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On my way to the cafeteria for lunch on Monday, I stare down at my phone. Marisa’s number is pulled up, ready to go. All it would take is a few clicks to send her a message. But for real, we’ve only worked together twice. How stalkerish is
too
stalkerish, especially if it’s just an “I hope you’re not dead” text?

I stop in the cafeteria’s doorway. Stare at the screen some more. Suck it up and type out a quick text.

Its Austin. Havent seen u in days. Little worried. U ok?

Good and simple. Before I chicken out, I hit Send and stuff the phone into my pocket. The cafeteria’s
swamped, with all the school’s seniors and half of its juniors. I spot Jay, Brett, and Right Field Randy at our table across the room, by the back windows. After grabbing a plate of cheese fries, which I scored for free thanks to a well-timed grin for the cashier (being the star pitcher does have its perks), I weave through the obstacle course of people on my way to the table and slide onto the bench across from Jay and the others.

“That all you’re eatin’?” Eric asks, plopping down beside me. Kellen sits on his other side and tosses up a wave to the rest of us. “You’ll never make it through this afternoon. We’ll be scraping you off the field.”

Team tryouts are this afternoon, but for us, it’s basically just early practice. The new recruits take the brunt of Coach’s drills. “How about you worry about you, and I’ll worry about me,” I say.

He rolls his eyes and turns to Kellen.

“Austin,” a voice singsongs behind us. Hannah Wallace drops her huge purse onto the table and sits beside me. She grins at me with a smile perfected by years of braces as she swings her tan legs over the bench. “Hope you’re ready for your interview, because it’s time to get this show started.”

Hannah’s been the head of our school’s paper since we were sophomores. She’s the head of almost everything in this school, really. Every year, she practically tackles me when it’s time for the Spring Sports write-up. Give the girl five years, and I guarantee she’ll be camera-ready for ESPN.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell her.

Another girl, who’s wearing a lot less hairspray and eyeliner, sits on Hannah’s other side, quiet as a church mouse.

“Oh!” Hannah gestures to the girl. “Guys, this is Morgan. She just moved here from Alabama. She’s taking journalism this semester and I let her tag along. Y’all be nice to her.”

“What do you think we are: animals?” Jay says. “Any friend of yours is a friend of ours, pretty lady.”

Hannah’s mouth drops open. “See, this is why y’all are my favorites. You’re seriously the sweetest guys ever. I could kiss you right now.”

Jay leans across the table, his head tilted. He taps his cheek. “Put up or shut up.”

Hannah pecks his cheek, making the other guys whistle. Her smile grows even wider as she pulls out a notebook covered with cupcakes and turns to me. “Down to business. Ready?”

I shove a fry into my mouth. “Hit me.”

“First up: tryouts are this afternoon. Are you nervous?”

I slap my hand over my chest. “I’m telling you, I am just
terrified
. Really.”

The guys snicker as she laughs and scribbles something in her notebook. I bite into another fry as the new girl, Morgan, leans over. “Just a sec,” she says to Hannah. “You told me we were interviewing some superstar pitcher. But the team hasn’t had tryouts? So he’s not even on the team yet?”

Hannah stops scribbling. “Well, duh. Coach Taylor isn’t an idiot. Of course Austin’s on the team. He’s what we call a ‘sure thing.’” She looks back to me and mouths
totally clueless
. “Onward,” she says aloud, her smile returning. “We have to wait until March for the first game, and to that I say boo. What can you tell the readers to tide us over until then?”

I lean forward, propping my elbows on the table. “Well, Hannah, I can tell you that we’re the Lewis Creek Bulldogs, and the Bulldogs are ready to kick some ass. Wait, can you say ass in the paper?”

“I cannot say ass in the paper.”

“Then we’re ready to kick some rear. And once we hit the field, every team that steps onto our turf is going home with their tails between their legs.”

The rest of the guys whoop and clap, the sound echoing throughout the cafeteria. Hannah’s smile grows as she writes that down.

“Okay, okay, time out,” Morgan says.

The table falls silent. I think I liked this girl better when she was a church mouse. Hannah looks annoyed as all get-out, but she takes a deep breath and shoots the girl a smile. “What is it?”

“I don’t get it,” Morgan replies matter-of-factly. “All this craziness over baseball. Don’t most schools go nuts over, like, football or something? My old school was all about football.”

“Not when their football team sucks,” Kellen says, right as Jay replies, “It’s
baseball
.”

Hannah lets out a breathless laugh and glances at her watch. “Bless your heart. Honey, you’re new here, but you’ll figure this out soon enough: Lewis Creek
is
baseball. Look around you.”

Morgan does. She looks at the banner stretched across the right wall, which boasts last year’s state championship win. She looks at the massive collage beneath it, made up of hundreds of team pictures that date back to the fifties, including photos of both Dad’s championship team and mine. She looks at the trophy case, with dozens of trophies on display.

She looks back at us guys, dumbfounded. “I still don’t get it.”

Jay is just as dumbfounded as he repeats, “It’s
baseball
.”

How can you even begin to describe the magic that is baseball? “It’s the rush of a strike,” I tell her.

“The roar of the crowd,” Brett says.

“Hot dogs and peanuts and slushies,” Randy chimes in.

“Smacking the hell out of a ball,” Eric says.

“And let us not forget the glory that is a boy in baseball pants,” Hannah says. “Amen, hallelujah, thank you Jesus.”

Wait. What?

All eyes fall on Hannah, who shrugs and slaps her notebook closed. “All the girls think it. I just say it.” She ruffles my hair as the lunch bell pierces the silence. “I didn’t get nearly enough, but I’ll catch you again tomorrow.”

I’m still not entirely sure what just happened here.

