by Ginger Scott
Coach spends the next few minutes going over basics, like I had to do at my old school. I’ve already taken care of the things on the list like my physical and the waiver forms. I zone out through most of his talk, but perk up when he mentions competing for roster spots. Zack doesn’t flinch, probably because he’s been the starting catcher since freshman year. He’s solid. I am too. Hell, from what Zack told me, I will probably be the ace this year; but still, it’s never good to assume. There’s always someone busting their ass out there. I have to work harder.
“I’ll be pairing you guys for head-to-heads and training. Competition fosters greatness, and I don’t believe positions are guaranteed; they are earned. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” we all say. Funny how we know we’re supposed to.
“Okay, so listen for your names to be called. This will be your group until we move into official tryouts next month and I have our final roster. I’m keeping fifteen, and other than pitchers, some of you might not get to play. If you’re okay with that, stick around. If not, well, thanks for coming in today.”
Nobody leaves, but I can tell a few of the guys sitting in front of Zack and me want to. I glance sideways at Zack and he lifts his brows.
“This guy isn’t fucking around,” he says.
I breathe out a laugh and shake my head.
“Jennings,” Coach says.
Zack and I both answer.
“Oh, right. I meant Cannon first. Pitcher only, right?” Coach peers at me, his finger pushing up the brim of his hat just enough to bring his eyes out of the shadow. They’re crystal blue and a bit like lasers, wrinkled at the corners from squinting in the sun for years, I imagine.
“Yes, sir,” I respond.
He nods and makes a note on his clipboard.
“Jennings, Zack,” he says, reading my cousin’s name as it’s probably written. “You’ll be working with Hollis.”
Hollis? I casually glance around the room, not seeing the girl of my dreams. Maybe I didn’t hear it right.
The first thing I notice on Zack is the way his forehead creases, a dent between his brows. His mouth is parked in an O shape, so I slide my right foot into his to jostle him from this sudden trance.
“Hollis, uhm, okay. Sure.” He heard the same name I did. He also did not say yes, sir, and given the way Coach narrowed his eyes on him, it was not the right move.
Coach holds his clipboard against his chest, folding his arms over it and leaning his head to the side. I think if he could give Zack a detention for that answer, he would.
“Is there a problem with that?” Coach’s brows are lifted in expectation. I tap my foot against Zack again, willing him to respond.
“No, sir. No,” he sputters out.
“Good,” Coach says. “You might learn a thing or two from her.”
From her. Oh . . . fuck.
“You mind working out with a girl, Jennings?” Her voice is as rich with her Staten Island roots as it was when I kissed her two nights ago. Puzzle pieces fly together: her accent, Coach’s accent. His eyes, her eyes. New to town, her dad moved for work.
I turn just enough to catch her pulling her catcher’s helmet and mask from her head, her blonde hair tied up in a knot at the base of her neck.
“Gear’s a little tight, but it should do,” she says, handing it to her dad.
Fuck me, that’s her dad.
“Thanks for taking it for a ride,” he says, nodding to his daughter.
Fuck me, that’s his daughter.
“Sure, but next time remember . . . it’s ladies and gentlemen when you’re talking to us, ’kay?” she says, reaching forward and playfully punching his arm. Guess I know where the laugh came from when he started his speech. Pretty sure he’s not going to punish her for it, either, on account of her being right and all. Oh, and being his freaking spawn.
“Hey, Cannon from Indiana,” she says, the same mischievous bend to her lips that made me feel absolutely drunk on her mouth forty-eight hours ago.
I don’t dare respond with the same flirtatious tone I used last time, instead opting to nod as she backs away with a wink. I think I just got played.
“Your partner is leaving without you, son,” Coach says to Zack. My cousin is still a bit stiff from the shock of having to fight for his position against his new coach’s daughter. Talk about delicate.
“Oh, yeah. Thank you. I’ll catch up,” Zack says, his words all jumbled and hesitant. His confidence literally just crawled away and sank through the cracks of the clubhouse’s concrete floor.
