Game On Read online

  For those who fall.

  For those who make mistakes.

  For those who’ve been told who they are.

  Keep standing. Keep going. And show everyone what you’re made of.

  Contents

  Chapter One: Eric

  Chapter Two: Bri

  Chapter Three: Eric

  Chapter Four: Bri

  Chapter Five: Eric

  Chapter Six: Eric

  Chapter Seven: Eric

  Chapter Eight: Bri

  Chapter Nine: Eric

  Chapter Ten: Bri

  Chapter Eleven: Eric

  Chapter Twelve: Eric

  Chapter Thirteen: Eric

  Chapter Fourteen: Bri

  Chapter Fifteen: Eric

  Chapter Sixteen: Eric

  Chapter Seventeen: Eric

  Chapter Eighteen: Eric

  Chapter Nineteen: Bri

  Chapter Twenty: Eric

  Chapter Twenty-One: Bri

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Bri

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Eric

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Eric

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Eric

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Eric

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Eric

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Bri

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Eric

  Chapter Thirty: Bri

  Chapter Thirty-One: Eric

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Eric

  It’s probably a bad sign when the hangover hits before you even leave the party.

  Field parties are the best cure for forgetting a hellish week. The beer, the music, the orange and red flames of the bonfire flashing against the night, Laura Decker still breathing heavily beside me in the backseat of her rusted-out Bronco as she tugs her shirt over her head: add ’em all together, and you’ve got a night to rival any other.

  But tonight, my head pounds along with the Godawful bro-country music. There’s too much cheap beer and tequila bubbling in my stomach. There’s way too much of Laura’s perfume mingled with bonfire smoke and dear God, I think this is how I die.

  Don’t puke on Laura.

  She leans over, her blond hair brushing my bare shoulder as she kisses my cheek. “Thanks,” she says. And with the slam of a door, she’s gone. Through the windshield, I watch her fix her hair on her way to the crowd of others from our senior class. Pressing my lips together, I nod to myself. Every Saturday night for the past few months, she and I have hit replay. It always ends this way. I never give a shit. It’s easy. Predictable. Hell, all of this—it’s usually enough.

  But not tonight.

  Practice for the season starts next week, my first as starting pitcher. My first season ever playing without my brother, who left for college in the fall. My first season being in the town’s spotlight. In Lewis Creek, South Carolina, you either play baseball, worship baseball, or—well, there really is no “or.”

  Damn it. Way too many thoughts are racing through my head, thoughts that all those shots should’ve erased by now.

  Lifting my hips, I yank up my jeans, and grab my own shirt from the floorboard and button it up. I dig my phone from my pocket. Its screen blurs. I squint enough to make out a text from Kellen Winthrop, one of my best friends and our team’s first baseman, telling me not to be an idiot and try driving tonight. No kidding—it’s why I caught a ride with Blake Thompson, this year’s catcher, to get here in the first place. I knew I’d be a goner. There’s another text asking if I do need a ride, and I manage to find “n” and “o” before hitting Send. Good of him to offer, but his girlfriend’s home from college this weekend. The last thing he needs—or wants—is to cart my drunk ass around.

  I scroll through my contacts until I find my brother’s name, wishing to all that’s holy that I could type out some kind of “don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do without you this season” text without sounding like a wuss. Because I don’t know what I’m gonna do without him. He’s always been the one to bring me back to reality, to knock some sense into me when I’m freaking the eff out about stuff I have zero control over.

  After racking my brain for a second, or a minute, or maybe even an hour, I shove the phone back into my pocket and tug on my jacket. Brett’s gone, and there’s nothing I can say or do that’ll change that. What I can do is pull my shit together. Go out there and face the guys one more time before getting out of this place. After some fresh air and food—the greasier, the better—I’ll be fine. I just need to find a way to get to the food.

  The Bronco’s door screeches when I shove it open, the sound slicing through my head. I cringe, swinging one leg out the door. Two legs. My boots sink into the grass. I can do this. I can totally do this.