Trays clatter behind us as people file out of the cafeteria. Randy says “see ya” before grabbing his stuff and heading out, with Eric and Kellen right behind him.

Jay grins at Brett as they stand. “Girl’s got a point. Your ass does look great in baseball pants.”

Brett’s cheeks flush crimson. He glances around and looks back to Jay, giving him a sneaky smirk.

Not gonna lie. I kind of want someone to tell me my ass looks good, too.

As I walk to the field that afternoon, I sneak one more glance at my phone before stuffing it into my gear bag. Still nothing from Marisa. So she’s either passed out in front of her toilet, or my barbecue really did kill her and she’ll be haunting me for the rest of my life. Awesome.

The minute my cleats touch the dirt, every muscle inside me relaxes. And when the smell of freshly mowed grass hits me, I know that, somehow, everything’s going to be okay. No wrong can happen out here.
This
is my safe haven. We’ve got a little over a month until the first game of the year, and it can’t come fast enough. Give me those lights. The roar of the crowd. The rush of the winning strike. On this field,
everything else disappears. I just hope the sanctuary’s not ripped away from me before I can even play the first game of the season.

The new guys are already out here stretching, gearing up for tryouts. Most of us from last year are shoo-ins for the team, but geez, the noobs are already showing us up. I need to get my mind off school and a certain girl who won’t get out of my head. This is the perfect way to do it.

I drop my bag onto the dugout bench and dig for my practice glove. Another bag drops next to mine. Jay slaps my back before yanking off his sweatshirt. “It’s about that time, Braxton,” he says with a huge grin. “You ready for this?”

“You don’t even know how ready. I’ve been waitin’ for this day since May.”

We fist-bump before jogging out to an empty section of the field, away from where Coach is barking out orders to the fresh meat, and start stretching. Some of those wide-eyed kids across the field look like they just walked into boot camp by mistake. Boot camp wouldn’t be too far from the truth. Coach’s drills are no joke.

“Think any of ’em are worth their weight?” Jay asks, finishing up his lunges. “Or will Coach just beg last year’s seniors to come back for old time’s sake?”

Snorting, I do a couple more fingertip prayer presses. “He wishes. But I doubt any of those guys would step foot in Lewis Creek again, even if Coach offered them a million bucks.” I sure as heck wouldn’t. Breaking out of this town is like busting out of prison: you run as hard and as fast as you can in the opposite direction, without looking back. Even glancing over your shoulder will make you trip over your own feet.

Jay grabs his glove and ball, and I pick up my own glove. Sliding the worn leather onto my hand, I breathe in the sweet smell of fastballs and sliders
and strikeouts. A familiar knot lodges in my throat. I swallow hard, forcing it away. Dad gave me this glove in the fall of sophomore year, just a few months before he…well, you know.

I shake my head and ready myself for Jay’s throw. He fires the ball into my glove, its
smack
against the leather music to my ears. I rotate my arm a few times before pitching it back, and all I can do is thank God that finally,
finally
, I’m back on this field. I’m freer than anywhere else in this crazy world when I’m out here.

Well, I’m thanking God until Jay has to jump up to catch my wild throw.
Shit
. He shakes his head and lofts it back. “No worries,” he calls out. “Fire another one. Nothing fancy. Just hit the glove. We’ll work up to fancy.”

Taking a deep breath, I focus on the center of his mitt and throw. He darts to the side, just barely snagging the ball. His mouth falls into a frown, but he says nothing before throwing the ball back. My heart races as I catch it effortlessly.
Focus. Just pitch like you’ve done for ten damn years
. Eight pitches later, I’ve given Jay a second warm-up session entirely.

“I’m not into the aerobics shit, Braxton. Stop making me run all over the place.” He jogs over and leans in, his forehead gleaming with sweat. “You better straighten up. Coach has his eye on you.”

Resisting the urge to turn and look, I ask, “Evil eye?”

“Evil as Lucifer himself. What’s the problem?”

I scoff and punch my glove, walking back to the bench. If I keep this up, I’ll be getting real comfortable on that slab of wood. “Matthews’s class,” is all I say. The man drilled me again this afternoon.

Jay falls into step beside me, yanking his glove off. “I thought he gave you some kind of tutoring list.”

Shaking my head, I plop down on the bench, take off my own glove, and toss it on top of my bag. Coach
glares at us from the field, his arms crossed in front of his chest. We need to get back out there soon before we have to deal with his wrath, but embarrassing the hell out of myself even more isn’t high on my list. At this rate, he’ll replace me with a JV freshman.

“He did,” I say. “I turned it down.”

Jay gapes at me. “And why the hell did you do that?”

I stretch out my fingers again. I know good and well they aren’t the problem with my throw. This is all mental blockage, which needs to be fixed ASAP. “The only people on that list are people I don’t feel like spendin’ a bunch of time with. I mean, Bri’s not so bad, but
Matt’s
on there. Why the hell would I spend even more time with that guy?”

Jay points to the field, where the blond douchebag is talking to Coach. “That Matt?” I nod. He snorts. “Can’t blame you. But Coach is gonna kick your ass. Or bench it. Or both.”

Groaning, I drop my head. He’s right. I can’t get away with this for much longer, but I’ll be damned if I trust my GPA to Matt Freakin’ Harris. Of course, I
do
have a certain someone’s phone number, but I also might have just killed her with barbecue.

Coach whistles sharply, waving us over. Jay and I jump up, and he slaps my glove against my chest. “Get your head under control,” he says. “Suck it up and fix your shit, even if it means letting Matt teach you how to make stink bombs or whatever. This is our last year, bro. I need my pitcher on point. Got it?”

I nod, breathing deeply. I’m not sure how I’m going to fix it, but I have a feeling I’ll be eating crow sometime soon.