I’ll only be gone a couple of months. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll make enough money to get us both out of Groveton. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. You’ll never grow up like me. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll make sure you have some fucking food to eat!”

“I was eighteen.”

“I was six!”

“I wasn’t your father!”

I throw my arms out. “No, you weren’t. You were supposed to be better than him!

Congratulations, you officially became a replica of your worthless brother. Now where the fuck is the damn phone?”

Scott slams his hand on the counter and roars, “Sit your ass down, Elisabeth, and shut the fuck up!”

I quake on the inside, but I’ve been around Mom’s asshole boyfriends long enough to keep from quaking on the outside. “Wow. You can take the boy out of the trailer park and pretty him up in a Major League Baseball uniform, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the boy.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Whatever. Where’s the phone?”

Noah told me once that I have a gift that borders on supervillain status—the ability to push people past the edge of sanity. The way Scott releases another breath and rubs his forehead tells me I’m pushing him hard. Good.

Scott tries for that obnoxious, level tone again, but I can hear the edge of irritation in it.

“You want trailer park, I can go trailer park. You are going to live in my house with my rules or I’ll send your mother to jail.”

“I broke out the windows of the car. Not her. You have nothing on her.”

Scott narrows his eyes. “Wanna discuss what’s in your mom’s apartment with me?”

My body lurches to the left as the blood seeps out of my face, leaving behind a blurry and tingling sensation. Shirley already warned me, but hearing it from him is still a shock.

Scott knows what I don’t want to know—

Mom’s secret.

“Push me, Elisabeth, and I’ll have this same exact conversation with the police.”

I stumble as I try to stay upright. The back of my legs collide with a coffee table. Losing the battle, I sit. Right beside me is a phone and as much as I want to, I can’t touch it. Scott has me. The bastard traded my life for my mom’s freedom.

Ryan

I LEAN AGAINST THE CLOSED tailgate of Dad’s truck and listen from two parking spots away as Dad recounts to a group of men loitering outside the barbershop every detail of our meeting with the scout last night. Some of them heard the story at church this morning.

Most of the listeners are generational farmers and this kind of news is worth hearing again, even if it means standing in the type of August heat where you can smell the acrid stench of blacktop melting.

In my peripheral view, I notice a man stop on the sidewalk and assess the ring of listeners and my storytelling father. I don’t pay attention to tourists and if he were a local, he’d join the group. It’s better to leave the tourists alone. If you look at them, they talk.

Groveton’s a small town. To appeal to tourists, Dad persuaded the other councilmen to call the old stone buildings dating back to the 1800s Historic then add the words Shopping District. Four B-and-Bs and new tours of the old bourbon distillery later, and the city folk brave the fifteen-mile winding country road from the freeway. It can make parking a bitch on the weekends, but it gives lots of good people jobs when money gets tight.

“What’s the local gossip?” the man asks.

He’s speaking and I didn’t even make eye contact. That’s bold for a tourist. I fold my arms across my chest. “Baseball.”

“No kidding.” There’s a drop in his tone that catches my attention.

I turn my head and feel my eyes widen in slow motion. No way. “You’re Scott Risk.”

Everyone in this town knows who Scott Risk is. His face is one of the few to peer at the student population from the Wall of Fame at Bullitt County High. As a shortstop, he led his high school team to state championships twice.

He made the majors straight out of high school.

But the real achievement, the real feat that made him a king in this small town, was his eleven-year stint with the New York Yankees. He’s exactly what every boy in Groveton dreams of becoming, including me.

Scott Risk wears a pair of khakis, a blue polo, and a good-natured grin. “And you are?”

“Ryan Stone,” Dad answers for me as he appears from out of thin air. “He’s my son.”

The circle of men outside the barbershop watch us with interest. Scott holds out his hand to Dad. “Scott Risk.”

Dad shakes it with a badly suppressed smug smile. “Andrew Stone.”

“City Councilman Andrew Stone?”

“Yes,” Dad says with pride. “I heard rumors you were moving back to town.”

He did? That’s the sort of news Dad should have shared.

“This town always did love gossip.” Scott keeps the friendly look, but the light tone feels forced.

Dad chuckles. “Some things never change. I heard you were looking at buying some property nearby.”

“Bought,” says Scott. “I purchased the old Walter farm last spring, but asked the Realtor to keep the sale quiet until we moved into the home we built farther back on the property.”

My eyebrows shoot up and so do Dad’s.

That’s the farm right next to ours. Dad takes a step closer and angles his back to make the three of us into our own circle. “I own the property a mile down the road. Ryan and I are huge fans of yours.” No, he’s not. Dad respects Scott because he’s from Groveton, but loathes anyone from the Yankees. “Except when you played the Reds. Home team takes precedent.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” Scott notices my baseball cap. “Do you play?”

