Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,27

and lace up my cleats before reading her reply.

Marisa: Works good. Miss you though. Have fun!

She misses me. It’s right there, in black and white, that she misses me. Can’t blow this. I stand and type back, Dinner at the shop tonight?

The bathroom door slams open. I jump. My phone flies straight for the toilet. I snatch it mid-air, just in time. The phone’s taken a few plunges, but dear God, anything but the school’s toilet water. I think that’s the end of bathroom texting hour.

According to the roster that Coach posted Friday, there are sixteen guys on the team this year. By the time I reach the field, half those guys are lined up along the foul line that stretches from first base to home plate. Coach paces in front of them, his clipboard in hand.

“Braxton,” Coach calls out. “Nice of you to join us. How ’bout some hustle?”

I’m hustling, I’m hustling. My phone buzzes in my hand as I high-tail it to the dugout and drop my bag onto the bench. I glance over my shoulder, making sure I’m not being watched, before scrolling to Marisa’s message.

Marisa: I’ll be here =)

Score.

“Braxton!” Coach barks.

Crap. I shove the phone into my bag and jog to the infield, falling into line beside Brett. He snickers. Coach is wearing his sunglasses, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s giving me the death glare. I clasp my hands behind my back, steeling my gaze straight ahead. At least I wasn’t the last one out here.

Others file onto the field, one at a time, until Matt completes the line-up down near home plate. Though the wind’s sharp as a knife, the sun beats down on us without a cloud in the sky. But once Coach stops pacing and stands still before us, silence thick as fog blankets the field.

Coach slides his sunglasses onto the brim of his cap. Scans the line. Studies us. Up until today, any time on this field was child’s play. Now, it’s more than a game. From here on out, it’s business. We’re winners. Champions.

“There are sixteen of you this year,” Coach says, his voice booming. The man’s voice gets louder every season. “We’ve got as many newcomers from JV as there are veterans, split right down the middle.” He crosses his arms. “Let’s lay down some ground rules. Are you listening?”

“Yes, sir,” we all say.

He ducks his head, walking down the line. “Practice is non-negotiable,” he begins. “If you want to play, you will be here every afternoon.” His head snaps up once he reaches first base. “What’s your hand up for? Did I stutter?”

Leaning forward to see past Brett, I chance a glance at the end of the line. Chris Lincoln, a sophomore and our new left-fielder, lowers his hand and asks, “What if we have jobs, sir?”

Rookie move.

Coach simply stares. “I’m your boss now. This team is your job. That clear it up?” Chris nods, and Coach keeps on, walking back in my direction. I straighten quickly. “I ran this by my veterans in January, but I’m going to make it loud and clear again today: I don’t play around with grades. I get a copy of every single report card. The school requires a 2.0 to play baseball—I require a 3.0. If you dip below that line, I won’t hesitate to bench you.” He stops. Looks at me. “Am I a man of my word, Braxton?”

Thanks a lot. I clear my throat and reply, “Yes, sir.”

His gaze lingers on me a beat longer. “Next up is behavior,” he calls. “To the people in this school, in this town, you are gods. You will be put on pedestals. You will get away with things that your classmates would be expelled for. That said, if I hear of you acting like anything less than gentlemen, you won’t step on my field. Understood?”

Another resounding, “Yes, sir.”

He glances at his clipboard. “I want you to look to your right. To your left.”

I do.

“This field is your home,” Coach continues, his voice much lower. “These men are your brothers. You will play together, you’ll win together, and you’ll lose together. All of this?” He takes a step back and gestures to the field. “This is yours for the taking, down to the last inch. What matters is how much you want it.”

The chilled wind slams against my skin, but my racing pulse is enough to keep me warm. This field is everything. And more than anything, I want it. I want it