Coach lifts his chin and smiles. “You boys remember that when you take the field and show those suckers why the Hoakies own the diamond!”
Boom. The entire team rushes to stand, lifting our voices as one in a raucous roar. If we didn’t want it before, we do now. We’re taking this win. We’re taking it for us, for our school, and for Coach, who deserves it a hell of a lot more than we do. He brought us here and it’s him we surround now, chanting and talking shit, acting pumped. Hell, it’s not acting. We are fucking pumped.
The room swells with energy, and the strangest feeling floods my chest. It’s not painful, not really, but it’s intense. I drop my head, fighting to hold everything in. The emotion, the reaction. The words.
My head is still down when Carlos finds me on the bench near my locker. “You nervous, man?”
I raise my eyes and huff a laugh. “Do I look nervous?”
His left eyebrow cranes, his right one drops, and I follow his pointed gaze to my bouncing leg. He lets it slide. “So the whole family showed today,” he says. “Got Gabi sitting with them, too.”
He crosses himself and points to the sky, eyes closed in petition, and I give him the laugh I know he wants. It rings false and Carlos drops the constant grin.
“Guess the old man’s traveling again, huh?”
“Guess so.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I lift my shoulder in a half-hearted shrug as someone somewhere turns on our game day tradition: Outkast’s “Hey Ya!”
Why this song is our anthem, I have no idea. If I had to guess, I’d blame the fool sitting next to me. But right now, I couldn’t be more grateful for the distraction. Superstitions exist for a reason, and there’s not a player on this team who’ll dare hit the field before shaking it like a damn Polaroid picture.
I exhale confusion and anxiety, breathe in eagerness and a sense of belonging. Carlos jumps to his feet, sticks out his ass, and begins popping it in the air like Beyoncé. Our first baseman beats on the lockers as Brandon and Drew leap on top of the benches. Everyone starts outdoing each other in how horrifically bad they can dance—and no doubt, it’s damn awful.
The familiar tune works its magic and I bop my head, preparing for what is to come. Only one of us has any rhythm at all, and wouldn’t you know, he’s on a mission to cheer me up. Carlos grabs a discarded shoe as his microphone, rolls his hips in a circle, then bats his eyelashes like a chick before blowing me a kiss. I throw my head back in a laugh.
“‘You think you’ve got it. Oh, you think you’ve got it.’”
My best friend is certifiable. Not a shrink in town will tell you any differently, but he’s my boy, and other than my girl, he’s probably the only one to ever get me to genuinely smile. But when he breaks into the Carlton, and does a piss poor impersonation, I decide it’s time I step in.
He can never do it like me.
By the time we’re all shaking our Polaroids, I’m over the shit with my dad. Screw him. I didn’t need him to show up anyway. To Mitch Carter, fatherhood is paying bills and shoving training suggestions under the door. I don’t need those either. I’ve already got my partial ride to A&M, and if the season plays out, there’s a decent chance a pro team will draft me. Yeah, the salary will suck, but the signing bonus will be sweet, and my trust fund from my grandparents kicks in the day I graduate.
College or pro… it doesn’t matter. I’m out of here the second I get my diploma. I’m leaving home and I’m not taking another cent of my father’s money. He thinks love is a fat bank account, well he can take his overstuffed checkbook and shove it.
The playful music fades to silence and I turn with the team, breathing hard, as we look to our captain. The smile on Brandon’s face is cocky as he lifts his hands and yells, “Who’s ready to kick some ass?”
Adrenaline surges through my blood stream as I scream with the chorus. This is ours to lose. Today, I’m not holding anything back. I’m leaving it all out on the ball field. Because those scouts out there watching in the stands, waiting for a good show?
They’re my ticket to giving my old man the big F-U.
***
The look in Carlos’s eye when he enters the dugout clearly says, don’t start. After three swings and a miss, it’s safe to say the boy is off his game. Grumbling, he tosses his gloves and helmet in the cubby, slides his cap back on his head, and falls on the bench beside me.
Not taking my eyes off the field, I tell him quietly, “It’ll come.”