Not wanting the same fate, I grab my bag from under the bench so I can escape without taking more blows to my ego. I’m nearly out, too, when Coach stops me by hollering my name. I turn with my back flat on the door, my mouth suddenly dry with the mystery of the unknown.
“I see you know my daughter.”
There’s a pregnant pause that’s thick enough to choke our football team’s offensive line. I keep expecting him to say more, to ask a question or shoot me some warning to stay away from her, which of course I will absolutely obey. He doesn’t. Just that one statement, along with his laser stare from his weathered death eyes.
“A little. We just met,” I say, finally, my delayed response clearly exposing my nerves.
“Hmm,” he says with a nod.
I pull my lips in tight, mostly to keep from saying anything else.
“Go on,” he says, after another painful pause.
Yes, sir. I only think it this time.
I round the clubhouse and look out on the track, where Hollis is about to lap someone. Zack hasn’t even finished tying his laces. My cousin is in trouble, but not as much as I am. If I want to make it to Vanderbilt, or anywhere like Vandy, I need to be at the top of my game. One midnight kiss, though, and my season is cursed. So help me if that vixen ends up calling my pitches.
2
Hollis Taylor
For a bedroom filled with so much crap, it’s weird how I can’t seem to find anything. We’ve been moved in for a month. That’s thirty days I’ve had to dump my clothes out of trash bags and put them into actual drawers. I miss my gym, though, and I found a place to lift and work out that I want to try. The only thing stopping me is locating my Nikes. I’m probably compounding things by the piles I’m making in the center of my floor while I search.
“Mom!” She’s going to rip me a new one the second she walks in, but her lecture is worth the use of her location superpowers. My mom can find anything. My dad reported a credit card missing last Christmas, before consulting her. The moment she found out he lost it, she walked straight out of the house and to the driveway where she began surveying the bushes. She plucked it from some branches in seconds and held it up proudly. He’d been holding it in his teeth while wheeling in the trash receptacles the night before and must have spit it out and forgot. She remembered; she always remembers.
“Jesus H. Ch—”
“I know. I’m working on it,” I lie, cutting off my mom’s assessment of my room mid-blaspheme.
She digs her fingertips into her forehead with both hands as she steps over the pile in the entryway and into the center of my room. Chin down and jaw tight, she holds back all the little comments I know she’d like to make about how could she have raised such a slob.
“Nikes,” I say. It’s best to give her a task.
She breathes out through her nose loud enough that I fully understand how irritated she is. She makes a slow quarter-turn while she scans the perimeter of my room and stops abruptly, letting out another huff that indicates I would have seen them myself if I only got my shit together.
“They are on your PlayStation, for whatever reason,” she says through a grimace.
“That’s right!” I leap over the new pile I made and grab my shoes before leaping toward my mom and kissing her on the cheek. “You’re the best.”
“Mmm hmm,” she hums.
“Keys?” I know, it’s a big ask considering the state of my room. My pa
rents are suckers, though. With her tongue over her front teeth, she sucks in and reluctantly hands me the keys to the van.
“Tonight, this gets taken care of, okay?” She doesn’t bother to look me in the eyes, and it’s probably because she knows I’ll fail at her ultimatum. I’ll try to unpack, though. I truly will.
“Deal,” I say, catching the short laugh that leaves her chest, showing her doubt.
I dart from my room, shoes in one hand and keys in the other while my mom lingers in my room and opens my drawers. I bet most of my things are put away by the time I get back.
“Off to try that workout place. I’ll let you know,” I shout at my dad as I hit the driveway. He gives me a quick wave while playing street hockey with my little brother, Ben. He’s taking shots at my brother with whiffle balls. Ben is eight, and he wants to be a goalie. My dad tried to talk him into catching instead, but Ben is obsessed with the ice. He’s going to outgrow my dad’s hockey-coaching skills soon, but until then, Coach Travis Taylor will be splitting time between the ice and the grass.
