Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,84
words are right there, on the tip of my tongue, but they’re glued there.
She takes a deep breath and looks up again, to the sky. “I want the world,” she says. “And I want the stars.”
Her hand’s resting right next to mine. I grab it. “Then make it happen.”
Her smile grows. “What do you want?”
And now I look up again, at the billions of stars crowding the night sky. The world would be nice, but that’ll take an awful lot of time. What matters is what we do with that time. “All I want is a life I’m proud of,” is my answer.
She squeezes my hand. I turn my head right as she does, meeting her gaze. “Then make it happen,” she whispers.
chapter twenty-seven
The locker room door screeches as I yank it open before practice on Monday afternoon. Coach called me out of my last class early, so the room’s empty and quiet—too quiet—as I head to his office. It’s weird, walking through here this close to the end of the season. The lockers are full now, but our final home game is in less than a week. After that? Empty. They’ll be filled up again next year, but for the first time in four seasons, not with my things. There’ll be a new pitcher, probably Eric, leading the Bulldogs. This won’t be my turf. The Bulldogs won’t be my team.
I stop in front of Coach’s office door. He won’t be my coach.
I knock on the door. When he calls out, “Yeah,” I push it open. Dressed in his practice gear, he waves me in from behind his desk.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask, sliding into the leather chair in front of him.
He lifts the brim of his cap and shuffles the papers on his desk before setting them to the side. “Just real quick before the guys file in. Wanted some quiet time with you. Away from prying eyes. Nosy ears.” He leans back in his chair, grinning as he swivels back and forth. “It’s been a hell of a few years, Braxton.”
That’s the understatement of the century. “Yes, sir.”
He chuckles, tossing his head back. “I remember when you were a snot-faced kid coming out for JV. You thought you were hot stuff because your Little League coach talked you up.”
I grin. I remember that like it was yesterday. I was in the lineup of freshmen trying out for the JV team. Coach stared me up and down, shook my hand, and told me he was going to give me the most worthwhile ass-kicking of my life. “Well, you did switch over to coach varsity once I moved up. I must’ve been hot stuff.”
He points at me. “Yeah, and you knew it. That was the problem.”
“Yeah,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “I was a punk then.”
“Still are,” he says with a smirk. “But you’re growin’ into a good man. I’m proud as hell of how you’re turnin’ out.” He pauses and adds, “I know it’s not necessarily what you want to hear, but your dad would be real proud of you, too.”
Pursing my lips, I nod. So that explains this random pre-practice meeting. “Is that why you wanted to see me in here instead of the field?”
“So you wouldn’t lose your cool in front of your team? You bet.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “We’ve had this talk before.”
“It ended awfully bad last time,” I remind him. My leg bounces as I hold his stare. “I’m not sure why you’re trying again.”
My sophomore season was rocky to say the least, considering Dad died right before tryouts. Coach brought me into his office then, laying into me about going to Dad’s grave. Told me I needed to face my anger head-on. I called him an asshole and told him to shove the psychobabble BS up his ass.
He benched me for three weeks.
“I think that forgiveness goes a long way,” he says. “I told you this last time we had this discussion, and I’ll tell you again: forgiveness isn’t for the other person. You forgive for yourself. For your own sanity. If anything, at least go to the man’s grave. Say what you need to say.”
He and Momma keep going on about this. It’s like some tired-ass Ping-Pong game they’ve got going, and honestly, I’m getting sick of it. What Coach doesn’t know is that I’ve crossed the forgiveness bridge. But going to Dad’s grave? That’s like asking me to jump off that