Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,2

toward me. Folds his arms. Stares some more.

Crap. You know the saying “shaking in my boots”? It comes from stares like his.

“You’re below my cut-off line,” he says quietly. “You wanna tell me what happened last semester?”

Off-season practice five days a week. Working like crazy at the shop. School. More practice. Plus there was that “sleep” thing thrown in once in a while.

I swallow. “It won’t happen again,” I tell him. “That’s all that matters. You’ve got my word.”

Holding my gaze, he nods once. “Keep that eligibility in mind, Austin. I want you on my field this year. I’m sure your mother wants you out here, too.”

Damn straight, she does. My agreement with University of South Carolina is the only shot I have at affording a decent school. And by “affording,” I mean I’ve got no chance without that full ride. The only reason my grades are good enough is because most teachers wouldn’t dare keep me off the field. But there are always the few who actually, you know, go by the rules. And that’s how I got into this mess.

The wind whips around us as we head toward our trucks, the only two left in the lot. Other than Momma, Coach is one of the few around here who gives a crap about something besides my arm. Of course, my arm is what’s going to get me out of this Podunk town in eight months. And baseball’s the only thing that makes living here worth a damn.

Just don’t tell my momma I said that. She would cry, yell, and sentence me to spreadsheet duty at the shop, which is hell in itself.

Coach waits for me to climb into my truck before tossing up a wave and backing out of his spot. I flop back against the seat and crank the engine, closing my eyes as it roars to life. I can do this. I have to. I just have to be, like, proactive. Douse the flames before they spread. Actually read the book and take notes. No big deal.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out, the screen lit up with a text from Jay.

Jay: Going to Joyners. U in?

OMW, I type back and shift the truck into gear. The only remedy for some nights is good barbecue, good friends, and Coke. Whiskey’s even better, but I have a feeling that drinking and driving might get me into even more trouble. That’s the last thing I need.

Joyner’s BBQ is way on the other side of town, so by the time I pull into the jam-packed lot twenty minutes later, Jay, Brett, and Eric are already inside the brightly lit dive, sitting at our usual table beside the window. My phone buzzes again as I jog across the lot. Groaning, I skid to a stop at the door and pull it from my pocket.

Momma: Church tomorrow.

It’s barely past ten, for Christ’s sake. I type out a quick reply—Joyners, then home. I hit Send and stuff the phone into my pocket while yanking the door open.

A girl shrieks. A bag hits the ground. Shrieking Girl, whose breathing could probably be heard five miles up the road, looks like I just popped out of the bushes with a chainsaw.

You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.

With a sigh, I kneel and pick up the white paper bag, which I hold out for her. Her hands tremble as she snatches it from me. I’m officially a grade-A jackass, because I scared the poor girl crapless.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “There’s nothing in there that could be ruined, right? I’ll pay for it.”

She shrugs a shoulder, keeping her gaze on the sidewalk. This night just keeps getting better.

“You okay?” I ask.

She shrugs again. “Fine,” she mutters. “It’s just been a really bad day and my parents decided they wanted chicken and barbecue at ten o’clock at night. I mean, who does that? So they sent me in here while they wait in the warm car, and I don’t even like barbecue so I have no idea why they came here, and all I want is Diet Coke and my bed and—” She takes a deep breath, and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen finally meet mine. Holy wow. “I have no clue why I’m telling you all this.”

Her lips quirk into this insanely adorable smirk, and I can’t help but grin back. “For what it’s worth,” I say, “I’ve had an awful night, too. And it’s the worst kind of awful because it