by Ginger Scott
“Okay, how?” I continue to swing and jump, my heart rate picking up. Like hell am I gonna let my breathing pattern reflect that, though. I’ll pass out first.
“How? Pfft!” Aannd there it is. His forehead dents and he puffs out a heavy laugh. I can’t wait for the excuse he’s trying to form. I see his brain working in overdrive behind his scrunched-up eyes. He’s still pretty, just a little less so because I don’t like boys who act like assholes to make themselves feel cool or whatever.
“You didn’t tell me you were Coach’s daughter!” He points at me with the same hand that holds the rope, and it swings harshly as he gesticulates. I can’t help but laugh, which only pushes more of his buttons. Irritated, he grabs my rope mid-air and tangles it around his palm, ripping the ends from my grasp.
“I’m sorry, was I supposed to offer up my resume?” I giggle at the thought and imagine that scenario playing out.
Hi, I’m Hollis Taylor. I’m almost eighteen, and my favorite foods are fried zucchini and every kind of cheese. My parents are Dina and Travis Taylor, and they’re forty-two and forty-three, respectively. Oh, and my father, he’s a coach. Oh, you play baseball? Me, too! No, not for fun. Like you! No, I don’t think I should play softball. Why? Because I like baseball. Oh, but it’s for boys? Huh, I didn’t know that. Is there a sign somewhere that says NO GIRLS ALLOWED?
“You don’t understand,” he grunts out, interrupting the argument going down in my head. Cannon continues to pace with both of our ropes tangled in one hand.
“Spot me?” I say, moving on to the squat rack. I shuffle the plates around, pulling out the forty-fives while he fusses with the mess he made with the ropes.
I’ve got my bar ready to lift by the time he’s done, but he stops about ten feet short of the rack, his hands on his hips, shirt soaked with sweat and his black joggers pushed up on his calves in that super cute way.
“No, I’m not going to spot you. I can’t . . . I mean, you’re—”
“Coach’s daughter,” I say with a roll of the eyes. I step under the bar and find the right fit along my shoulders. I wait a beat to see if he gives in, and when he doesn’t budge I step forward with the bar balanced along my back and shoulders and steady my feet. I get through two whole squats before he mutters, “Fuck” to himself and steps in to assist me.
We don’t talk through my first set, and he shakes his head when I offer to trade off and on with him. I tend to step side to side when my muscles recover, keeping the burn at bay and making the most of the tingles as blood rushes to the skin. I catch Cannon’s eyes on my feet, though, so I abruptly stop to get his attention. I tap a toe until he looks me in the eyes. God, his face is beautiful. His eyes are this deep ocean blue, and his hair is the kind that I’m sure looks good right out of bed. I smile at him with tight lips, silently urging him to spill it, whatever his unexplainable issue seems to be. His expression tightens, his eyes pinch, and his gaze dips to my neck for a full breath.
“My cousin Zack, he’s our catcher. Our starting catcher.”
“Well, I mean, that’s not really decided yet, so . . .” I know where this is going. I’m used to it. It’s partly the reason we’re in Indiana.
“No, you don’t get it. Zack and me, we’re family, and we’ve had this plan for years, to do this together. Our dads have had this plan. Zack, he gets the best out of me. Throwing to him is basically the entire reason I’m out here. And, I mean, just because your dad is the coach . . .” His eyes droop with this desperate plea for me to bend to his will, without forcing him to finish that sentence—that incredibly offensive, full-of-false-assumptions sentence. If I were another guy, he wouldn’t say these things. He’d tell Zack to suck it up and compete. Double standards are so obvious to the one getting stung by them; meanwhile, the perpetrators are ignorant to their own biases.
I guess I’m glad I got the sweet kiss before this conversation. It was a nice kiss, and I choose to keep it separate from this display before me. Maybe I’ll pretend they are two completely different people—the New Year’s Cannon and this sexist one who doesn’t want a girl in his boys’ club. Nodding silently to myself, I glance to the floor as I close the distance between us until I’m close enough to flatten my palm on the cold wet cotton clinging to his chest. He’s rock hard beneath my touch. Damn if both Cannons aren’t built to perfection.