“Yes, sir.” What exactly do I say to the man I’ve worshipped my entire life? Can I ask for his autograph? Can I beg him to tell me how he stays calm during a game when everything is on the line? Do I stare at him like an idiot because I can’t find anything more coherent to say?

“Ryan’s a pitcher,” Dad announces. “A major-league scout watched him at a game last night. He thinks Ryan has the potential to be picked up by the minors after graduation.”

Scott’s easygoing grin falls into something more serious as he stares as me. “That’s impressive. You must be pitching in the upper eighties.”

“Nineties,” says Dad. “Ryan pitched three straight in the nineties.”

A crazy gleam hits Scott’s eyes and we both smile. I understand that spark and the adrenaline rush that accompanies it. We share a passion: playing ball. “Nineties? And you’re just now getting the attention of scouts?”

I readjust my hat. “Dad took me to Reds’ tryout camp this past spring, but…”

Dad cuts me off. “They told Ryan he needed to bulk up.”

“You must have listened,” Scott says.

“I want to play ball.” I’m twenty pounds heavier than last spring. I run every day and lift weights at night. Sometimes, Dad does it with me. This dream also belongs to Dad.

“Anything can happen.” Scott looks over my shoulder, but his eyes have that far-off glaze, as if he’s seeing a memory. “It depends on how badly you want it.”

I want it. Badly. Dad checks his watch, then extends his hand again to Scott. He’s itching to pick up some new drill bits before supper. “It was nice officially meeting you.”

Scott accepts his hand. “You too. Would you mind if I borrowed your son? My niece lives with me and she’ll be starting Bullitt County High tomorrow. I think the transition will be easier for her if she has someone to show her around. As long as that’s okay with you, Ryan.”

“It would be an honor, sir.” It would. This is beyond my wildest dreams.

Dad flashes me his all-knowing smile. “You know where to find me.” The crowd near the barbershop parts like Moses commanding the Red Sea as Dad strolls toward the hardware store.

Scott turns his back to the crowd, steps closer to me, and runs a hand over his face.

“Elisabeth…” He pauses, rests his hands on his hips, and starts again. “Beth’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s a good girl. She could use some friends.”

I nod like I understand, but I don’t. What does he mean by rough around the edges? I keep nodding because I don’t care. She’s Scott Risk’s niece and I’ll make sure she’s happy.

Beth. A strange uneasiness settles in my stomach. Why does that name sound familiar?

“I’ll introduce her around. Make sure she fits in. My best friend, Chris, he’s also on the team.” Because I’ll try to work Chris and Logan into any conversation I have with Mr. Risk. “He has a great girl who I’m sure your niece will love.”

“Thanks. You have no idea how much this means to me.” Scott relaxes as if he dropped a hundred-pound bag of feed. The bell over the clothing shop chimes. Scott places a hand on my shoulder and gestures at the shop. “Ryan, I’d like you to meet my niece, Elisabeth.”

She walks out of the shop and crosses her arms over her chest. Black hair. Nose ring.

Slim figure with a hint of curves. White shirt with only four buttons clasped between her breasts and belly button, fancy blue jeans, and an eye roll the moment she sees me. My stomach drops as if I swallowed lead. This is possibly the worst day of my life.

Beth

“IT’S NICE TO MEET YOU,” Arrogant Taco Bell Boy says as if we never met. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Jocks usually aren’t smart. Their muscles feast on their brains.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

I’m in hell. No question about it. This bad version of the town from Deliverance is certainly hot as hell. The heat in this forsaken place possesses a strangling haze that envelops me and seizes my lungs.

Scott clears his throat. A subtle reminder that fuck is no longer an acceptable word for me in public. “I’d like you to meet Ryan Stone.”

Once upon a time, Scott used to say words like s’up and sick. Variants of fuck were the only adjectives and adverbs in his vocabulary.

Now he sounds like a stuck-up, suit-wearing, cocky rich guy. Oh wait, he is.

“Ryan’s volunteered to show you around at school tomorrow.”

“Of course he has,” I mumble. “Because my life hasn’t sucked enough in the past forty-eight hours.”

God must have decided He wasn’t done screwing with me yet. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott blackmailed me into living here. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott’s wife bought these tragically conservative clothes. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott told me he was enrolling me at the local redneck, Children of the Corn school. No, he wasn’t quite done screwing with me yet. The damn icing on this cake is the conceited ass standing in front of me. Ha fucking ha. Joke’s on me. “I want my clothes back.”