Play On

M
ICHELLE
S
MITH

Play On

Copyright © 2015 by Michelle Smith

Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

Spencer Hill Press

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 243, Marlborough, CT 06447
Please visit our website at
www.spencerhillpress.com

First Edition: April 2015
Michelle Smith
Play On: a novel / by Michelle Smith – 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: The baseball star in a small town set on playing pro ball falls for the new girl and discovers the pain under her smile, which forces him to think about his own pain and what love really means.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Atlanta Braves, Band-Aids, Barbie, BMW, Chevy, Coke, Converse, Diet Coke, ESPN, Freddy Krueger, Glacier Freeze Gatorade,
Gone with the Wind
, Google, Hulk, Jeep, Jell-O, KC, Kenny Chesney, Lifetime,
Little House on the Prairie
, Luke Bryan, Mazda, Metallica, NASCAR, NCAA, New York Yankees, NyQuil, Ping-Pong, Sharpie, Sprite, Tampa Bay Rays, Tylenol, USC, World Series, YouTube

Cover design by Jenny Zemanek
Interior layout by Jenny Perinovic
Author Photo by Laura Stockdale

ISBN 9781939392596 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781939392602 (e-book)

Printed in the United States of America

To those who listened.
Thank you
.

chapter one

Forget Friday night lights—in Lewis Creek, South Carolina, it’s baseball or bust three nights a week. Our world doesn’t start revolving until March, when the fields are freshly mowed and the diamond’s primed to perfection. Baseball is second only to breathing, and even that’s debatable. So now that January’s here, the only thing that matters is the chill in the air. It’s a sign that official practices are right around the corner. And then? It’s show time.

On Saturday nights, there’s usually a pick-up truck parade heading toward either the river or Right Field Randy’s house for a party (and no, right field is
not
what you want to be known for). Tonight, my old truck follows the others out to the school’s ball field. After parking, I cut the engine and climb down from the green Chevy, grinning like an idiot. This place is heaven.

Brett Perry’s Jeep swerves into the spot beside mine. Jay Torres, my right-hand man and catcher extraordinaire, hops down from the passenger side as Brett, all 6’5 of him, heads over. I lift my chin toward them and shove my hands into the pocket of my USC hoodie, bracing myself against the night’s chill. Truck doors slam around us as I call out, “Surprised you pansies showed up.”

Brett snorts. If anyone’s going to show up to these meetings, it’s us and his brother Eric, whose truck I tailed on the way here. The only thing to keep us from an open field would be our grandmas’ funerals. Second only to breathing, remember?

“You’re full of shit, Braxton.” Jay gives me a high-five. “It’s the most wonderful time of the damn year. Can you smell it?”

I take a deep breath as we head for the field, inhaling the scent of pine, dirt, and bonfire smoke in the distance. It’s the best smell there is.

The full moon’s our only light as we hop over the chain-link fence and onto the ball field. The frost-covered grass crunches beneath my boots. I’m home. A handful of other guys from the team have already made it to the pitcher’s mound—my mound—where Coach Taylor waits for us. His blaze-orange cap is nearly as bright as the moon. All eight of us veterans made it out here tonight, which is a good sign for the season. You can tell who’s in this for the love of the game and who’s in it for the glory on nights when Coach sends out a mass text at 9:30 telling you to get your rear to the school. Glory’s all well and good—and you’ll get plenty of it around here—but heart rules on this field.

Frigid wind smacks me in the face, and I tug my beat-up Braves cap a little lower. Jay, Brett, and I join the semi-circle in front of Coach, who has the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure this is one of his favorite nights of the year. Before I met him freshman year, I never imagined anyone could love this game more than I do. It took him maybe two minutes to prove me wrong, with the passion in his eyes when he shook my hand. He told me I was about to get my ass kicked, but it’d be the most worthwhile ass-kickin’ I’d ever get. He was right. Between three seasons of boot-camp-worthy practices and his demand for
dedication, I’ve gone from scrawny freshman to one of the top pitchers in Lewis Creek High’s history.

I plan to keep it that way.

“Fellas,” he drawls, rubbing his gloved hands together. “It’s almost time to play some ball.”

Kellen, our first baseman, and Eric whoop and holler at the end of the line. Jay elbows me, and my grin widens along with his. It’s our last season playing ball in this town. I’ll be damned if I’m not ready to get on the field. Being out here tonight is only a taste, a cruel tease, of what spring has to offer.

“I brought y’all out here for two reasons,” Coach continues, “and I won’t keep you long since your butts better be in church tomorrow mornin’. Reason number one: the obvious.” He gestures to the field. “We’re going to make this clear, right here and now. For the next four months, this is your home. These guys, and the ones who join us after tryouts, are your family. You with me?”

“Yes, sir,” we say.

He nods once and crosses his arms. “Good. Next, I want to talk some business. Behavior. Grades.” His gaze flickers to me. My stomach drops, but I keep a straight face. “Some of you had a rough fall semester on both those counts. Y’all are my veterans. You know my rules.”

Darn right, we do. I watched him bench last year’s shortstop because the guy flunked Biology. I’m the screw-up when it comes to grades. Fall semester kicked my ass; Statistics was no joke. This semester has me scared shitless because Chemistry is just as bad, but Coach doesn’t have to know that. All he needs to know is that I’ll do whatever it takes to be on this field five days a week. I swallow but hold his gaze until he looks to Eric, who’s obviously on the “behavior” side of this speech. Being both Brett’s younger brother and
a pastor’s kid, all the crap he pulls looks twenty times worse.

