oh. That’s why.

“Um—” I clear my throat, which feels like tree bark, and point to the stairs. “Upstairs. She’s upstairs. In her office. Which is upstairs. You just go up the, you know, stairs.”

Jay slaps his hand over my mouth. “I think she understands,” he says. Marisa nods. “Good luck,” he adds. “Make sure you smile a lot. Ms. B. loves that.”

She laughs. “Nice meeting you, Jay. Good seeing you again, Floral Prince.” She waves and heads up the stairs I’m so nuts about.

Once the door to the office closes, Jay finally drops his hand and chuckles. Moving between me and the stairs, he crosses his arms. He glances back over his shoulder and smirks at me. “And the all-star player became the played. This’ll be one hell of a show.”

“I hate your guts, you know that?”

He winks. “Yeah. And you’ll miss the hell out of me when I’m gone.”

chapter three

I’m not a total idiot—I didn’t think Chemistry would be as easy as hitting off a batting tee. I’ve cracked open my book every night since the semester started, which is more than I can say for my other classes. But when you’re two weeks into the semester, throwing a surprise test into the mix isn’t the way for a teacher to get on my good side. Especially when everything on this piece of paper may as well be written in Russian. Not that he gives a flying crap what I think.

I bang my head on the table. I can kiss Carolina goodbye next year if I don’t pass this class. Scholarship? Gone. There needs to be a way to strangle fall-semester-Austin for dropping Chemistry, all because he didn’t want to take it with Mr. Matthews after getting busted in the man’s pond. I didn’t take into account that the universe hates me, and the universe always gets what it wants.

“Mr. Braxton?” My head pops up. I look around the room. Everyone else has already finished their tests and left for the day, leaving me alone with Mr. Matthews. He points to the clock. “Time’s almost up. Sure you should be napping?”

Yeah. The universe is a bastard.

My leg bounces as I look back to my paper. Freakin’ periodic table. Who even
needs
to know this crap? I guarantee ninety-nine percent of the people in this class won’t be science majors. Chemistry is an invention of the devil himself. Why can’t my Chem class still be identifying beakers and tongs instead of memorizing this stupid stuff?

Shaking my head, I grab my backpack and carry my test to the front. I can’t even look at Mr. Matthews when I put it on his desk; I stare at my boots instead. I know what he’ll say if I make eye contact: “Think about that eligibility, son.” I get it enough from Momma and Coach. If I hear it one more time, my brain will explode.

Mr. Matthews clears his throat, so I glance up. His nose is all scrunched as he stares at the test in what looks like disbelief. “Mr. Braxton…” He trails off with a shake of his head. “You do realize there’s no element called—” he squints. “—does this say ‘badminton’?”

He could give me some credit. At least I remembered hydrogen and oxygen.

“You can do better than this.” He finally meets my gaze. “You do realize that I’m not just going to push you out the door with an A, right?”

My jaw stiffens as I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve got to keep the big picture in mind,” he continues. “Think about your eli—”

There it is. I head for the door and, throwing my hand up in a backward wave, keep on into the hallway. See, I’ve thought about the eligibility. I’ve thought about my grade. It doesn’t make understanding the useless crap any easier.

I shove through the double doors, and the cold mid-January air hits me hard. I pull on my cap and stride to my truck, one of the few left in the senior lot. One of the best things about being a senior is that we can bust out of here early on most days. Staring at the Chem test put me behind schedule.

Maybe I do need some help with this school stuff. The problem is that asking for help isn’t only embarrassing as hell, it’s just kind of wrong. Admitting that you’re dumb as a pile of rocks? Not tempting. When you’ve got the golden arm of Lewis Creek, everyone assumes that a golden brain goes along with it or something. Tutoring doesn’t exactly fit that mold.

I toss my bag into the truck bed, climb into my seat, and tear out of the parking lot. I
could
get by with being a few minutes late to work, but being on time keeps me on Momma’s good side—and gives me more time to look at the new girl who’s starting today. Either way, I’m winning.

