The Game Can’t Love You Back Read online

  All laughter has drained from his face, and his glare is as ice-cold as the one I’ve got trained on him is hot.

  I think it’s the first time he’s ever really looked at me. And in that instant, it’s crystal clear—as crystal clear as those blue eyes of his—that he feels the same way about me as I feel about him.

  This is why it doesn’t matter that I’m wearing a Bulldogs hoodie. Why I couldn’t embrace Marcella’s cheerful mood this morning and why I dismissed Scott’s contention that our teams coming together will make Farmington baseball even stronger.

  At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter where we go to school or what mascot I wear on my shirt now. Locked in a staring contest with Jamie, I know I’m right. We’re not on the same team. Not at all.

  Chapter 2

  March 1

  Jamie

  “Morning, handsome.”

  My mom’s in the kitchen when I come downstairs, standing at the counter, stirring artificial creamer into this huge travel coffee mug. She tries to assault me with a hug as I pass her, but I shrug her off. She knows I’m not a morning person.

  “Morning, Ma,” I mutter, opening the pantry, considering my options. Half-empty box of Target-brand reduced-fat granola. Probably half-stale, too. Unopened box of Froot Loops. No-brainer. I grab Toucan Sam and rip open the cardboard.

  When I turn back around to get a bowl, I see the tension in her shoulders. “What?”

  Her lips twitch nervously. “What’s wrong with granola? It’s healthier.”

  “I like Froot Loops.”

  She doesn’t say anything right away, but eventually she gives me the usual reminder. “You two can’t keep letting open boxes of cereal go to waste.”

  I stare down at my full bowl of cereal, wishing she wasn’t standing there making me feel guilty about my breakfast. “It’s just cereal.”

  “Everything can’t be ‘it’s just.’”

  I pick up the box and set it back down on the table for emphasis. “It’s just cereal,” I repeat.

  She takes a big swig of coffee and resets her smile, backing off. “So practice starts today, huh?”

  I shovel cereal into my mouth, nodding while I chew and swallow. “Yep.”

  My mom approaches me again, smiling warmly, and rubs at one shoulder. “You feeling good?”

  “Always.”

  Then she leaves her hand there. Lately, it’s like she’s always trying to make contact, like she needs someone to hold on to. I don’t really like the way it feels, being that someone, but she’s trying to do things differently these days, so I let her lean on me sometimes. “Text me and let me know how it goes, okay? I have to work a double today.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have you gotten to know some of the guys from South?”

  “Yeah, I knew a bunch of them already from summer ball. You know Brayden and Noah Turner, right? And Jake Pawlings, who was on the Padres with me back in the day?”

  “I recognize those names.”

  I shrug, pouring some more cereal into my bowl. “The other guys, I met them at tryouts this past week. They’re all right.”

  A half smile lifts her left cheek, and her eyebrow goes up at the same time. “Any threats?”

  A psssh sound escapes my lips. “Not even close.”

  Although …

  I narrow my eyes at the milk, thinking of the one person I didn’t meet at tryouts last week.

  Not even close, I think again.

  There’s an obnoxious clatter on the stairs, and a second later, O appears. My hand freezes, spoon halfway to my mouth. My half sister has done lots of things to make herself look silly, but this takes the game to a whole new level. I stare at her as I chew my last spoonful of cereal. Shaking my head as I take the empty bowl to the sink, I murmur my opinion to no one in particular. “You look completely ridiculous.”

  She rolls her eyes comically. “Annnd, good morning to you, too, Sunshine.” Olivia glances at the table and claps her hands. “Yay, Froot Loops!”

  Mom’s pursing her lips again, over the cereal or O’s latest makeover, I don’t know. But she chooses not to comment on either and digs around in her purse for her keys. “All right, kiddos, I’m off.” She squares her shoulders and lifts her mug, ready to take on the working world.

  In actuality, I’ve been a part of the working world longer than she has. George is a good guy, and he let me start taking shifts at Best’s Burger Barn and Shake Shack, paying me under the table before I could legally work.