  Steady… Steady…

  And I fall flat on my ass.

  ’Kay. Bed is definitely coming after food.

  The party rages on, now with Kenny Chesney blaring from someone’s truck. The team roster was released this week, so tonight’s usual field party morphed into a massive celebration. I’m supposed to be living it up as the Bulldogs’ new starting pitcher—that’s the freakin’ dream of every guy in Lewis Creek. But the same people who were chanting my name half an hour ago have now moved on to Right-Field Randy, who’s battling Matt Harris, our center fielder, for the record of keg-stands in one night. All but a couple of the team’s veterans and this season’s new guys surround them by the bonfire, clueless that I’ve disappeared.

  I’m already old news, and tonight, I’m embracing it. The second I step on that mound, it’s open season on my ass. If baseball players are tracked more closely than deer, the starting pitcher might as well be a 14-point buck.

  I scan the crowd, looking for one of the DDs out here. The only options tonight are Sara Stringer, who’s hanging all over Blake, or Addison Mitchell, whose dad told her if he ever saw me in her car again, she’d be sent to a nunnery. And having her sent to a nunnery would be a terrible disservice to mankind.

  Taking a deep breath of the late-January air, I look to the dirt path leading away from Randy’s house. It goes straight to town, and Joyner’s BBQ is barely a mile down the road. A walk might do me some good, as long as I don’t walk into a tree. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I start toward the path, which splits through the woods. The sounds of the party fade away, and the throb in my head finally dies down the slightest bit.

  It’s weird, when you get the thing that you wanted the most, the thing you’ve worked your ass off for, and all it does is send you into a spiral of “what the hell did I get myself into.”

  Breathe.

  I have no clue how long I’ve been walking, but the bright lights of Joyner’s BBQ finally come into view like a heavenly beacon. The parking lot is packed, which is normal for a Saturday night. Pausing at the door, I check the time on my phone—nearly nine thirty—and pull out my wallet and leaf through the few dollar bills. Not nearly enough for the mountain of grease my head is screaming for, but five bucks will get me cheese fries. That’s good enough.

  The bell chimes as I pull open the door. “Fuck,” I mumble, wincing at the bright fluorescents. Everyone in the mile-long line turns. Stares. Guess that was a little louder than a mumble.

  “What’s up, Perry!” some guy calls from across the room. No idea who, but I toss up a wave to that general vicinity while grinning.

  “Eric?”

  That voice is much softer and more familiar. I glance to the left, and then my right. I heard my name. I know I heard my name. It’d just be nice if I knew where it came from, considering everyone’s faces are blurring together. Maybe that extra shot of tequila wasn’t my best life choice.

  Suddenly Bri Johnson’s beside me, staring at me with those big brown eyes of hers. And if
I thought my insides were jelly before, they’re downright liquefied now. The navy sweater she’s wearing hangs off one shoulder, and her dark waves fall across bare skin that I’d do unspeakable things to touch.

  I shove my hands into my pockets.

  Bri’s my neighbor, and was voted our class’s Most Likely to Become a Mad Scientist While Also Providing Everyone with a Rescue Puppy. Or something like that. She also has a way of getting inexplicably hotter every time I see her, which should be illegal for a girl who used to share your sleeping bag during campouts in your backyard. Ten-year-old Eric had no idea how good he had it.

  On top of all that, she’s our center fielder’s girlfriend. So the untouchable neighbor girl shouldn’t be knocking me off my rocker. Even if she kind of always has.

  But I’ll never tell her that. I’ll never tell anyone that.

  “Hey,” she says. I fight a cringe and lose miserably. I know that voice—it’s the one people use for scared animals or a sick kid. The pity voice. “You all right?”

  If by “all right” she means about to puke all over those cowboy boots of hers, then I’m freakin’ golden. “What’re you doin’ here?” I ask instead.

