The Game Can’t Love You Back

  I see what he’s staring at and cringe.

  “Holy shit,” he says, pointing to the excessively large photo of me holding a rabbit, taken circa Easter 2001. “You’re wearing a dress!”

  My hand finds his back and I shove him toward the door. “Shut up.”

  Out in the driveway, Jamie pulls his phone from his pocket, checks the time. “I gotta go. I have to be at work soon.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile. “You’re hard-core, Marshall. I need a nap.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Two ten.”

  “Seriously?” I’m not sure where the hours went. My eyes flit to Marcella’s empty driveway. She’ll be home any minute.

  “So, listen…” Jamie glances over his shoulder at me as he walks toward the shaded area beneath the edge of the roof that protrudes over the garage. “What’s up?” I follow behind him, until he eventually comes to a stop at the corner, where the driveway ends and our house begins.

  “I’m not gonna lie. I had an ulterior motive in coming over here today, beyond curiosity about how you spend your Saturdays.”

  He’s smirking at me, and I await the punch line.

  “Oh yeah? What was it? Trying to wear me out … possibly injure me even … so you can ensure the next start?”

  “Nah.” He snaps his gum. The smirk morphs into a smile. Jamie quickly glances toward the house, then grabs my wrist and pulls me closer.

  My heart bangs against my chest as my still-damp torso comes into contact with his.

  Jamie’s head falls forward, his forehead brushing against mine. He tilts his head, ever so slightly, allowing his mouth to graze my ear. “I wanted to kiss you again,” he murmurs.

  Just like that, and sudden nerves give way to wanting, and I lift my chin without any thought.

  Our lips meet at the same time, and mine part at once, wanting to kiss him again like last night, wanting a new imprint on my lips to hold on to once he’s gone. Jamie’s hand finds my hip and he keeps me in place, taking over, kissing me like a god while somehow keeping his gum out of the way.

  Man, he’s good.

  When he finally steps back, his eyes are kind of hazy, and a new, slow smile dawns on his face. “Yeah. Guess the ass-whupping was worth it.”

  Then the shades are back in place, and he’s sauntering down my driveway with his patented swagger. He raises one hand, calls to me as he goes, “Later, Marshall.”

  I stand there, patting my lips. “Later.”

  I stand and watch, listen, as the ignition kicks in and the bass starts thumping again. He gives a quick honk of the horn before he pulls away, and I stand there for several minutes, both trying to make sense of the feelings that accompany his departure and trying to keep them at bay.

  Plus. There’s no way in hell I’m walking into the house right now.

  I glance toward the discarded basketball. I should practice more. Practice is always good.

  But fifteen minutes later, my mom appears at the end of the walk, one hand up to block the sun, the other hand on her hip. My shots and rebounds remain continuous; I carry on unfazed.

  “You can’t stay out here forever, you know,” she calls. “Eventually, it’s going to get dark.”

  I look at her and roll my eyes. “I’m not going to stay out here forever.”

  She holds my gaze, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.

  I turn back toward the hoop and shoot. Miss an easy shot. Sighing, I turn back toward her. “It’s nothing. Nothing worth talking about, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says evenly.

  “I hang out with guys all the time,” I point out. “Scott’s been over here thousands of times. Not every visit from a person of the opposite sex is discussion-worthy.”

  She shrugs. “I was just curious. I do, for the record, remember some very unsavory things you had to say about said person of the opposite sex. But if it’s nothing … it’s nothing.”

  My mom turns to go back inside, and just as she disappears, the red Jetta rounds the corner and Marcella approaches, waving cheerily.

  A heavy feeling weighs my shoulders down at the reality of all of it.

  Maybe my mom took it easy on me. But … I have a feeling … Marcella would not. Marcella would want to gush, and poke and prod, and maybe expect me to gush, too. And there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell she’ll ever see me act like that over a guy. Any guy. Let alone one who might still be more enemy than not, regardless of the godlike kissing.