  Mom plants a kiss on the top of my head, and then more hesitantly on the top of my sister’s—God only knows what chemicals were responsible for that train wreck—before opening the back door. “Hit the road. Don’t be late.”

  I pull my Windbreaker on and look down at my half sister. She looks more like a caricature of Olivia than her actual self.

  I inhale through my nose, trying to see past the pink and the piercings. “You need a ride?”

  Olivia shakes her head absently, concentration focused on arranging her Froot Loops into a rainbow pattern inside her bowl. “Justin’s getting me.”

  I bite my tongue rather than voicing my opinion on her latest guy, who’s a senior, and really has no business “getting” her. “All right. See ya later, O.”

  It’s not till I’m out the door that I feel like I can breathe again. I’d always thought our home would feel better if my mom got herself a backbone, but now that she has one, there’s a whole bunch of new issues. Single parent means single income, and hers isn’t very substantial regardless of how many hours she works the checkout at Target.

  My Jeep Cherokee’s parked on the street, all prettied up, rims shining. It’s a bitch to keep the tank filled anymore, but at least I still have my car. Just about the only good thing Doug contributed around here.

  Used car salesman. Such a perfectly fitting job for that jerk-off.

  I climb behind the wheel, checking my reflection in the mirror as I adjust my hat, grab my Ray-Bans out of the glove compartment. They’re sitting on top of a purple hair tie someone left behind. Probably Naomi.

  That’s when I remember she texted me late last night, to see about me picking her up on the way to school. But I know it’s not transportation that she’s really interested in on the way to school, and I have to focus today. The season is officially under way, and baseball means more to me than any girl could, that’s for sure.

  I take the long way to school, stopping at Wawa for some gum. The school lobby’s overcrowded when I get there, with all the kids from South here, but still I’m spotted the minute I walk through the door.

  Lise scampers over to me, wrapping herself around my biceps like an eel. “I’m pulling some major strings to make sure I get picked as your spirit girl,” she hisses in my ear.

  “That’ll be sweet.” I give her an easy smile, cracking my gum.

  One time Naomi told me that maneuver makes my jaw look sexy. I didn’t know that was a thing, but hey, whatever works.

  Out of nowhere, I feel someone damn near grab my ass. It’s one of the new girls, and I can’t remember her name. I do, however, remember her ass, which is encased in a pair of supertight cream-colored cords. “Thanks for saying hi to me,” she says with a pout.

  I put my hand over my heart in apology. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I say. “Won’t happen again.”

  Finally I make it through the gauntlet and see my boys in the center of the lobby. I nod confidently and saunter toward them. I insert myself into their circle, jostling a couple of sophomores, giving fist bumps to my fellow upperclassmen. Everyone turns to greet me, a few with enthusiastic slaps to the back, ready for today to get under way. Ready for this season to get under way. It’s about damn time.

  Throughout the rest of the lobby, people are packed like sardines, but they give my team—most members dressed in gold and black, too—plenty of room. They get it.

  This is our turf. My turf.

  Then I feel the hairs on the back of my neck
stand up.

  It’s a weird, disturbing sensation, like a sudden drop in atmospheric pressure or something. I actually feel someone’s eyes on my back.

  I turn in the direction of the feeling, toward the owner of the eyes. Of course. I’m tempted to laugh, except she’s so ridiculous, I can’t. She’s the worst joke I’ve heard all year.

  Eve Marshall. Female baseball player.

  The Phenom.

  They actually called her that, the city paper that featured a front-page story on her athletic prowess. And not just our local bullshit paper, but Sports Illustrated, when they featured her in their recent monthly segment on standout high school athletes across the country. When I saw her face on the cover of my favorite magazine as I pulled it from our mailbox, I launched it into the recycle bin without a second glance.

