an element.”
Mr. Matthews sighs again, disappointment all over his face. “You’ve got a good thing going,” he says. “Don’t let pride screw that up. You’ve got plenty of options here. I’m leaving this on the table, so let me know if you change your mind.”
And that’s my cue. I tighten my grip on my gear bag and hightail it for the door. Yeah, this is awful. It’s terrible. It’s no good. But it’s also only the first test of the semester. Report cards don’t come out for another month. It’s an easy fix. Sort of. Maybe. Either way, I’ve got this.
“Austin?” Mr. Matthews calls. I stop in the doorway and turn. He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg on top of the other. “Have fun telling Coach Taylor that you turned down the tutoring list.”
Son of a bastard, he plays dirty. My shoulders drop. “Who’s on the list?”
He lifts his gaze to the ceiling. “Let’s see. Off the top of my head, we’ve got Bri, Matt Harris—”
I snort. His gaze snaps to me. I cover my mouth, holding back a full-blown laugh. Matt Harris is known for two things: being a half-decent center fielder and being an uber-decent douchebag. Letting him tutor me? When pigs freakin’ fly.
“I’ll think about it,” I offer, which is code for “not a chance in hell.”
After changing into my practice clothes in the locker room, I take the long route through the now-quiet hallway, walking toward the double doors. If Matthews threatened to tell Coach about the tutoring list, then he’s probably already told him about my test. Which means I’m screwed.
I pause at the door, peeking out the narrow glass to the ball field. It’s conditioning week, the week we use before tryouts to ease back into shape. Every guy in Lewis Creek dreams of being a varsity Bulldog, and most of them are on the field already, either lined up in front of the ball dispenser or tossing balls around. But as much as I crave the burn in my arm and the smack of the ball against Jay’s glove, I’m hiding. Like a wuss.
Coach is leaning over the fence, staring right at where my truck is in the parking lot. So even if I tried to make a getaway, I’d be shit outta luck. He’d probably outrun me anyway. He’s fast as hell for a guy in his thirties.
Running away isn’t an option though. Austin Braxton is no coward. It’s do-or-die time, even if I may die today.
I take a deep breath and shove open the door. It’s cool. It’s fine. Coach might even understand. It’s all good.
Yells from the field echo across the parking lot, Jay’s being the loudest of all. Coach spots me walking toward him. He slides his sunglasses onto the brim of his cap. Straightens and steels himself, crossing his arms. It’s not all good.
I stop at the fence. He stands on the other side like a gatekeeper, one who refuses to open the gate. My heart races as I hold his gaze for the longest minute of my life. The smell of fresh-cut grass wafts through the air, and dang it, I’m so close I can practically taste it. He stares. Stares. Stares some more. My gaze falls to the dirt.
He wins. He always wins.
Coach clears his throat. “You’ve probably figured out that Mr. Matthews stopped by my office this morning. Forty-two.” He whistles. “That’s pretty God-awful, Braxton.”
I swallow hard. Nod once. “Yes, sir.”
The fence rattles as he lifts the lock on the gate. A whoosh of air escapes me. Thank sweet Jesus. “Once he left, I called your momma,” he adds.
Shit. My head snaps up. “What the hell, Coach? Did you really have to do that?”
He yanks the gate open, slamming it against the fence. I flinch. “You wanna try that smartass mouth again? You know damn well that won’t fly on my field.”
Not my brightest move. My jaw stiffens, but I manage a “No, sir.”
He shoves his finger into my chest. I stumble back a step. “You know I keep my promises, Braxton. I trusted you to have this under control. You can’t be on my field if you can’t be bothered to put forth an effort.”
“We’re two weeks into the semester, Coach. It’s one test.” I chance a glance up. His eyes are narrowed, the exact same way my dad’s used to be whenever I back-talked him. Taking a deep breath, I shake the thought from my head. “Sorry,” I mutter.
He blows