chant.
Our team spills into the dugout, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in my ears. I grab a towel and wipe off the sweat and grime covering my face. When I toss it into the pile of other nasty towels behind the bench, I see him talking to Coach Taylor next to the dugout. Him, as in USC’s Coach Barlow.
And now I’m sweating in places I didn’t even know had glands. He shouldn’t make me nervous. I’ve met him plenty of times and he’ll be my coach in a few months, but I didn’t realize he’d be here today. It’s a good thing I didn’t see him until now, or I would’ve been all out of sorts. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I squeeze through the guys and make my way toward him. Coach Taylor spots me first and curves his finger, signaling me over.
Coach Barlow turns as I approach, a huge smile on his face. He nudges the brim of his cap and holds out his hand. “Here’s my man,” he exclaims. “Hell of a game out there, Braxton.”
I shake his hand firmly. “Thank you, sir. Didn’t know you’d be here.”
He waves me off. “Our boys had an off day, so I thought I’d drop in and check on my new right-hander. I can’t remember the last time I saw someone end a game just as strong as he started.”
My cheeks flush. I manage a nod and another, “Thank you, sir.”
He nods toward Coach Taylor. “This old man tells me you’re workin’ your backside off. That’s what I like to hear. Keep it up, yeah?”
“Yes, sir.”
He turns back to Coach Taylor, who jerks his head to the side. Guess I’m done here. Spinning on my heel, I search the crowd. Marisa’s still by the fence, talking to Hannah and Bri. She’s smiling and laughing and looking like she fits right in, which doesn’t shock me at all. The girl’s pretty awesome.
I head her way, stopping just short of the group so I don’t interrupt whatever it is they’re goin’ on about. But her smile grows when she sees me, shining brighter than all the field lights combined.
Bri stops talking when she notices Marisa’s stopped listening. She glances over her shoulder, spotting me. “Hey, hotshot,” she says. “Good game.” Her gaze darts from me to Marisa as she grabs Hannah’s hand. “We’ll get going. Nice meeting you, Marisa!” There’s no doubt that Hannah wants to play Twenty Questions, but she stumbles after Bri.
Marisa calls out a “bye” before jumping up and wrapping her arms around my neck, surprising the hell out of me. I stumble, but laugh and wrap my own arms around her waist, holding her close.
“You were amazing!” she squeals, pulling back. “Seriously, Austin. Seriously.”
“Seriously?”
She pushes me, still smiling from ear to ear. “That hug was okay, right? I mean, I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.”
“Okay? Girl, if that’s what a win gets me, I need to pitch every game this season.” I wrap my arm around her, pulling her in for a side-hug. Everything else disappears; there’s no cheering, no whoops, no pats on the back. All that matters is the way she fits perfectly beside me, and the fact that I can’t do a damn thing about it.
Being crazy about one of your friends is great, until it’s not. Soon, it actually starts to hurt. But telling her that would only hurt her, and that’s out of the question.
She squeezes me back, snapping me to reality. “Hey,” she says. “You all right?”
I grin and say, “Hell yeah, I’m all right,” and she rolls her eyes and laughs before giving me one last hug, because that’s what friends do. And besides, I am all right.
I am.
As she pulls away, I glance over my shoulder, catching Hannah and Bri staring and pointing from the parking lot. Hannah grins and waves. Marisa returns it with a weak wave of her own.
“Yeah,” she drawls, dropping her hand. “How should I feel about them? Bri seems nice, but I’m not sure if Hannah’s nice-nice or Regina George-nice.”
Not entirely sure who Regina George is, but Hannah’s harmless. A little overly excited, maybe, but harmless. “Hannah’s good people. And she’s a great one-girl cheering squad.”
Marisa nods slowly. “I think she makes her tea with glitter instead of sugar. Maybe that’s her secret to being so, um, her.”
I snort. That’s the most accurate description of Hannah in history.
Someone’s car lets out a long, annoying honk. I whip