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asks.
    Because it might very well be. I remember when Austin Braxton moved into the starting pitcher position a few years ago, how the town went into an uproar. People around here don’t take change so well. Everyone knew that he was the golden ticket for Lewis Creek baseball, and even
he
got his rear handed to him in his first front-page feature. He proved them all wrong within one game, but if he wasn’t safe from the vultures, I sure as hell won’t be.
    Taking a deep breath, I roll my shoulders. Crack my neck. Grab the paper and open it to the front page.
    The Future of Lewis Creek Baseball, or the Downfall?
    And I want to trash it already. My stomach churns. Grace isn’t the only one who’s gonna puke. My picture is dead center—a snapshot of me sitting on the bench from last season. They couldn’t hunt down a shot of me while I was pitching? Give me a break here.
    â€œEric?” Dad says. “Just leave it—”
    â€œâ€˜ Eric Perry has a decent arm,’” I read aloud, “‘and the potential is there—that’s not our concern. Our concern is with a boy whose behavioral track record is not up to Bulldog standards. His moral compass clearly leaves much to be desired.’”
    Wow. Some aloe would be nice for that burn.
    â€œâ€˜And while his fastball is mildly impressive,’” I continue, my voice dropping, “‘it doesn’t hold a candle to Lewis Creek all-star Austin Braxton, who graduated last year and moved on to the University of South Carolina. While this year’s team is anticipated to be full of old talent, a pitcher like Braxton comes along once in a life—’”
    I toss the paper onto the table and drop my head onto the wood, groaning. Braxton was a good guy—one of the few solid friends I had around here—but I spent years in his shadow. Now he’s gone, and the paper is
still
kissing his ass. He had years to settle into golden-arm status. I’m being tossed to the wolves without even having a chance to warm up.
    Lifting my head, I catch Dad and Momma sharing one of those you-say-it-no-you-say-it looks. “Y’all can say whatever you want. You don’t have to do your eye-talk thing. I’m a big kid now.”
    Dad blows out a breath. His chair scratches against the floor as he pulls it out and sits at the head of the table. “The three of us had a conversation about this last month. And the month before that. And plenty of times before
that
. About your behavior.”
    â€œI know. I was there.”
    â€œYou know how people love to single out the pastor’s kid.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThey watch you closely enough because of that. And they’re going to be watching you even closer now.”
    â€œ I know.”
    â€œWell if you know everything, why am I talking?”
    My mouth snaps closed. Point taken.
    He holds my gaze as he continues. “You’re not much different than half the other guys in this town—you’re not the only one who drinks and goofs off and likes to have fun. I think we’ve been pretty understanding with all that. But the people out there have their own expectations of a starting pitcher
and
a pastor’s kid. You get a double dose of the pressure.”
    Lucky me.
    â€œAnd I’m not saying you have to make them happy,” he adds, “because you don’t owe them a thing. What you do need to do is keep your eyes open. Give them good things to look at. And we know you can pull that off.”
    â€œWe really do,” Momma chimes in.
    Well, at least they haven’t heard about what happened last night at Joyner’s. Yet. I settle back against my chair, crossing my arms. “If y’all are so sure, why am I getting a lecture right now?”
    â€œBecause you have a habit of slipping when things get rocky,” Dad says, “and I want to make sure you’re on your A-game. Keeping a low