for the love of the game ; g.d.

Chapter 3

After every game, whether it was win or a lose, we always piled all of our stuff into his truck, and drove to a small, cafe in the middle of the town. It was always crowded, but we found our table near the window.

We got their coffees and sat down, each letting out a deep sigh. "So, how did yours go?" He asked, sipping his with dirt-covered hands. "2-4, man." I said, a smile creeping onto her face.

"Hey, Grayson," a girl said approaching our table with her friend. He looked up at her and she put a hand on his shoulder. "That was a pretty good game you played," she said in a slow, almost seductive voice. He winked at her. "Glad you were there." They bot giggled and strutted away.

I shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. "What?" He asked. I rolled my eyes. "Those girls were probably un-cupping you in their minds that whole time," I said. He laughed. "What's so wrong about that?"

We got our coffees in to-go cups and ordered a few cinnamon sticks for the road. His truck was about as old as mine. Mine was always parked in the driveway, and has stayed there for about a year. I'm pretty much used to him taking me places or just walking.

He pulled into his driveway and took the key out of the ignition. We both got out and got our stuff from the back, throwing it over our shoulders and grunting at the weight of them. "See you tomorrow, slugger," he said, pushing me back by my shoulder. I punched him in the arm. "You too, shortstack."

I walked over to my house, slipping in quietly through the front door. My mom always went to sleep early, normally on the couch rather than in her room, so I always had to be quiet. Closing the door as silently as I could, I tip-toed down the hall to my room.

I shut my door a little too loudly, and threw my bag in the corner next to my school bag. I removed my dirt-covered #18 jersey and changed into an oversized t-shirt and boyshorts, and threw my sweaty hair into a messy bun. I walked over to my dresser, looking at myself in the mirror. I wiped my face off with a facial-cleansing wipe and walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Walking back into my room, I saw Grayson through his window. He looked somewhat upset, which was weird because he's as joyful as they come. He threw on a t-shirt and turned his light out, not noticing I was looking at him. I did the same, and climbed into bed.

The whole night, I was tossing and turning, worrying about tomorrow. We had another game, against one of the best school teams in the state. They've only lost around 20 games out of the hundreds they've played over the years. Our team was pretty damn good too, but I didn't know if we could top them.

At about 1:30, I heard a faint knock on my window. I wasn't scared or nervous to get up and walk over to it, because I knew it was Grayson. He stood there with a hurt look on his face, the same one he had when I saw him through the window earlier. I opened the window to let him in. He climbed in, shutting it behind him. I threw him a blanket and a pillow, and he made himself a palette next to my bed.

He does this every once in a while when his parents fight. He used to tell me all the time when we were kids about how at night he would hear them having sex through the walls, and in our little 12-year-old minds, we laughed and made jokes about it. But now, all they do is fight. Sometimes loud enough, he says it feels almost as if they're in his room yelling at each other.

Grayson is one of the toughest people I've ever met, physically and emotionally, but no one can stand listening to their parents yell at each other like this, especially as much and as loud as his do. And every time he needs somewhere to go to get away from it, there's me. Because that's what best friends do.