  She’s difficult, you can tell just by looking at her. She’s staring me down right now, those huge amber wolf eyes taking me on as if she can. Bucking tradition, just for the sake of being difficult. I mean, both schools had perfectly respectable softball teams.

  Exceptions are already being made for her. State championships for girls’ basketball overlapped with pitcher tryouts, and she got an automatic spot. You wanna tell me there wasn’t some kind of favoritism at play there? No new guy would have had it so easy.

  And already … everyone’s talking about her.

  She’s not backing down, and it’s pissing me off. So I let her know, with my eyes. I’m not gonna make this easy for you. I fold my arms across my chest and glare at her, hopefully driving the point home.

  My school, my turf, my mound. My time in the spotlight. My second Cy Young trophy.

  Bring it on, sweetheart.

  Chapter 3

  March 1

  Eve

  I change for practice in the girls’ locker room. I’ve never really minded being separated from my team in this sense. The girls’ locker room smells like powdery deodorant and floral body sprays with only subtle undertones of sweat. The boys’ locker room must smell like … I don’t even want to know. Various funk mixed with other funk.

  Usually, the only times I mind my separate-but-equal status are game days. Back at South, I could actually hear my team on the other side of the cinder-block walls. Getting pumped. Making memories. Telling jokes. By the time I joined them, I’d usually missed the punch lines.

  I set my bag on a bench in front of an empty row of lockers and start changing. The softball team is on its way down to the field. Some of the members of the team from South call hi to me. I’ve never gotten the sense that they resent me or anything—my choice to play with the boys—but they’re a tight unit, and I’m just not part of their group.

  Members of the team from East … they stare at me like an alien as they pass. The girl wearing catcher’s pads mutters something under her breath, and her teammate snickers in response. Shaking my head, I tie on my cleats. I just wish they got it, that it was never a choice. It just was what it was. Having three athletic older brothers, I spent my weekend afternoons during the spring at Little League games. My mom, already frazzled with the family’s hectic schedule and my dad working a lot of weekends, had just shrugged when I reached an age when I, too, could play. “You want to play ball, you play baseball,” she’d said. “We can’t be four places at once.”

  My mom had been a star forward at UConn and even played basketball internationally until she met and married my dad. She wasn’t exactly dying to schlep me to ballet or cheerleading.

  So I learned to play a game that had nine innings instead of seven, learned how to catch a ball that was nine inches around instead of eleven. I learned to pitch it overhand instead of under.

  And I learned I was good at it, really good. Better than most of the boys.

  I found out I could stare down those boys who had three inches of height and twenty pounds of muscle on me. From the mound, I could take them down, take them out. I still can. It’s an awesome feeling, exhilarating and powerful and fun as hell.

  So why would I ever even think about going out and learning how to “throw like a girl”?

  Phenom.

  Exception to the rule.

  Freak of nature.

  As long as I’m winning, I don’t really give a hoot what they call me. I love this game.

  And suddenly, in the locker room, the mound only moments away, reflecting on all this, my sour mood dissipates. Feeling invigorated, I jump to my feet and tie my lucky bandanna around my head.

  I’m ready.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I inhale a quick breath. Except for one thing.

  I walk to the end of the aisle, craning my neck back and forth, making sure I’m truly alone. When I’m certain I am, I retrieve the thick Ace bandage from my bag, push up the elastic bottom of my sports bra, and wrap the bandage around my chest.

  The Ace bandage is a recent addition to my uniform. It wasn’t necessary before. My mom’s been warning me for years about how she was a “late bloomer,” but I’d looked down at my flat chest and scoffed. This past summer, I stopped really being able to scoff anymore. I have boobs, and as far as my form goes, they suck. I’ve learned to work around them, but there’s a part of me that really wishes I didn’t have to.

  Plus.

  The idea that any of my teammates would be looking at my boobs when I’m trying to concentrate … oh hell no.

