Game On by Michelle Smith Page A

here?
    â€œI’m really damn worried about you, Eric,” Coach says. I look back to him. “Officer Martinez told me about you stumbling into Joyner’s like an old drunk the other night. And we’ve got you drinking and driving last season, run-ins with the law all last semester, beating your own teammate in the middle of a parking lot, for Christ’s sake—”
    â€œYou didn’t hear what he said.”
    He shakes his head. “That’s not the point. This town is looking to bench you before the season even starts. I’m on your side, but I told you to stay low, and busting a teammate’s nose isn’t it. What would it look like if you were out on the mound the first night of the season?”
    I’m not crazy about the direction he’s heading. Despite the frigid air, sweat pricks my hairline. “It’d look like you’re a man of grace, and forgiveness, and—”
    â€œCut the shit. Nearly all your teammates were in that parking lot. How am I going to explain this to guys you’re supposed to be leading?”
    â€œI’m tellin’ you, you didn’t hear—”
    â€œI don’t give a damn what he said!” He glances around. “All I’m hearing are excuses,” he says more quietly, “and it’s getting old. I’ve got half a mind to cut you from the team.”
    My heart plummets.
Spinning
. The world is spinning, and I have no idea if it’s from his words or the coldness or the smack of my head against the pavement. “W-what?”
    â€œI keep bailing you out of messes, but it’s not doing any good when you dig yourself deeper and deeper.” He rubs his face. “Of course, if I did kick you off the team, you’d probably get into
more
trouble.”
    No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. Damage control. Lord almighty, I need damage control.
    â€œThis team’s all I’ve got, Coach,” I try. My voice cracks, but I can’t even care. “I screwed up, okay? Royally. I know that. But you can’t take this from me.”
    He points toward the road. “You are this town’s new starting pitcher. In their minds, you are second only to the sweet baby Jesus. They’re already on the edges of their seats, waiting for what’s next on The Eric Perry Show. So the sheriff and I can only make so much disappear when an entire restaurant full of people saw you being hauled away in the back of a police cruiser.” He pauses, and adds, “I’m starting to wonder if I should even try to make it disappear.”
    I imagined this moment this afternoon—the moment when Coach Taylor, of all people, finally decided to give up on me. That I’m not worth the effort. I knew it’d suck. I didn’t know it’d make me feel half an inch tall.
    â€œCoach, I—”
    â€œYour parents know about last year.” His words slam into me with more force than a hurricane. All I can do is gape as he says, “I called them on my way up here tonight and told them all about the drinking-and-driving charge. I should have told them back when it happened, but I thought…” He blows out a breath. “I thought I was helping, but I never should’ve agreed to keep it quiet. When I say I’m worried, I mean I’m worried, son.”
    Fuck. Just… fuck.
    â€œCoach Taylor?”
    He and I both turn. Bri’s standing beside us now, still in those practice clothes, her arms crossed tightly. The wind gusts, sending her ponytail all over the place. The girl’s probably freezing out here.
    â€œSorry,” Coach says, “what’s your name again? And why are you here?”
    She clears her throat. “Um, Bri, sir. Bri Johnson.”
    â€œOh, yeah. Matt’s girlfriend.”
    Right on cue, Matt hollers, “You here to tell him what really happened tonight, Bri?”
    Coach closes his eyes and holds up a hand,