  Chapter 20

  April 18

  Jamie

  It’s a shitty, powerless feeling, being taken out of the game in the top of the first inning. New Hanover has a lousy team, and we were off to a stellar start. Bases were loaded before we were even halfway through our lineup, and I was on third base when Scott stepped up to the plate and sent a powerful ground ball right through the shortstop’s legs on the first pitch. I was sprinting toward home plate … and then out of nowhere I wasn’t.

  From my point of view, it’s really hard to understand how a pothole like that wasn’t noticed before the game. It’s really hard to understand why I’m benched so early in a game I was supposed to start, with a bag of ice bound to my swollen ankle. Maybe they blame their losing record and last-place standing on the maintenance staff’s total abandonment of their shoddy field. Or maybe they’ve resorted to underhanded tactics to try to level the playing field. Jackasses.

  I’m sitting in the corner of the dugout, exhaling loud bursts of air through my nose, trying to keep my chest from exploding. There are a few discarded helmets within reach, which I pick up, one at a time, and chuck against the fence as my team warms up on the field. “Assholes,” I snarl.

  The umpire hears me, turning and looking over his shoulder to stare me down.

  “Abrams, go cool off,” Coach Jackson orders, not even bothering to look at me.

  I chuck the final helmet and hobble out of the dugout, rounding the corner and collapsing in the grass against its side wall. I can still make out the game in my peripheral vision, hear the ump’s calls, but mostly I see a wide expanse of green grass and blue skies. The peaceful view does nothing to calm me down. Grabbing a handful of grass, I twist the blades ruthlessly and pull them out of the ground. I do it a few more times, until the need to destroy something lessens.

  I stay out there through the fourth inning, having zero motivation to move. This game is over for me, and we could still beat them even if they took out half our starters. Brendan steps out once, but I shrug him off when he asks how I’m doing. Fifteen minutes later, some dumb sophomore makes the mistake of coming out, too. But my coaches know better, the majority of my teammates know better, and they leave me the hell alone.

  She knows better.

  I see her step outside the dugout a few times, to throw with Pat during warm-ups, to gather equipment between innings. She doesn’t even look at me; she lets me suffer in solitude, which is exactly what I want right now.

  I let my head fall against the cement wall of the dugout. Most girls, you throw them the smallest bit of attention, and they’re all over you like butter on toast, eager to stake their claim and display it for the whole world to see. I look at Eve as she steps outside to dump out her water bottle and refill it with fresh water. I try to make eye contact, but she gives me nothing.

  A new burst of frustration fills my chest. Okay. I guess if I could tolerate anyone coming out here to talk, it would be her. She’d understand. She’d be every bit as pissed off if she were in my shoes. She wouldn’t try to coddle me or talk me out of my mood.

  But … we both know that’s not going to happen. Her coming out here.

  The game’s into the sixth inning when she trots out with Scott to warm up. Eve wasn’t supposed to be in the lineup today, but from the sound of things, Matt’s having the shittiest game of his life, and it’s approaching the point where a loss could be a legit possibility.

  When it’s our turn to take the field again, I hear my teammates ch
eering her on, hear the clapping from the visitors’ bleachers. I drag myself up, tentatively putting weight on my ankle. It’s tolerable again, and I walk slowly back around to join my team inside the dugout.

  I mean, it’s the sixth inning. Guess it’s time to stop acting like a baby. I should get my head back in the game at least.

  All you, Marshall. I stare toward the mound. Put this bullshit to bed.

  I sit up, take my hat off, scratch the top of my head, tug it back on, and pull the brim low. I’m surprised at my sudden conviction, how naturally I find myself rooting for her, when, to tell the truth, it hasn’t really been the case to date. I really want to shut these fuckers down, though.

  It should be an easy finish for us. But the whole game should’ve been an easy win, and it just seems like nothing’s going right for the Farmington pitching squad today. I was done before I even started, Matt struggled, and now Eve just can’t seem to find her groove. There’s the mental aspect of pitching, which I thoroughly understand. She didn’t expect to have the game on her shoulders today, and her mental game isn’t at 100 percent. It’s written all over her face, evident if you know what you’re looking at.