  After turning sideways and studying my silhouette in the mirror, convinced I’ve minimized the problem, I grab my dusty glove and head down to the field. It still feels more like winter than spring, and goose bumps instantly break out on my thighs as I jog down the hill to the diamond. Wind whips the hood of my Windbreaker against my braids and flips my bandanna, and I pick up the pace, hoping to warm up. I’m relieved to see members of the team gathering inside the dugout, which blocks the chill.

  I’m not the first to arrive and I’m not the last. Scott scoots over on the bench to make room for me, and I smile gratefully at him. He stays close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body and wraps a thick arm around my shoulders for good measure. It doesn’t escape my notice that you could easily divide the dugout in half: players from East on the left, players from South on the right.

  Our three coaches appear over the crest of the hill, and my heart starts pounding against my chest, even though my old coach from South is part of the group. The pounding makes my entire rib cage vibrate, constricted by the tight elastic of the Ace bandage and sturdy Under Armour sports bra.

  I feel a lingering sense of gratitude as I study Coach Karlson, my new head coach. He did me a solid by letting me try out in private because of the overlap with states, which gave me hope that those of us from South would get a fair shot as Pirates. But now it’s time to prove myself for real. Prove that I can hang, that I actually belong here. Not in the quiet gym, but out here on the field. Where the pressure’s real.

  As the group comes into view, I recognize a fourth figure walking with the coaches.

  Jamie.

  They come closer still, and his face is more serious than I’ve ever seen it. It transforms him, and I can’t help but stare, heart hammering anew in a way I can’t make sense of.

  Until he catches me staring, and he lifts his chin and narrows his eyes at me at the same time. What the hell are you looking at?

  I drop my head and concentrate on the dusty cleat prints on the ground. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Or why I bowed out of our staring contest.

  I can’t let this boy intimidate me. I pick my chin back up, staring grimly out at the mound instead. It’s time to focus.

  Coach Karlson comes to stand in front of us, clipboard against his chest, legs spread hip-width apart. He looks left. He looks right. He looks left and right again. He chuckles once and shakes his head. “Here’s the deal, guys,” he tells us. “I’m not gonna force you to sit next to someone new on the bench. I’m not gonna recite some Remember the Titans team-building bullshit.” He raises one shoulder. �
��Frankly, we don’t have time for that, not if we want to win ball games. We have real work to do.”

  From the corner of my eye, I glimpse Jamie. He hasn’t joined the team on the bench; he’s leaning against a side wall instead, like he’s above the rest of us somehow. We’re not going to be forced to get along.

  Good.

  “So if there’s any drama going on about two teams becoming one, I don’t want to hear about it,” Coach continues. “And I damn sure don’t want to see it, not on my field. You got personal problems, you work them out. Off the field. This is the situation that’s been handed to us, and I expect every one of you to be mature enough to rise to the occasion.”

  I feel a mild warmth in my cheeks, thinking that if Coach had been inside the car this morning, I wouldn’t have made the best impression.

  “One thing those of you who don’t know me very well will quickly realize is this: I’m fair. And I don’t play favorites. Obviously, with the recent changes, some people aren’t going to be able to lay claim to positions as easily as they may have before. That’s life, my friends, and my personal belief is that this can boost everyone to their best performance. There’s no room for laziness anymore. You get lazy, there’s going to be another talented player breathing down your neck, ready to take your spot in the starting lineup.”

  Ready to steal your accolades, I think.

  “Our first game is less than two weeks away. The lineup won’t be set until the night before. So I expect to see everyone busting their asses for the next two weeks if you feel that lineup should have your name on it. I don’t play favorites,” he repeats. “This will be a new lineup.” He gestures over his shoulder, in the direction of the diamond. “Now hustle out there and earn it.”

  But as the rest of us stand and scoop up our gloves as quickly as possible, I notice that Coach wraps his arm around Jamie’s shoulders, giving him a squeeze. So much for not playing favorites. As if I don’t already have enough hurdles to overcome to secure time on the mound, I have to deal with the fact that Coach and Jamie appear to be pretty buddy-buddy.