“For some of you, this is your last year with me,” Coach says. “Let’s make it count.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and nods toward the parking lot. “Some dates to remember: tryouts for the open positions start on the twenty-eighth. I want all of you there, even if you think you’re a shoo-in. Practice starts early February. You’ve got some time until you’re officially on my field, so try not to get into any trouble between now and then. Y’all get on home.”

Matt, our center fielder, and Right Field Randy murmur something about “waste of time” while they turn for the lot. I snort as Jay, Brett, and I follow them. They’re only juniors, but they should know better. There’s a reason Coach brings us out here every year, on the night Lewis Creek High opens the field for the season: to test our loyalty. Our dedication. When Coach tells us to jump, we don’t just ask “how high”; we jump as high as we can until he tells us to stop. He’s our leader. Hell, he’s more of a father than most of our dads—for those of us who still have dads, anyway. I can’t count how many times he’s called me into his office just to ask how things are at home, especially since Dad died two years ago. He stood by my side at the funeral. He gave me a ride to school every day until I got my license because Momma had to run the shop by herself and couldn’t take me. He even invited us over for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, although Momma “would never want to impose.”

The man’s a hardass, but he’s got the best damn heart of any hardass I’ve ever met.

“Braxton,” Coach calls out.

I whirl around. He jerks his head, signaling me over. I shiver, and not because it’s twenty degrees out here. He knows how bad my GPA dipped last semester. He watches my report cards closer than my momma
does. And to answer his earlier question, yeah, I know his rules all too well. But Coach wouldn’t bench me. He wouldn’t dare bench me.

I don’t think he would bench me.

Jay claps a hand on my shoulder. “Just don’t say anything stupid, Braxton,” he mutters. “Treat him like you’d treat the sheriff: nod and ‘yes, sir’ the hell out of him.”

Brett waves to me as Jay jogs up to meet him.
Yes, sir. No, sir. Got it, sir
. Easy enough. Taking a deep breath, I make my way toward Coach. If there’s anyone who can put the fear of God in me, it’s Coach Taylor. The man holds my entire season in the palm of his hand.

Coach rocks back on his heels, his hands behind his back. “That verbal commitment with Carolina seems to have gotten you too comfortable,” he says as I approach, his voice carrying across the now-empty field. “Early recruitment doesn’t mean you can slack off. You know the NCAA’s policy about grades.”

I nod. “Yes, sir,” I say, stopping a couple feet away from him. “I need a 2.0 to practice once I get to Columbia in the fall and a 2.3 to compete once the season starts up.” Easy enough to manage, as long as I keep my head focused and don’t let last semester’s crapstorm repeat itself.

His dark eyes bore into mine. “We’re going into our fourth season together, Austin. You know my rules better than anyone. How about you tell me what those rules are.”

My breath catches. “Y-yes, sir. We need a 2.0 to play for the school. We need a 3.0 to play for you.”

He takes a step toward me. Folds his arms. Stares some more.

Crap. You know the saying “shaking in my boots”? It comes from stares like his.

“You’re below my cut-off line,” he says quietly. “You wanna tell me what happened last semester?”

Off-season practice five days a week. Working like crazy at the shop. School. More practice. Plus there was that “sleep” thing thrown in once in a while.

I swallow. “It won’t happen again,” I tell him. “That’s all that matters. You’ve got my word.”

Holding my gaze, he nods once. “Keep that eligibility in mind, Austin. I want you on my field this year. I’m sure your mother wants you out here, too.”

Damn straight, she does. My agreement with University of South Carolina is the only shot I have at affording a decent school. And by “affording,” I mean I’ve got no chance without that full ride. The only reason my grades are good enough is because most teachers wouldn’t dare keep me off the field. But there are always the few who actually, you know, go by the rules. And that’s how I got into this mess.

The wind whips around us as we head toward our trucks, the only two left in the lot. Other than Momma, Coach is one of the few around here who gives a crap about something besides my arm. Of course, my arm is what’s going to get me out of this Podunk town in eight months. And baseball’s the only thing that makes living here worth a damn.

Just don’t tell my momma I said that. She would cry, yell, and sentence me to spreadsheet duty at the shop, which is hell in itself.

Coach waits for me to climb into my truck before tossing up a wave and backing out of his spot. I flop back against the seat and crank the engine, closing my eyes as it roars to life. I can do this. I have to. I just have to be, like, proactive. Douse the flames before they spread. Actually read the book and take notes. No big deal.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out, the screen lit up with a text from Jay.

Jay
:
Going to Joyners. U in?

OMW
, I type back and shift the truck into gear. The only remedy for some nights is good barbecue, good friends, and Coke. Whiskey’s even better, but I have a feeling that drinking and driving might get me into even more trouble. That’s the last thing I need.

Joyner’s BBQ is way on the other side of town, so by the time I pull into the jam-packed lot twenty minutes later, Jay, Brett, and Eric are already inside the brightly lit dive, sitting at our usual table beside the window. My phone buzzes again as I jog across the lot. Groaning, I skid to a stop at the door and pull it from my pocket.

Momma
:
Church tomorrow
.

It’s barely past ten, for Christ’s sake. I type out a quick reply—
Joyners, then home
. I hit Send and stuff the phone into my pocket while yanking the door open.

A girl shrieks. A bag hits the ground. Shrieking Girl, whose breathing could probably be heard five miles up the road, looks like I just popped out of the bushes with a chainsaw.

You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.

With a sigh, I kneel and pick up the white paper bag, which I hold out for her. Her hands tremble as she snatches it from me. I’m officially a grade-A jackass, because I scared the poor girl crapless.