When I pull up to the shop, a blue Mazda with a Maryland license plate is parked next to my usual spot. I cut the engine, hop down from my truck, and head for the shop. It’s not nearly as busy as it has been lately. The holidays are always crazy, so it’s probably a good thing she starts this week. Best not to overwhelm her on her first day.

Stepping into the shop is like walking into a sauna, compared to outside. The display room is quiet, with no one in sight—not even the ones who are actually supposed to be, you know, working. I yank off my hoodie and toss it onto the counter, next to the register. Down the hallway, the back room is dark. Weird. No one there either.

“Lost in your own shop?”

“Holy sh—” I whirl around, my heart racing. Marisa stares up at me with the same tiny smirk she had on her face the other day. If anyone else looked at me that way, I’d peg them as a cocky ass. On her, it’s pretty hot.

“Not lost,” I say, still catching my breath. “Just wondering if the new girl swiped my momma and high-tailed it out of town, and how long until I had to call the cops.”

Just shut up, Braxton. Shut up now
.

She puts her hands on her hips. “Now why would I try and kidnap your mom?”

As much as I love a drawl in a girl’s voice, I could listen to Marisa’s little Northern accent all day long. She cocks an eyebrow, clearly waiting for
me
to do some talking. When did I turn into such an idiot?

“Because you’re desperate for her flower fortune?” Yeah. Even I wince at that. Should’ve shut up while I was ahead.

She bursts out laughing.
Smooth, Braxton
. Her wide smile stays in place as she backs toward the counter. I grab my apron from the hook next to the register, tie it on, and hang my hoodie in its place, right next to Marisa’s Braves zip-up.

“I’m sure your mom’s fortune is pretty high up there, but I’ll pass on the jail time, thanks. Besides, she could probably take me any day. She seems tough.” Marisa nods toward the stairs. “She’s up in the office working on some accounting stuff. Said to tell you to ‘take care of me.’”

Leaning against the counter, I smirk. “Take care of you? Really, now?”

She holds her hands up, palms facing me. “Her words, not mine. Can’t use them against me.” She pauses and adds, “Okay, wait. That could be taken so many ways. Keep your brain out of the gutter.”

I shrug. “No clue what you’re talking about.”

She smiles along with me, a smile so wide that her eyes crinkle at the sides. I’d be kind of happy looking at that smile and those eye-crinkles every day. I guess I’ll be able to until the season starts up. Lucky me.

Wait. No. Not lucky. No girls allowed this year. That was my freakin’ New Year’s resolution and everything. You can’t go back on a resolution.

Shut up. It’s legit.

The thing is that I can’t let myself go nuts over some girl again. I fell head over feet for Jamie last
year, but she left early for Georgia State in June and dumped me with a text. I was a worthless sack of crap for months after that. There’s this thing that happens when you date people. It’s a blast, and it’s intense, and it’s crazy (usually the good crazy). But when the other person moves on and leaves you behind, they take a chunk of you with them. And it sucks. I can’t handle that feeling again right now. I can’t.

I clap my hands together and start for the first display cooler. Marisa’s shoes squeak against the floor as she follows me. “All right, then,” I say on an exhale, turning to her. She stares up at me, all bouncy ponytail and bright eyes. “We’re supposed to be training. So, first things first. Flowers: how much do you know about them?”

She giggles, and dang it, she needs to stop.
Please
make it stop. All these little things she does that make my stomach do weird flip-flops are going to turn into big things, and big things are a lot harder to ignore.

“It’s safe to say I know a bit about flowers,” Marisa says. “Your mom gave me one heck of a quiz during my interview to make sure I knew my stuff. She even asked what my favorite flower was and how often I’m supposed to change vase water. I mean, really?”

I twirl my finger, signaling for her to continue. “And your answers were…?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Purple roses. Every two-to-three days. Do you think I’m an amateur?”

Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. I’d train her all day, every day as long as she kept smiling at me like she is now. But that smile falters as her gaze falls to the floor. She clears her throat and says, “Before we moved here, my mom was obsessed with gardening. She taught me everything I know.”