  She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. I look past her to a table beside the wall, where her friend, Becca Daniels, waves back at me. “Dinner with Becca before meeting Matt at Randy’s party,” she says.

  Ah, there’s the boyfriend mention. “Blondie let you out without him tonight? I’m impressed.”

  Her face falls, along with her gaze. At last weekend’s party, Matt made a dumbass joke in front of everyone, including Bri, about “letting” her go out with her friends (whatever bullshit that’s supposed to mean). So I have no clue why I would throw that back in her face. Am I really that much of an asshole? I’m totally blaming it on the alcohol.

  She clears her throat, looking up at me with renewed fire in her eyes. “You really are a dick sometimes, you know that?”

  My mouth drops open right as someone calls, “Perry,” from the table behind us. I turn, catching some sophomore guy grinning. “I know vodka looks like water, but you’ve gotta learn how to read, man.”

  A wave of laughter ripples throughout the restaurant. My heart races, my vision zeroing in on him, clearer than it’s been all night. He just made JV as a third baseman—Jared something. Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I make my way to his table, my boots trudging across the floor. His buddies settle down, looking at their plates while his grin fades. I lean onto the table. “You’re really damn funny when you’re sittin’ across the room,” I tell him. “How about saying it straight to my face?”

  Bri tugs my arm, pulling me back toward her. “Better idea,” she says. “Why don’t I give you a ride home, tough guy?”

  I sway a little, my gaze shifting to her. My head spins as I ask, “And why would you do that? Especially if I’m such a dick?”

  Her eyes dart to the side. Leaning in, she whispers, “Because everyone is staring at you. Including the cop at the table in back. I can’t leave you to the wolves.”

  I glance around, only now noticing that the place has gone quiet. Still. It’s not the people from school I’m worried about. It’s not even the cop sitting in the back. It’s the old-timers crowding the table right beside him—the booster club members. The ones who halfway run not only our team, but the town.

  The ones who could snap their fingers and I’d never play another day of baseball in Lewis Creek. My season would be over before it starts.

  “Your boyfriend won’t be happy,” I whisper. “He doesn’t like me very much.” Ever since Brett and I TPed his house two years ago, Matt’s had it out for me.

  Okay, so maybe the whole “letting a pig loose in his house” thing didn’t help, either. In our defense, he’d made a that’s-what-she-said joke about our momma. And there are some lines you just don’t cross.

  All right, and there’s a chance that I laughed in his face back in August, when he bragged about landing Bri. And then reminded him that I was her first kiss. And maybe told him that there’s no way he could compete with that, even if we were ten when it happened.

  But seriously, the look on his face? Freakin’ priceless. Even if it did lead to him getting all pissy every time he spots me and Bri together, which is awkward when she and I live twenty feet away from each other. It’s even more awkward that she and I used to actually talk for more than two minutes at a time, and then she started acting like she’d catch the plague by coming near me.

  Until tonight, that is.

  Bri tilts her head to the side. “Well, I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

  I like the way she thinks. My stomach growls. “But I didn’t get my cheese fries.”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  “You’re pretty.”

  Pursing her lips, she pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “Go get some fresh air. I’m gonna tell Becca I’m leaving and text Matt to let him know I’ll be late. I told him I’d be there by ten.”

  “He’s an asshole, anyway.” The slurred words are out before I even realize they’re there. But they’re true, so I can’t find it in me to care. Teammates are family; sometimes family hates each other. Bri blinks as I add, “Tell him that if he says anything mean to you, I’ll beat him up.”

  I smirk to let her know I’m kidding—slightly, anyway—but she nods toward the door. “Go wait in my car, Eric.”

  Now the pity voice is gone. There’s an edge there, one that tells me to back the hell off. So I do.

  After forcing my legs to actually move, I shove through the door and step into the night, frigid air blasting my face as I head across the lot. The door’s bell chimes again within seconds and I turn, expecting Bri.

  But I’m not that lucky.