  None of us thought the bottom of the ninth inning would actually matter today. But our lead’s been shrinking inning by inning, and here we are, with two outs and the tying run on third. As their batter steps up to the plate, Eve’s looking at the tying run more than she should be. He’s distracting her, it’s distracting her, the possibility of this game getting away from us.

  I lean forward, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Stop looking at him, Marshall,” I holler. “Eyes on the plate. You got this.”

  She doesn’t look in my direction. But she does square her shoulders anew, taking a deep breath as her eyes narrow in concentration, zeroing in on Scott’s glove.

  When I sit up, I turn and look at Brendan when I notice him staring at me.

  I lightly smack the back of his head. “What, dumb-ass?”

  He looks at me another few seconds but wisely just shakes his head and keeps his mouth shut.

  And Eve strikes the batter out looking. I jump to my feet, clapping my hands together once, ignoring the ache at the bottom of my leg.

  This time, before running in to celebrate with Scott, she does look my way, for the quickest of seconds before she tucks her chin, the shadow created by her ball cap hiding her smile.

  * * *

  I linger at the field with the coaches after the game. Coach wants to check in on how I’m doing and has the trainer take a look. The swelling has gone down, and the trainer doesn’t think it’s a sprain, probably just a bad twist. He gives me instructions for tonight, estimates I’ll be fine in a day or two.

  Relieved, I sling my bag over my shoulder and start walking by myself toward the bus. Along the way, I consider the possibility of sitting with her or at least … near her. Close enough to talk to her.

  I have to battle back this stupid little smile, thinking of being able to talk to her.

  Eve’s funny, and sarcastic, and you can pretty much count on a little bit of bite to every word that comes out of her mouth. It’s not flirting, it’s just … fun. I like how she keeps me on my toes, and I like those rare moments when I knock her off balance, when I see that not-so-sure part of herself that she seems loath to reveal.

  I don’t really think she shows it to anyone else. I’ve never seen her, at least.

  I think back on the weekend. It was one of the best Saturdays I’d had in I don’t know how long. My good mood lasted, and I made a killing in tips that night at work.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Laura commented as she squeezed past me with a heavy tray of dirty dishes. “Get some on your way in?”

  Normally I would’ve had a smart-ass retort for her, given her some slightly dirty details. That probably would’ve been true. Probably, yeah, would’ve had something to do with my good mood.

  But I’d only kissed Eve. Kept my hands where they belonged. And I was still full of smiles and energy behind the counter at the Barn. Go figure.

  I climb onto the bus. Everyone’s already inside, the last few people finding seats.

  And I’m back in the real world. I remember Nathan’s comments at the spaghetti dinner. Brendan looking sideways at me in the dugout.

  Nah. I’m not going to sit with her.

  As I make my way past her without even acknowledging her, I tell myself she wouldn’t exactly welcome my presence anyway. I remember how she shut down at the dinner at Nathan’s ribbing. She doesn’t like that shit any more than I do, right?

  In front of me, Scott finally stops running his yap to Pat and gets moving. He easily drops into the seat beside Eve.

  I grit my teeth and shuffle past, keeping my eyes forward, irritation flaring in my gut.

  It’s not jealousy, because that would be ridiculous. I’m not jealous over the idea of it, another guy, especially Scott, sitting with her. There’s nothing going on there. Nah, I’m not jealous over the idea of Scott sitting with Eve.

  I’m just … sort of … miffed about the reality of it. He gets to talk with her. He gets to laugh with her.

  I drop into the seat across from Nathan and Brendan, and without meaning to, my eyes meet hers.

  I drop my head at once, leaning forward to look for something in my bag.

  It’s a purposeful maneuver, one that doesn’t feel entirely good. But hey, we’re all playing the same game here, right?