Her voice dips. Before I can ask if she’s all right, she shakes her head and looks back to me, her eyes
not nearly as bright, but still as piercing as they were before.

I shrug and force a smile of my own. “Looks like we have something in common. My momma’s a gardening freak, too.” As if owning a flower shop didn’t already give that away. Strike two, Braxton.

She steps to my side, her arm brushing against mine as she gestures to the cooler. “Anyway, continue, Floral Prince. Teach me your ways. I’m sure you know much more than I do.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re makin’ fun of me, aren’t you? Is it the apron? Because I’ll have you know, I’m rockin’ this apron.”

She grins. “I would
never
make fun of a prince,” she says seriously and curtsies. The girl freakin’ curtsies.

I cross my arms. “All right, feisty pants. I see what you did there.”

Her jaw drops. “You did not just call me feisty pants. What are you, sixty? Who even says that?”

“I do, obviously. And what I was going to say is, you can’t put whatever flowers you want in the cooler. This is where we keep the special order arrangements and loose flowers. Single roses and stuff like that.”

Instead of replying, her lips curve up again. My heart hammers against my chest. No matter how tough he acts, every guy dreams of someone looking at him this way. Like every word out of his mouth is coated in gold, even if it’s the cheesiest thing that person’s ever heard.

No one’s ever looked at me this way before, not even Jamie. It’s killer. And it’s kind of freaking me the hell out because I’d never even seen this girl until a week ago, and she’s got me acting like an idiot.

“What—” I cough to cover the crack in my voice. “What’s that look for?”

She shrugs and moves past me toward the cooler. In its reflection, I see her staring at the arrangements,
her fingertips pressed lightly against the glass. “I like your voice,” she says. “It’s laid-back. Easy-going. Like you have all the time in the world.” She faces me again. “And your accent’s kind of to die for. But you can pretend I didn’t say that.”

I don’t want to pretend you didn’t say that
. This stupid shirt’s suddenly too thick. And I’m pretty sure my cheeks are on fire.

She wrinkles her nose as her own cheeks flush. “Sorry. That was really, um, cheesy. Crazy inappropriate. Seriously, please pretend that I didn’t say that.”

Still don’t want to pretend you didn’t say that
. I scrunch my eyebrows, feigning confusion. “Like you didn’t say what?”

Her mouth opens and snaps closed when realization hits her. Her smile returns. And I’m freakin’ goo.

Baseball. School. Work. Baseball. School. Work. Rinse and repeat until graduation.

I scratch the back of my neck as I head for the counter. “Moving on. Have you ever worked on a register?”

More shoe squeaking behind me. Her Converses are worse than those stupid squeaker-shoes parents let their kids wear in the shop. “Nope,” she says. “This is my first job.”

So, technically, she
is
an amateur. I punch my code into the register. “Can you count? Because that’s a good start.”

She leans onto the counter, staring me straight in the eye. “You know, you’re kind of a smartass.”

My mouth twitches. “Is that gonna be a problem?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says, her gaze lingering on me as she straightens. “I think it’ll be fun.”

Baseball. School. Work.

Baseball. School. Work.

Damn it.

chapter four

Forty-two. There’s a forty-two on the test in front of me.

The final bell rings. Chairs screech and bags rustle and shoes rush to the door, but my butt’s glued to the wooden seat. My test sits on the lab table, bleeding with red Sharpie. Poor paper. I killed it. It never stood a chance. In my defense, this isn’t the worst I’ve ever done. But it’s still pretty darn bad.

A hand lands on my shoulder. “Austin?”

I flip my test facedown, hiding the Sharpie massacre. Bri Johnson, a brunette junior and captain of the soccer team, stands beside me, holding her notebook to her chest. Lord, please don’t let her have seen that number. Bri’s one of those super-smart girls who would give Einstein a run for his money. “What’s up, Bri?”

She stares at me for a moment. “Everything okay? There’s a lot of red on that page.”