I slip my feet into my untied shoes before backing the van out, my dad moving my brother’s goal out of the way while I pull into the road. It’s going to take me a while to line up the view I’m used to seeing with the one I will for the rest of my senior year. Both my old street and this one are tree-lined, and both houses have a certain nineteen-seventies charm about them with banged up vinyl siding and pretend shutters glued on either side of the windows. But where a two-minute jaunt down a Staten Island road took me to Sal’s Meats and Cheese, Al’s Liquors, Rose’s Deli, and Rick Manning’s Boxing Elite—the gym I grew up on—the only thing two minutes down this street is more trees. They’re nothing but winter sticks now, but I bet when spring rolls around, it’s pretty.
Having a real yard is nice too. And Dad promised Mom a pool in the ground. The above-grounder we had back home—our old home—leaked twice a season. Even when I take off for college, my family will stay put. That’s what this deal is about, finding a good place to settle in and raise Ben. While I loved being so close to the city, it made my parents nervous. They said Ben isn’t tough like I am, which I guess I can kinda see. He doesn’t get bullied or nothin’, but he’s quiet. Whatever their logic is or was, it ended up with us living here.
At least I get to be part of a better team during my senior year. Xavier Prep back home was competitive, but only against other small schools. We won state in a tiny division that means nothing to colleges because our school was more about academics. We didn’t exactly have the largest pool of ball players to choose from, either. And the parents on the board were not keen on the idea of me playing on a team with boys. It didn’t seem to bother them enough to fund a softball team—not that I wanted to switch sports—but the topic sure dominated the conversation at parent meetings.
“What’s she gonna do, play football next?”
“I suppose Coach Grady will bring his daughter in to QB?”
“She’s going to get hurt.”
My dad and I heard that last argument time and time again, and it irks me the most. Nobody knows how much I can endure, not even my father. Some trials in life are survived and meant to be kept close to the chest, used to build armor and grow strength. I’m strong on my own, but the battles I’ve come through on my journey to do something I love have definitely shaped my fortitude. They’re my stories to either tell or keep tucked inside, and I see no reason to share them with anyone.
After ten minutes of weaving through streets and stop-sign intersections, I spot A&P Fitness. It’s promising, especially because the building doesn’t look like some slick treadmill factory. Rick’s was a boxing gym, so I’m used to working with free weights and jump ropes. The occasional speed bag is fun too. I pull into a spot near the door, between two sedans. I should probably back out and move somewhere else; the fit is tight. But before I shift into reverse, a jacked-up pickup slides into the spot behind me. I won’t be here long; this is only an exploratory visit.
I grab my dad’s ear pods from the center console and head inside. I’m greeted by a heavy boom that echoes around the brick walls, and I flinch a little.
“It’s just the tire,” says an older man from behind a desk. I’d guess he’s in his late sixties, but maybe he’s just a smoker. His skin is pretty tan and wrinkled. Straw-like blond hair pokes through the sides and back of his trucker cap, and his arms fill the sleeves of his Notre Dame T-shirt. He’s fit for a senior. I have a good idea this place belongs to him.
“Ah,” I say, glancing around the gym again until I find a familiar body squatting to lift the side of a monster tire. His body was the first thing I noticed about Cannon at the New Year’s party. Tacky and predictable, maybe, but he’s not built like the guys back home. He’s taller. And pretty stacked for a pitcher. I see why now that I watch him pushing up what must weigh 400 pounds with ease. His gaze hits mine briefly across the tire’s tread.
“Hi,” I mouth, holding up a hand. His cheeks sink in, his jaw clenching as he grunts and hoists the tire over again. The boom doesn’t startle me this time. Cannon looks away, tearing tape from his hands with his teeth.
“You know the Jennings boys?”
“Huh?” I jerk back to the muscle-man behind the counter. “Oh. A little. I’m new here, like Cannon. From Indiana.”
I giggle lightly to myself, but he just looks at me like I’m nuts.
