Free Game On by Michelle Smith

safe haven. Our home. Screw the people in this town—
this
is where I belong. Nothing they say can hold me back from it.
    â€œGentlemen,” Coach begins, his voice booming. My attention snaps to him. “Welcome to another year of Bulldogs baseball.” He folds his arms as he makes his way down the line, back in my direction. “We’ve got a few ground rules to cover before practice kicks into gear, but there’s one thing I want to make loud and clear before we even get to those.”
    He stops. Stares. The blood in my ears is relentless, steadily
thump thump thumping
away.
    â€œ This town is your backbone,” Coach continues, “and it can also be your downfall. These people, fine as they are, are not members of this team, no matter how much they believe otherwise. You do not listen to them—you listen to me. You listen to each other. And you listen to yourselves. Do you understand?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I shout with the rest of the guys.
    His gaze moves down the line. The moment it lands on me, I swallow hard. His expression gives nothing away, but when he gives me a quick, subtle nod and continues with the rest of his yearly speech, the thumping in my ears subsides. Now I know that he’s got my back. And that maybe, just maybe, this season won’t be a complete disaster.
    ~
    By the time practice wraps up, the sun is gone and the evening’s chill has settled over the field. The field lights have kicked on, shining across the diamond as all of us head for the parking lot. Slinging my gear bag over my shoulder, I cringe. We had conditioning—a week we use to ease back into shape—a couple weeks ago, but it still takes a while to get into the swing of things. Which would explain the screaming muscles. But even with the grass stains and downright ache shooting through me, there’s nothing better.
    I trail behind Kellen and Blake on the way to my truck. Kellen turns, walking backward as he asks, “You in for Joyner’s? Or is your drunk backside even allowed there anymore?”
    My stomach doesn’t just growl—it roars. “Ol’ Man Joyner would never ban a Lewis Creek player from his restaurant. That’d be asking for a riot.”
    After piling into our trucks, the three of us hightail it to Joyner’s and pull into the packed parking lot. Looks like we weren’t the only ones starving after practice—half our team’s here already. Not that there are a ton of options for food in this town. Plus, Mr. Joyner doesn’t charge the team once the season kicks into gear. Long live Bulldogs baseball.
    I squeeze into a space at the back of the lot that’s technically not a parking spot, but whatever. Kellen and Blake wave from beneath the restaurant’s awning as I hop down. As soon as I lock up the truck, though, I hear a voice that’s worse than a fork scraping a glass plate. And a laugh that rivals a freakin’ hyena’s.
    I glance over. Matt (the hyena) and Randy (the plate-scraper) beat us here, only they’re not heading inside—Matt’s sitting on the hood of a car that’s suspiciously similar to my neighbor’s, laughing along with Randy like it’s completely normal to follow a girl who’s told you to leave her alone.
    Yeah, so that’s not cool.
    â€œEric!” Kellen shouts.
    Only now do I notice I’m standing right smack in the middle of the lot, gawking. Kellen and Blake walk toward me, Kellen shaking his head the entire way. “Don’t go startin’ crap you can’t finish,” he tells me. “Mind your business.”
    Good ol’ Jiminy Cricket. I hold out my arms. “Who says I can’t finish it?”
    Stopping in front of me, he raises his eyebrows. “Your dad. And Coach. Remember? The whole ‘low profile’ thing you told us about?”
    Oh, yeah. That.
    But the longer I stare at Matt, with his smug ass sitting on the hood