Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,39

got all night, girl.”

chapter twelve

March 4th: the best damn day in South Carolina this year. At five o’clock on the dot, the lights lining the baseball field flash on. My adrenaline surges. It’s almost show time. I swear, Opening Day is fifty times better than Christmas.

The speakers across the stadium crackle and screech as the announcers gear up inside the press box. I breathe in the cool, crisp air as I wind up and fire another warm-up pitch into Jay’s glove. Coach stands behind him, watching me like a hawk. From our place in the outfield, I spot the crowd steadily pouring in from the parking lot out the corner of my eye. Resisting the urge to look up toward the bleachers, I keep my gaze on Jay, who’s crouched in front of me.

Focus. Tunnel vision. For the next couple of hours, everything else needs to take a backseat.

Jay lofts the ball back, and Coach whistles sharply. My head snaps up. “You good to go?” Coach calls.

I nod once. “Yes, sir.”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Y’all head over to the bench. Keep that arm warm.” He turns toward the mound, where the umps are congregating.

I circle my arm as Jay and I follow him across the field, detouring to the dugout. The scent of cheapo hotdogs and nachos carries from the concession stand, while the low roar of the fans grows louder and louder. Finally, I allow myself a glance to the bleachers, which are already packed to the brim. That’s a double-edged sword. The crowd’s a blessing when we’re winning and they’re going nuts, but a curse when we’re losing and their silence can burst a pitcher’s eardrums. Despite their cheers, my chest clenches. This is the third Opening Day without Dad sitting right there, on the bottom bleacher. No matter how much time passes, that spot will never be the same without him.

Tunnel vision. Now isn’t the time for memory lane.

Jay slaps my shoulders, kneading them as we step down into the dugout. “It’s game time, Braxton. You ready?”

I maneuver through the guys, making my way past the bench. Sunflower seeds and peanut shells crunch beneath my cleats. “I was born ready,” I say over my shoulder.

He chuckles. “The arm’s lookin’ sharp.”

Can’t disagree there. “It’s better than ever.”

“Can you smell the rain with your nose stuck so far in the air?”

I turn and shove him. He stumbles back, cackling. We plop down at the end of the bench, and he grabs my coat from the backrest.

“Breathe that in,” he says, chucking the coat at me. “It’s the start of our last season, bro. Damn near heartbreaking.”

“Fellas,” Brett drawls. “Let’s do this thing.” Paper cup of Gatorade in hand, he rounds the bench and settles next to Jay. Jay scoots over until his thigh brushes Brett’s. Brett’s fingers clench the cup, sloshing the green drink all over the dirt as his eyes dart around.

“Nobody’s watchin’, man,” Jay murmurs. He tosses his arm across the back of the bench, behind Brett.

Clearing his throat, Brett throws the now-empty cup on the ground and relaxes against the backrest. “Last season. Ready or not, here it comes.”

Shaking my head, I put the coat next to me, since we’ll be up soon, anyway. “Y’all are actin’ like it’s over already. Don’t go gettin’ all misty-eyed on me now.”

Brett shrugs, sprawling his legs out in front of him. “Look at it this way: I’m just skippin’ to the final stage of grief. Acceptance, right?”

“Well, that’s cute. Go boo-freakin-hoo somewhere else.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Ain’t nobody got time for all that.”

“I can’t do it anywhere else. You need a guy on third,” he points out.

“I’ll play third,” Jay cuts in.

“You’ve never played third,” I remind him.

He snorts. “Like it’s hard.”

Brett smacks the back of his head. “Screw you. You get a mask and body armor.”

Jay gapes at him. “Yeah. ’Cause this guy”—he points at me—“fires ninety-four-mile-per-hour fastballs at me on the regular.”

Coach waves us over to the baseline for the benediction and anthem. While Brett and Eric’s little sister belts out the anthem like she’s next up on X-Factor, I hold my cap against my chest, staring at the sky. Evening clouds are moving in, swirls of gray clashing against this crazy mix of pink and purple and blue. The crowd bursts into a symphony of cheers, bringing me back to the field. My breath catches as Brett smacks my back and the home plate ump yells, “Play