With hooded eyes, I lift my chin just as he tucks his, the feel of his heartbeat strong underneath my hand. I tap out its rhythm a few times and his gaze flits briefly to my fingertips, then back to my eyes. The slight tick up on the right side of his lips probably means he thinks things are going his way. They’re not. Not even close.
“Cannon Jennings from Indiana by way of New Mexico, you have no idea what I’m capable of, so I wouldn’t rush to judge. Maybe I’m the catcher who makes you great. Or maybe I make someone else great, and you, you ride pine a lot more than you’re prepared to.”
My lips close with the satisfied curve that comes along with saying the perfect thing at the perfect time in the perfect way. I let the smile linger as I back away until my shoulders run into the cool metal of the bar and I situate myself, ready for a second set. I lift an eyebrow. In the face of my challenge to pick a side, he does, leaning forward to spit on the concrete, just beyond his shoes.
“This is bullshit,” he says, shaking his head as if I’ve actually broken some sort of law by being good at a game. He tosses his empty water bottle in a nearby recycle bin with a flick and picks up his keys and a towel from the wall on the other side of the gym. He holds up a hand to wave at the old man behind the counter; he grunts in return. Bright light spills into the gym as Cannon pushes through the heavy metal door without bothering to give me a final glance. It slams closed behind him, and I move with the weight on my shoulders to begin my second set alone.
It’s the same every time. Every team. And I’ll prove him, Zack, the whole fucking roster, wrong, the way I always do. It’s a shame I had to kiss him first. And that he had to be so damn good at it.
3
Cannon
I didn’t tell Zack about my little run-in with Hollis. Pete doesn’t exactly make newcomers feel welcome at the gym, so I’m thinking she won’t be back anyway. Hell, the only reason Pete can stand me is that Zack’s been coming here for three years.
I noticed he charged Hollis for a day pass. I’ve never seen him do that once. Ha! He certainly never charged me before my parents were able to get automatic payments set up for him. That’s probably half the reason he likes me, honestly. My mom works in programming and she built him a website. Until last month, Pete just collected cash and stuffed it into a zipper bag to take to the bank every Friday.
Practice and workouts start for real today. Not that the impromptu January second practice wasn’t real. Two miles is a lot longer than I thought it was; I was pretty gassed and still several seconds over. It’s going to take some work to pull off two miles in under ten minutes, but not nearly as much work as it’ll take Zack.
Where my body is long, he’s squatty. His legs are built for catching, power pedestals digging into the ground, ready to stop everything and pounce for a throw to second—not necessarily the kind of legs that hustle around bases. He’s always been a great hitter, though, so his lack of speed shouldn’t hold him back. The whole situation is stressing him the fuck out, though. He hasn’t stopped badgering me with questions I don’t have the answers to since the team meeting and running drill three days ago.
“You don’t think she’s actually on the team, do you?”
“Isn’t there some sort of rule against this?”
“What happens if she gets hit with a bat?”
“Can she really handle your slider? I mean, come on.”
I feel another question coming on, perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting to plunge out of his mouth while we sit here in the school parking lot. It’s our first day back after winter break, too early for him to start in on this shit. I have a statistics class I need to get my head read
y for; I can’t be all jacked up with my cousin’s anxiety.
“You think she was the starter at her old school?” He’s asked me this one already, twice. He already confirmed Hollis didn’t play softball at her last school by scouring her social media, going back years. It’s always been baseball for her. She’s always been special it seems, racing through the doors that “daddy ball” opened for her—all-star teams, batting cleanup, MVP. It’s bullshit is what it is, and I get why Zack’s pissed. But I wish he’d start doing something about it rather than just talking—er, whining.
“Who?” I answer my cousin finally, mostly to be a dick.
He punches my arm with the side of his fist.
“Come on, man.”
I scowl at the throb left in the wake of his hit.
“Piss off. You’re lucky I’m left-handed.” I rub the spot and breathe out, overexaggerating the exhale so maybe Zack will finally get it. I don’t have the answers to his questions, and I have my own questions.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you look up their season,” I suggest.
