Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,89
it suck as bad as I think it does?”
“Worse.” He straightens, stretching his arms above his head. “Here I thought I’d find you crying, and you’ve got me about to break.”
I slap his shoulder and stand, mostly so he won’t see my face fall. My locker door squeaks as I swing it open. “There’s no cryin’ in baseball, Torres.”
He steps to his own locker. Looks me straight in the eye. “I’m gonna miss your sorry ass, you know that?”
And I’m going to miss him more than my right arm. I hold up my hand. He high-fives me, holding on for a beat before letting go. “All-Star Duo forever, bro.” Exhaling heavily, I pull my undershirt out of the locker. “Your parents comin’ tonight?”
He snorts. “Dude, you’d think I was graduating already. My mom’s got her camera charged and ready. Dad nearly cried when I asked where my cleats were this morning.”
I laugh along with him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Y’all might as well get the umbrellas ready for graduation ‘cause that man’s going to flood the stadium.”
My chest tightens. I look at the practice glove in my locker, the one Dad gave me so long ago. He won’t be here tonight. He won’t be at graduation. I may have screwed up a lot in the past couple of years, but I’ve done the best I could. If anything, I hope I’ve done him proud.
The locker room door slams closed. Jay and I both glance over as Brett walks in, his eyes downcast. But when he looks up and his gaze falls on Jay, his lips curve into a half-smile. He lifts his chin to me and heads to his locker, which is a few down from mine.
“How’s it goin’?” I ask.
He pauses with his hand on his locker. “Momma just told me that Dad’s comin’ tonight.” He says it casually, but relief floods his face as he pulls out his clothes. I silently thank sweet baby Jesus for progress. Ever since the wedding, Brett’s been wrapped up in his own head. I think part of him honestly believed his dad wouldn’t talk to him again.
Jay moves to my side, his arms crossed. “You all right?” he asks carefully.
Brett nods and tugs his shirt over his head. “I think so.”
The door opens again, and the other guys file in, one by one. The volume in the room grows from silence to a low rumble, with lockers slamming and bags rustling.
After changing, I grab my game glove from my locker. That stupid lump returns to my throat. I’ve pitched every varsity game with this glove. I’ll probably need a new one next season, but this old thing—it’s done me a lot of good.
“Fellas,” Eric says.
I turn. The other guys are grouped in the center of the room, geared up and ready to go. Eric stands at the front, arms crossed.
“Y’all are gonna be strolling memory lane during your ceremony,” he continues, “but we want to hear your real favorites. The memories you don’t want your mommas to hear.”
Jay chuckles and leans back against the lockers. “Oh, boy,” he says on an exhale. “Too many damn memories to pick a favorite, Junior.” He slaps my arm. “Probably watching Braxton get chased out of Matthews’s pond last summer.”
Nice to know someone got a kick out of that. I shove him. “After you dared me to do it, asshole.”
He snorts. “Then what’s yours?”
I toss my glove. Catch it. Jay’s right; there are too many memories to pick a favorite. “I’ll go with sophomore year. Bus ride home from the Beaufort game. Pulling up alongside that group of girls and mooning them while Coach was asleep. The bus lurched and Jay fell onto Coach, with his pants down.”
Jay bursts out laughing along with the others, the sound echoing through the room. “That got us a night full of laps from Coach. After getting our asses whooped by Beaufort.”
Our laughter dies down as we all turn to Brett, who’s leaning against the lockers, watching us instead of laughing. His mouth twists into a smirk as he stares down at his glove. “I’m gonna be the lame-ass who says you guys.” He straightens, eyes me, Jay, and then the rest of the guys. The room falls silent, so quiet you could hear a fly buzz. “My dad’s barely looked at me since the wedding. He’s comin’ tonight, and that’s all well and good, but y’all, you’re here. You’ve been here the whole time.” He swallows audibly. “And you don’t hate me.”
Hell.
Coach’s