“You’re from Indiana?” The man quirks a brow, and I realize how stupid that sounded.
“No, it’s just a nickname. Sorry, inside joke,” I mumble.
“Ah,” he grunts. He centers himself at his register and I spot the half-empty pack of cigarettes left on the chair he was sitting in. My assessment is spot on so far.
“You wanna a day pass, sugar?”
I roll my shoulders from habit. Some men have always talked to women that way, but it still makes me want to vomit and punch them when they do it to me. That’s what you get when your mom teaches women’s studies for an online university. I hear the same lessons every semester, and the one about the cycle of labeling hits home.
“Sure, pumpkin,” I shoot back. His eyes dart up, away from his register drawer, probably not sure he heard me right. I wink to let him know he did, and he laughs through one side of his mouth—the one with a well-chewed toothpick hanging out.
“Alright, then,” he says. I hand over my card and he rings me up for a five-dollar pass while I scan the board behind him for the monthly rates. There’s an old black-and-white photo tacked on a corkboard, and even though I don’t quite see the similarities, I take a gamble.
“That you?” I motion to it.
He glances behind him and pulls the pin from the board, bringing the photo closer.
“In my prime,” he says, fond memories tugging up the corners of his mouth, toothpick and all. He leans forward on both elbows, studying the photo closely.
“You know, I could have put those Jennings punks in their place back in my day. Joker flips that tire like he’s something, but I’d like to see him move the whole goddamn tractor!” His joke echoes loud enough that Cannon turns his head and grimaces. I can tell this banter must be normal between them.
“Well, I’ll try and put him in his place for ya. What do you say?” I expect more of a laugh than I get, but there’s a slight smirk and hint of a nod. He’s daring me to try, or at least, I decide that’s what that gesture means.
I move over to the area near Cannon, dropping my things on the metal chair in the corner and pulling one of the jump ropes from a hook on the concrete wall. He paces around the tire with his hands threaded behind his neck, a good deal of sweat discoloring his gray T-shirt, his hair slick and floppy and super sexy. His hands fall to the bottom of his shirt as he turns to face me, and he lifts the front to wipe the moisture from his face, giving me a good view of his perfectly sculpted abs and widening chest. He’s disciplined, and that is sexier than the damp waves of hair falling into his eyes, but just barely.
> “This is a cool place,” I say, swinging the rope out to untangle it as I hold on to either end.
“I guess,” Cannon laughs out, a bit abruptly for someone whose tongue was in my mouth a couple of days ago. My gaze ices over as he turns away.
“Oh, I get it,” I say, lining the rope up with the front of my feet. I glance up to briefly catch his eyes on mine.
“What?” he grunts, grabbing a water bottle from the floor near my things. He twists the top and guzzles down every last drop.
“Nothing. Just that you’re one of those,” I say with a shrug. Swinging the rope out, I wait for it to come back at my feet and I jump, a methodical double bounce to my feet as I whirl the heavy rubber rope in circles around my body to get my heart rate up.
“One of what?” He doesn’t make the pfft sound after his words, but it’s implied in the sour look he wears. Standing, he grabs a rope and moves about ten feet away, turning to face me as he jumps rope a little faster than me.
I wobble my head side-to-side and glance up, catching sight of the loose blonde hairs that have crept out from my head band and hair tie. I blow at them, maintaining my jumping speed. I’m not winded in the least. Back home, we lived on a hill. Dad made me sprint up it ten times in a row before I was allowed to sit at the dinner table. This rope, it’s nothing.
“One of those guys who kisses girls for fun, then acts like a total prick the next time he sees them.” The thwap of my rope against the concrete floor picks up its pace as I take away the double bounce and jump fast enough to hear the wind caused by my rope whirling through the air.
Cannon’s rope stops completely.
“Okay, now, hey,” he says, a defensive shake to his head. “That’s not fair.”
He runs the side of his fist over his brow to blot away sweat, his rope clutched against his hip in his other hand.