“Smart, yeah.” He’s already got his phone in his palm, his thumbs typing in the search bar.
Eventually, I step out of the car and toss the keys to my cousin at the curb. Zack’s not great at getting up early, so he eats breakfast during our car rides to school. I don’t like how other people drive, and prefer being behind the wheel anyhow.
I miss my truck. Dad’s driving it out here in two or three weeks with a bunch of our stuff, so I’ll have my own wheels soon enough. How we’re all going to fit in Uncle Joel and Aunt Meg’s house until our rental is ready, I have no clue. It’ll be a chaotic two months, and these few weeks before tryouts are going to be painful.
“Can, hey, look at this,” Zack says, slapping at my arm and shoving his phone in my face. He can’t seem to quit swatting me.
I shirk away from him but take his phone and speed read the story he pulled up from some news site.
XAVIER PREP BOARD OF DIRECTORS VOTES 7-1 TO ACCEPT RESIGNATION FROM COACH CREDITED WITH TURNING SCHOOL’S BASEBALL PROGRAM AROUND
I skim through the first few paragraphs, losing interest as it goes into detail about private-school politics and unhappy parents. I wouldn’t call this breaking news. I scroll down to the end to see the comments, noting maybe a dozen, mostly from players’ parents praising the board for making the decision.
“So, he’s a winning coach who doesn’t do politics. He resigned and they told him not to let the door hit him on the way out. Not sure what you want me to take away from this,” I say, handing the phone back to my cousin. I don’t want to entertain his trip down this rabbit hole, but I admit to myself that it is a little odd that a school would be so okay losing a coach like him, especially one with college experience.
It doesn’t matter whether I indulge or not; Zack is going to kick this can around with or without me.
“It means something’s up with him, that’s what it means. Think about it—a coach goes, what, thirty-six and four, two state titles, and he gets shit-canned? Nah, bruh. Something’s off with that, and I bet it has to do with daddy’s little girl.”
Our friends Hayden, Tory and Lucas are sitting on the brick wall by the front office, so I kick my leg over to sit on the end and turn my back to my conspiracy-theory-spinning cousin.
“Who’s daddy’s girl?” Tory nods, lifting a curious brow. He’s taking this in a whole different direction.
“You talkin’ about Abby?” Lucas sticks his tongue out and nudges Tory, who only slaps his friend’s arm away. It gets uncomfortably quiet after Lucas’s ill-timed joke. I haven’t been hanging out with these guys for long, but from the bits I’ve seen the last few weeks, I’m pretty sure Abby moved on to the D’Angelo twins after she and I tried hooking up.
Let’s just say Abby Cortez and I were a bit like oil and water. From what I heard, it was basically one huge love triangle bomb with the twins, too. That girl is all drama. She took off for some acting gig, and all I know is nobody talks about her dating either of them. I have a feeling Tory isn’t telling the whole story, though. He was pretty into her, but his brother is here, and Abby is long gone. Brotherly loyalty and shit, I guess.
I’m glad the bell rings before Zack can bring the conversation back to Hollis. As far as I know, nobody’s aware of the New Year’s kiss. I’m not up on bragging, and now that Hollis is the enemy, I’d prefer not to throw a meaningless kiss into the mix, especially if I’m supposed to throw ninety-mile-per-hour fastballs at her face.
I hold out a fist and pound my knuckles against Zack’s then the other guys’ before heading to the far west end of campus. It took me a while to learn my way around this place. My old school was all inside, three stories with glass windows and stairwells, super modern and spotless. Allensville Public is laid out like a prison, complete with graffiti. The windows don’t even open anymore thanks to years of paint layers. And the brick buildings are scattered so far apart it’s impossible to get to class on time when you have to motor from one end to the other. I quit trying last semester, and other than a few scowls from a very picky biology teacher, nobody cares if you wander in during attendance.
I slip into statistics as the door closes. Nobody notices. The teacher doesn’t even look up. His glasses are pulled down on the tip of his nose and he’s scratching at the back of his neck while struggling to read his tablet.
“Sherman Poo . . . scooter?” There are snickers at his attempt because even though most of us in here are seniors, we also possess third-grade senses of humor. Dude said poo. It’s funny.