  The cop starts toward me, holding up a hand, signaling me to stop. Once I finally make out his face, the alcohol burns my stomach like a furnace.

  I am really not lucky.

  “Eric Perry.” The cop, who I now recognize as Officer Martinez, crosses his arms. “Nice to see you again.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  Now would be a great time for my filter to kick in. But my filter left after the third beer. Or the fourth.

  He lets out some mix of a snort and a laugh, looking at the ground. “I bet you do, considering I think we both know why I’m out here.” His eyes lock on mine. “Remind me: What were the terms of that deal we struck with Coach Taylor last month? You know, after I busted you with the fake ID and six-pack at the gas station.”

  I hold out my arms and shrug. “It was my eighteenth birthday. Can you really blame a guy for partying on his birthday?”

  He takes a step forward. “You want to play games? Fine. How about the night I caught you trespassing on private property? Drunk. Again.”

  Yeah, that was a good night. Until I got caught, anyway. “Even you can’t tell me you’d turn down a girl’s invitation to pull over beside the woods. She’d always wanted to screw around against a tree. I was happy to help.”

  “And let’s not forget my favorite,” he continues, undeterred. “Last January. Old Cotton Road. One Eric Perry, arrested for drinking and driving. And then, as always, Coach Taylor to the rescue.”

  My heart slams against my chest. I drop my gaze to the ground, where his boots gleam beneath the parking lot lights. He wins. And he knows it.

  Those boots take another step toward me. “We’re trying to help you out around here, Eric. Bulldog blood runs through every one of us. Now, what were the terms that kept your ass out of jail last month?”

  The door of the restaurant opens. My head pops up. Now Bri decides to show up. She starts toward us as I mumble, “No more drinking.”

  Martinez leans in, turning his ear to me. “Couldn’t quite hear you.”

  “No more drinking,” I repeat, verging on a shout. “Loud enough for you that time?”

  Bri slows as she approaches, inching to my side. She grasps my arm lightly. “It’s ok
ay. I’m taking him home.”

  The officer’s gaze doesn’t waver as he says, “Don’t make me take you in, son. Coach has sweet-talked your way out of jail every time, out of even letting me call your parents to let them know what a damn mess you’ve been lately, and all you had to do was leave the booze alone. How do you expect to lead a team and win games like this?” He gestures toward me. “I bet you can’t even tell me your middle name right now.”

  I shrug. “You’re the one with the handcuffs, sir. I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”

  His eyes widen, but Bri’s grip tightens like a bear trap as she yanks me back. “I’m taking him home,” she repeats. “Promise.”

  I stumble behind her on the way to her car. “Stop being an idiot,” she whispers sharply, storming to the driver’s side.

  She’s clearly forgotten who she’s talking to. At least I remembered to call him sir. That should count for something.

  As soon as I sink into the passenger seat, I close my eyes, relieved to almost be done with the night. When you’re right on the edge of sleep, of the world fading away, you can almost forget that some people think you’re a complete and total screw-up. And you can almost forget that maybe they’re right. That you’re easily replaceable at parties, that cops chase you away from restaurants, that your neighbor has to yank you out of a parking lot because you’re about to get your ass locked up. Again.

  Officer Martinez wasn’t lying when he said that Bulldog blood runs through this town—that fact has gotten me out of every run-in I’ve had with the cops over the past couple of years. It’s why “warnings” are nothing more than a chuckle and a “keep yourself out of trouble, son.” But just because they forgive you doesn’t mean they forget.

  Lewis Creek never forgets. And they’ll hold it over your head for the rest of your life.

  When I landed in a jail cell for drinking and driving after a party this time last year, the sheriff called Coach Taylor because if there’s anything good about a baseball-obsessed town, it’s that your coach is practically God. And when I looked into Coach’s eyes and swore to the Lord in heaven above that I’d never be so stupid again, he agreed not to tell anyone else about that night. He did make me walk home from the police station while he followed me with his truck. And sentenced me to practice clean-up every day for the entire season.