  “How you feelin’, man?” Nathan asks, swinging his arm up along the back of the seat and turning toward me.

  “I’ll be all right,” I say. “Trainers don’t think it’s anything serious. Just have to keep icing it tonight.”

  “Good. We need you back in the game. Matty looked like shit today.”

  “Dude, I’m right here,” Matt interjects.

  “And I’ll say it to your face. You looked like shit today,” Nate says.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Nate just shrugs. “Anyway. We need you.” He lifts his chin and nods in Eve’s direction. “Girlfriend barely got the job done today. Think she’s wearing herself out. End of the day, girls just don’t have as much stamina. And it’s a long season.”

  “I bet she would very aptly kick your ass if she heard you say that,” Brendan says.

  “Whatever. Militant feminists don’t scare me.” Nate laughs, obviously finding himself hilarious, and reaches his hand toward mine for a high five.

  My fist curls, because with the mood I’m in, I’m half tempted to punch him. But I can’t. Not here, not now, maybe not ever, so instead I just shrug him off, muttering, “You’re lame sometimes.”

  I’m grateful for the interruption when, a few rows back, Pat Bechtel stands up, holding his phone up. “Yo, the results just showed up. Overbrook lost again today!”

  A round of cheers makes it way up the bus as the news spreads.

  “They’re falling apart,” Brendan says. “Might as well call us district champions now.”

  “It’s a little premature for that,” someone behind us comments.

  Brendan turns and looks back at Pat. “How many more games do we need to clinch it?”

  Pat scrolls through his phone. “Four or five, depending. Four if they get another loss. Five if they don’t. I think.”

  “I didn’t think we still needed so many,” Nathan says. He points at me. “Dude, you definitely better be back at it this week.”

  “You have to start thinking about all the awards coming up, too,” Brendan says, nodding. “All-county honors, that shiny Cy Young trophy.” He laughs. “I know you’d be out on the mound in fucking traction before you’d let that slip away to League of Her Own up there.”

  Nathan sputters. “Marshall’s not getting that trophy. Are you even serious right now? No way.”

  “It’s definitely possible.” Brendan looks toward me, and his face is serious. Brendan’s always been a stats guy, even in elementary school, when he could rattle off years a
nd years of major-league stats. “If you look at the numbers … sister’s holding her own.” He shrugs. “Not saying they’ll give it to her, but they have to consider her a contender.”

  Brendan quickly glances at me. “Sorry, man. Just sayin’.”

  But I just shake my head silently, sliding over in the seat, leaning against the side of the bus and staring out the window.

  Brendan doesn’t need to throw the numbers in my face. I know she’s holding her own, that she’s keeping pace with me. I can feel it. That maybe this year, the trophy isn’t just mine for the taking.

  I joked with her about it that one day in the lobby … before anything happened … but the truth is, regardless of what I think about Eve these days, that trophy is still no laughing matter.

  I need it.

  I need it on so many levels, and I can’t even really handle thinking about it not going home with me the night of the spring sports award banquet.

  Through the small gaps between the pleather seats and the windows, I can just make out one of her braids. Just minutes ago, I was dying to sit next to her. Now, lingering resentment flares, souring my mood, turning everything on its head.

  I mean, I like Eve. I do. In this separate world where we’re not teammates yet not competitors, where people aren’t always talking about her, making rude comments about her, or talking about … us.

  In the real world, I prefer easy. Easy relationships, for lack of a better word, with girls I get. They know their place and I know mine. I know what to do, and everyone leaves me alone.

  And in that minute, despite the smile on my face when I walked onto the bus at the mere thought of talking to her, I sort of wish she wasn’t on this bus.

  Chapter 21

  April 20

  Eve

  In the girls’ locker room after our home game against Spring Falls, I stare into the mirror before changing, feeling immensely dissatisfied. In the grand scheme of things, I know I should be happy about the outcome—we beat them, getting one step closer to districts and putting them one step further away.