“Uh, it’s Sharmaine? And my last name is Poscotier—puh-sca-tee-ay.” The voice comes from a girl in the front row. From the back, all I can see is the irritated head waggle that shakes her long, blonde ponytail. Her tone is enough to inspire me to take a seat in the very back, though. No way I want to be paired with that—ever. Pooscooter.
“Right.” The teacher nods. There’s a smirk peeking out from his overgrown beard and mustache that makes me wonder if he’s making a mental note to mess her name up for the rest of the year. If he does, he will win the spot of favorite teacher ever on my list.
“Alright, and Jennings? Did Jennings finally make it?”
I must have missed his first trip through the roster.
“Present,” I say, lifting my palm slightly from the desktop. The girl in front of me tucks her head into her shoulder while she twirls a lock of her red hair around a pen. I lean forward enough to catch her eyes and make her blush at getting caught peeking.
“Hi,” I whisper. She whispers Hi back and hunches down in her chair. She shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s cute when girls check me out; the ultimate compliment, really. I could spend a few more seconds silently flirting with her, but that plan is cut short the moment the teacher attempts another name.
“And Taylor. Or is it Hollis?”
A whirlwind hits me, both mentally and physically, as Hollis flings open the closed door behind me, announcing her arrival in a hurried, disheveled, and chaotic scene. You’d think a hurricane was brewing on the other side of the door, her hair wild and her plaid flannel shirt falling off one arm almost completely.
“Hollis, yeah. That’s me. I’m . . . Hollis.” She’s panting, and her eyes land on the open seat next to me. A look of relief colors her face and she takes it, dropping her heavy backpack at her feet and immediately twisting her hair up in a bun on top of her head. She pokes a pencil in to hold it in place.
“Phew, that was rough. How’s it goin’?” She blows up at the loose hairs on her forehead, her cheeks red.
I lean forward and grip the front of my desk, keeping my eyes on the wood grain and my periphery as closed off from her as I can. It takes her about three seconds to tap my shoulder with the eraser end of her pencil.
“Hey!” she whisper shouts.
I sigh heavily and slowly turn my head to the right, forcing a smile and quick nod to respond. She leans to her side to cut the di
stance between us.
“What’d I miss?” She’s already got a notebook out, her hands opening the cover while she stares at me.
“We took a quiz,” I joke, shrugging. For a flash, she believes me. I can see it in the way her eyebrows lift and her pupils bleed into the blue of her eyes.
“Ass,” she bites back after a few seconds, moving back into her own space and writing the date at the top of her paper. She must be a good student. That’s a very good student kinda move.
There are seven open seats in this class. An entire row on the far right. Of all the seats, she took this one, but it doesn’t mean I have to stay here. While our teacher flips on a digital screen at the front of the room, I grab the strap on my backpack and twist to the side, ready to make my break for the farthest desk from Pooscooter and Hollis. Before I can make my escape, though, the teacher flashes a layout on the screen that already has us labeled in our seats.
“Welcome to statistics, brought to you by the Allensville School District’s latest technology grant. I’m Dr. Vanetta, but you can call me Dr. V for short. If you could all be cool and do me the solid of staying in your seats, I won’t have to butcher your names ever again, unless I want to.”
Most of the class chuckles at his introduction, and maybe later, when I’m not pissed off at getting stuck next to daddy’s girl, I’ll laugh about it, too. Right now, I’m focused on making myself as closed off as possible, to the point that the guy to my left is sliding his seat from me inches at a time as I encroach on his space.
“This is my first year here, and last semester was my first as a high school teacher. I’m used to college kids, so my expectations are kinda high. Prepare yourselves to work,” he says, switching the screen over to the syllabus. I note the label at the top—PAGE 1 of 12. Jeeeezusss!
I take my phone out and click to the class listing on my school app, pulling up the documents Dr. V is flying through on the screen. The guy is pretty funny, but he wasn’t kidding about expectations. He’s quickly losing his bid to become my favorite teacher. To my right, Hollis is feverishly scribbling, and I could probably clue her in on how to use the app, but she said it herself—I’m an ass.
