out yesterday, and surprisingly, the girl did a bang-up job of not making me look like a murderer. Quite the opposite, she elated Ella with her final word of advice to her followers.
Athletes are not your boy toy, and you do not have permission to touch him at your will.
Ella said she was going to highlight the line and post it on the front door of the baseball house with big black letters of warning. Brax, and Ollie disagreed and said they’d take my door off the hinges if she did. Each party agreed to stay on their sides.
The bus leaves for Beltline in an hour. I told Ella I’d meet her in our usual spot after the game. That there’d be too much going on, and she would be safest with Spencer in the stands.
I refrained to inform her of a few things. One being, I got Coach’s permission to drive myself. He probably thought it would be easier for me to get out of Dodge if the need arose. Nonetheless, Coach Lipton isn’t quite the asshole everyone pegs him to be.
I dump my bat bag in the bed of the truck. I have no idea if I’ll be in jail tonight, if I’ll be chased out of town, or if I’ll be embraced. That last option would be like making a triple play. Basically, it’d be a miracle.
The hour drive is nothing, and I love the fresh air that emanates through the open windows once I’m clear of Ridgemont. A breath I’m surprised I was holding releases when I pass the border into Beltline, and the National Guard isn’t there to stop me. No tanks are pointed in my direction. The sun is setting down behind the Keatons’ barn, and all the barn doors are closed, as though Mr. Keaton has stopped working before the sun has actually gone down. Unusual or him.
I pass my old house once I hit Beltline, two blocks from Brax’s. The town went all out, even decorating the light poles with Beltline school colors, yellow and blue. A big sign hangs between two trees in the downtown square with a picture of Coach Weathers and his family in the corner. The letters say, Bring Back the Ball.
My hands shake after I turn off the ignition, and I sit there, staring up at the Bishop’s sign.
Xavier is hauling pumpkins out into the bin, and bile runs up my throat. I grab my phone out of the cup holder, needing to call for help in case the guy beats me to a pulp.
I exit my truck.
He either hears my footsteps or spots my reflection from the glass because he whips around, eyes glaring and fists clenched.
“Get out.” He crosses his huge muscled arms over his chest as he widens his stance, telling me I’m not welcome.
Like I didn’t know that.
“Can I please talk to your mom?”
“No.”
“Can I talk to you?”
“No.”
All right then. I lean against the doorway to wait for Mrs. Bishop to leave.
Xavier stares at me, picks up a pumpkin, and throws it in the bin.
After a few minutes, he can’t hold it in anymore. “She won’t talk to you.”
“I’ll wait.”
He grunts, and I pull out my phone to see what time it is. Two hours to game time.
“Why won’t you stop hurting her?”
“I want to apologize again.”
“She’s gotten your letters—your forced letters that your parents probably had you write. Meaningless pieces of crap.”
I’d fall down to my knees in a plea, begging for forgiveness, if I thought he wouldn’t knock my teeth out with his size thirteen. Whether Mrs. Bishop forgives me or not doesn’t make the heartache I bear lessen. Kedsey and Noah are forever burned in my memory.
Xavier leaves me alone and escapes back inside, locking the door behind him.
I pull my phone out again. An hour until game time. Fuck.
Main Street is slowly becoming vacant of people. A few passed by and gave me a second look, but no one spoke either a hello or gave me a scowl.
This town isn’t too scary. At least that’s what I’m thinking until Sheriff Greg rolls up in his squad car.
He saunters out of his squad car, repositioning his belt that hangs below his round belly. Without his hat, I spot some gray hairs sprinkled throughout his dark strands. His door shuts, and I stand at attention before he steps up onto the curb.
“Sheriff.”
“Crosby.” No surprise in his tone. He expected me.
“I think you have a game to get to.” Like a classic