Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,1

to me. My stomach drops, but I keep a straight face. “Some of you had a rough fall semester on both those counts. Y’all are my veterans. You know my rules.”

Darn right, we do. I watched him bench last year’s shortstop because the guy flunked Biology. I’m the screw-up when it comes to grades. Fall semester kicked my ass; Statistics was no joke. This semester has me scared shitless because Chemistry is just as bad, but Coach doesn’t have to know that. All he needs to know is that I’ll do whatever it takes to be on this field five days a week. I swallow but hold his gaze until he looks to Eric, who’s obviously on the “behavior” side of this speech. Being both Brett’s younger brother and a pastor’s kid, all the crap he pulls looks twenty times worse.

“For some of you, this is your last year with me,” Coach says. “Let’s make it count.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and nods toward the parking lot. “Some dates to remember: tryouts for the open positions start on the twenty-eighth. I want all of you there, even if you think you’re a shoo-in. Practice starts early February. You’ve got some time until you’re officially on my field, so try not to get into any trouble between now and then. Y’all get on home.”

Matt, our center fielder, and Right Field Randy murmur something about “waste of time” while they turn for the lot. I snort as Jay, Brett, and I follow them. They’re only juniors, but they should know better. There’s a reason Coach brings us out here every year, on the night Lewis Creek High opens the field for the season: to test our loyalty. Our dedication. When Coach tells us to jump, we don’t just ask “how high”; we jump as high as we can until he tells us to stop. He’s our leader. Hell, he’s more of a father than most of our dads—for those of us who still have dads, anyway. I can’t count how many times he’s called me into his office just to ask how things are at home, especially since Dad died two years ago. He stood by my side at the funeral. He gave me a ride to school every day until I got my license because Momma had to run the shop by herself and couldn’t take me. He even invited us over for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, although Momma “would never want to impose.”

The man’s a hardass, but he’s got the best damn heart of any hardass I’ve ever met.

“Braxton,” Coach calls out.

I whirl around. He jerks his head, signaling me over. I shiver, and not because it’s twenty degrees out here. He knows how bad my GPA dipped last semester. He watches my report cards closer than my momma does. And to answer his earlier question, yeah, I know his rules all too well. But Coach wouldn’t bench me. He wouldn’t dare bench me.

I don’t think he would bench me.

Jay claps a hand on my shoulder. “Just don’t say anything stupid, Braxton,” he mutters. “Treat him like you’d treat the sheriff: nod and ‘yes, sir’ the hell out of him.”

Brett waves to me as Jay jogs up to meet him. Yes, sir. No, sir. Got it, sir. Easy enough. Taking a deep breath, I make my way toward Coach. If there’s anyone who can put the fear of God in me, it’s Coach Taylor. The man holds my entire season in the palm of his hand.

Coach rocks back on his heels, his hands behind his back. “That verbal commitment with Carolina seems to have gotten you too comfortable,” he says as I approach, his voice carrying across the now-empty field. “Early recruitment doesn’t mean you can slack off. You know the NCAA’s policy about grades.”

I nod. “Yes, sir,” I say, stopping a couple feet away from him. “I need a 2.0 to practice once I get to Columbia in the fall and a 2.3 to compete once the season starts up.” Easy enough to manage, as long as I keep my head focused and don’t let last semester’s crapstorm repeat itself.

His dark eyes bore into mine. “We’re going into our fourth season together, Austin. You know my rules better than anyone. How about you tell me what those rules are.”

My breath catches. “Y-yes, sir. We need a 2.0 to play for the school. We need a 3.0 to play for you.”

He takes a step