Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,71

How’s he feel about his boy bein’ a fag?”

Oh, hell no. Brett disappears, high-tailing it to the field. Probably a good thing; I’ve seen the dude’s right hook. I grab Jay’s arm, yanking him back so he doesn’t get locked up today, either. He rips out of my hold and follows Brett.

Bastard Pitcher cackles, his two buddies going right along with him. “You see it all in this town: a Mexican queer and his pastor-kid boyfriend. It’s classic, really.”

Me? I’m not playing today. I can spend a day in a cell if he keeps runnin’ off at the mouth. “You wanna try saying that to their faces?” I ask. “Or are you just gonna hide behind the bleachers all day like a pansy-ass piece of shit?”

The fool snorts and starts toward the field with his lackeys in tow. “Nah, I’ll see ’em once I’m on the mound later,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll let ’em know how I feel then. Trust me.”

So much for it being a good day.

The dugout’s quiet as I approach, way too quiet for game day. Jay and Brett’s tension has spread across the team like wildfire, even if the other guys don’t know why it’s there to begin with. After checking in with Coach, who’s still ticked that two of his starters showed up late and pissed, I sit next to Jay on the bench. It’s no different than sitting beside a rock, stone-cold and silent.

I catch him glancing at Brett, who’s taking warm-up swings in the on-deck circle. They’re finally moving forward, then this shit happens.

“Y’all gonna be all right?” I ask him.

Jay shrugs. “No idea.”

“You gonna be all right?”

“No idea.”

As Brett steps up to the plate, Barton’s pitcher, the smartass from the lot, grins and toes the dirt. My chest tightens. I head to the fence that separates the dugout from the field, standing beside Eric. I know that grin. I’ve had that grin. It’s one a pitcher flashes when he’s up to no good. He winds up and fires a fastball so fast I’m surprised Brett doesn’t have whiplash.

His fastball’s definitely better than his slider.

“Strike one!” the ump yells.

Jay’s by my side in an instant, rattling the fence. “Come on, Perry!” he shouts. “Smack the hell out of it!”

Brett steadies his stance, prepared for the next pitch. Wind up. Release. Brett slices nothing but air. He’s our lead-off man for a reason. He can do better than this. Mental blockage is a batter’s worst enemy.

Wind up. Release. The ball cuts sharp inside. Brett dodges, but the pitch still catches him on the elbow. He drops the bat, his face clenched. I cringe. I’ve had that happen before. It hurts like nobody’s business. The crowd boos as he takes his base, and I’m pretty sure Jay’s about to combust next to me.

“He’ll be all right,” I say. “He’s good.”

There’s fire in Jay’s eyes as he glares at the field. “That shit was on purpose. Look at the pitcher.”

I do.

The bastard winks.

Damn it to hell.

This is pretty much the worst our team’s ever played. By the top of the fourth, no one’s managed more than a base hit. We’re already back to the beginning of the batting order. It’s embarrassing as hell. We were state champions last year, for Christ’s sake.

Jay, Eric, and I line up along the fence with the rest of the team as Brett steps up to the plate again. Good ol’ Super Douche looks primed and ready. He didn’t try any funny business with Jay; he’s got his eyes set on Brett, for whatever reason. Everyone else has noticed, so I don’t know why his coach is keeping him in the game. He just better keep it clean this time.

The first pitch shoots straight by the nuts. I grab Jay’s shoulder to keep him from charging out there, but he shakes me off and smacks the fence. Eric isn’t much better. Brett aims his bat at the pitcher, who just shrugs when the ump yells out a warning for both of them.

“Watch him, Perry,” Coach shouts. He moves just outside the dugout’s opening, arms crossed. “He’s dirty. Eyes open.”

Brett raises his bat, ready and waiting. The pitcher studies him for a minute before going into his windup. Release. Brett turns, but the pitch nails him right smack in the shoulder.

And now he’s charging the damn mound.

“Fucking hell,” Eric says as I mutter, “Shit.”

We follow Coach in a dash to the mound just as Barton’s dugout clears and piles on