Read Scripted for Free Online Page A

thankfully, bring a new motif. The game is a big deal, a Special Event, and held in the stadium usually reserved for our two professional baseball teams.
    â€œBrave? Maybe.” Slowing down his pace, he twists to dig into the back pocket of his jeans. It goes unsaid that Callen himself is probably the reason for his coach’s confidence. He withdraws a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I gape while he cups his hands together to light a cigarette.
    â€œYou smoke?” I ask, stopping in my tracks.
    â€œSometimes.” He blows smoke to his right, away from me. “What? Oh, I should have offered you one?” He grins.
    â€œNo way.” I widen the space between us and start walking again. I always thought smoking was dumb, a sign of weakness. Maybe partly because of Lia, who hates the habit even more than I do. Her mom used to chain smoke and stink up the house. A common game in the early days of our friendship was Flushing Mom’s Cigarettes Down the Toilet.
    â€œIsn’t smoking bad for baseball?” I push my handlebars more forcefully as we go uphill.
    â€œMaybe.” There’s a hint of defiance in his upturned chin. “But I like doing it. Everyone’s allowed one vice. What’s yours?”
    You.
“I don’t think I have one,” I say, getting caught up in watching the sun stripe the tanned planes of his face. He draws the cigarette to his lips and inhales. His very full, lush lips. Lia wouldn’t stop talking about his lips when they first started dating.
    â€œI believe it. You’re pretty good,” he says. We reach the top of the hill and turn onto Poplar Street, one of the less shady parts of the Arbor. Our houses are closer to the other end of the block, and I slow my pace, desperate to prolong my time with him.
    â€œExcept at Fincher’s. I’m not so good there anymore. I was telling Selwyn today how stuck I feel. Too bad it’s my best option.” I look over at him, daring him to contradict me. He’s watching the cigarette smoke curl up to the sky, with his dreamy look that Lia can’t stand.
    â€œThat’s what my parents keep telling me about baseball,” he says, face still tilted toward the sky. “That it’s my best option—”
    â€œWell, it’s something . . . something you can do well and—”
    â€œAnd make a lot of money from,” he finishes, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with his sneaker. “I know.”
    Not only will he get a good salary, he’ll be guaranteed high ratings for seasons. He’ll never have to think up plotlines to draw in more of the Audience. Great ratings and the payments that go along with them are just basically handed to you when you do something like that.
    â€œYou’re lucky.”
    â€œI guess, but sometimes it seems like baseball came out of nowhere—sort of like how you did back there.” He laughs.
    â€œWell, it didn’t come out of
nowhere,
” I say, stopping at the end of the stone path leading to his house. My driveway is empty, so Mom isn’t home yet. His is empty too, all sparkling white gravel. His parents are going to be home late, and Lia is supposed to come over, and they’re supposed to close up.
    â€œYou weren’t on any teams, but you were always—” I meant to say
graceful
, but I don’t want him to know I’ve thought about how he moves. “Coordinated.”
    â€œMaybe, but I never liked sports. I miss free time,” he says, sticking out his lower lip like a stubborn child. “I miss hiking in the Brambles and hanging out with Conor and Garrick. Even helping Mom with her garden. Now I’m too tired to do anything on the weekends. And then there’s the tracs.” He shakes his head and tugs at the bottom of his T-shirt. “I wore this just to screw with them, because it’s red, and blue’s our color.” He