Varsity Rulebreaker

by Ginger Scott

  “Right, well, so . . . he’s an ass.” I sum him up neatly, not going into all the details. I don’t need to bore my new friends—my only friends—with baseball politics and details of a sexist sports culture. My assertion seems to be on point, because within a blink they’re sharing their experiences with him.

  “He literally patted me on the head once when I was sitting next to him at a basketball game. I was trying to get to know him and asked a question about the game. He turned to me with an open palm and patted me like a puppy.” Lola’s innocent features are suddenly fierce, a bit of a snarl to her lips; I like her even more.

  “He led my friend Abby on for weeks, but then she got tired of his games,” June says. “It all worked out because now she’s filming a movie in Toronto, and thinks she’s totally meant to be with someone else.”

  “You said games,” I echo, picking up on that word especially. “What do you mean, games?”

  June shrugs and takes a bite of her sandwich, glancing up in search of an example.

  “Okay, so like, when he’s at a party or hanging out with the guys, he acts one way, but then when you get him on his own, he’s totally a different person. He held my friend’s hand and cuddled up to her at parties then ignored her existence the next day. Abby says he’s moody, and I think that’s the best description. Maybe he’s only chill when he’s buzzed at a kegger. I don’t know.”

  Her examples fit the mold I’ve made for Cannon in my head. Our kiss was a caught-in-the-moment thing, but still, the switch he flipped between attitudes is unreal. Maybe his behavior isn’t all driven by the fact I’m encroaching on his turf. Maybe he’s just a douchebag.

  By the time our lunch hour ends, I feel relaxed and a little more accepted. When I look around at the other girls, I still feel as though I stick out in this place, but that’s not going to change. I like high-top shoes without laces and baggy sweatpants, and shirts stolen from my dad’s college collection. I don’t wear bras, unless they are sports bras, opting for camisoles or nothing at all. I want to feel I can breathe under my clothes, and I don’t want to wake up early just to change the girl I am. The only rule I might break is letting Lola curl my hair, and mostly on a dare because I don’t think it can be done. Plus, her hair is pretty freakin’ bomb.

  The end of my day is pretty easy. I opted for study hall instead of taking an early release. I did it to be able to take weight training at the end of the day. It was the only way I could avoid spending two full hours hanging out in my dad’s office. It’s bad enough being his daughter, I didn’t need to add to the optics by being glued to his side. I’m riding the high of decent lunch company and the comfort of knowing that tomorrow I will have a place to sit, when the warm fuzzies turn into blistering acid. Cannon is sitting in the back of the study hall room, hat brim tipped down over his forehead to shade his eyes, probably so he can sleep. I recognize a guy from the New Year’s party sitting next to him, one of the twins I’ve heard about. I’m about to slip by unnoticed when the guy’s eyes land on mine, causing him to sit up straight and slap Cannon’s hat from his head.

  “Dude!” The few people already here turn to look as Cannon chastises him, and I take advantage of his attention on his friend, darting to the other side of the room and making my way up front. I slip into a desk, pulling out my phone to double check my schedule that I have the right room. My hope is dashed quickly, though it was a longshot that there were two study hall locations at the same time. Tucking my chin into my shoulder, I peer behind me to see if Cannon has gone back to hibernating. His eyes are glued to mine the moment I glance in his direction. His mouth a hard line, and he gives a slow shake of his head as if he’s disappointed in me.

  It’s the other way around, buddy.

  Not wanting to let him in my head, or give him the satisfaction of feeling he matters, I shrug and shift my gaze to his friend. I nod a silent hello that makes his friend chuckle and nod back. I’m pretty sure he’s gotten the full story from Cannon, only neither of them have seen me play. Today is important, and I knew it would be. I’ve been in this position before, the one who has to prove herself to an overly skeptical crowd. The hardest part is that no matter how hard I work and how good I am, there are some who will still wear their blinders and refuse to acknowledge they maybe had me pegged all wrong.

  Renewed, and amped with the familiar sense of drive, I turn back into my seat and pull my notebook from my bag, flipping to the middle to write my goals for the next five days. I got this habit from my dad. He’s always done it in his scorebooks and on lineup sheets. He doesn’t write down criticisms for his players, but instead takes the things he thinks they’re failing at and makes notes for himself, for the work he needs to do to make them better. It’s one of the things that makes him great at his job, and that’s not simply my opinion as his daughter. He won a few awards from the university he coached at for his player-driven dedication. It’s his approach, always looking for the things he can do rather than blaming someone else for failing on their end. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t expect his players to pull their weight. In fact, most of his players end up making their own notes, taking ownership of their weaknesses and goals. It’s a proven method that has made his winning record one of the best in East Coast baseball. It’ll work here, if the people in this program embrace it. The guy napping under his hat about twenty feet behind me gives me doubts.

  The teacher for our study hall kicks out the door stop to shut the door before he beelines to the desk at the front of the room, laptop in hand. After a quick run through roll call, he ignores us completely, immersed in whatever he’s working on. If he weren’t typing constantly, I’d think the guy was watching porn. His eyebrows keep flickering in reaction to whatever he’s reading, and I’m distracted by it for longer than I’d ever admit. I find my focus again before the hour is done, sketching out five goals for today’s workouts. The physical stuff I’ll knock out without a problem, but that last item—make Cannon see me as his equal—will be ongoing, I fear.

  I wouldn’t care so much if it weren’t for the fact Cannon is our ace. I haven’t even seen him throw in person yet, just the videos my dad watched from the scouting sites. I know his numbers and what he throws; I memorized all that before we got here so I’d be ready to catch him. I would never admit this to my dad, but I’m a little worried about Zack. The pitcher-catcher relationship is special, and they’ve had a childhood of playing catch to gel. They have blood ties. The only thing I have going for me is my hunch that I might be able to amp up Cannon’s adrenaline, pissing him off enough to gain a mile or two per hour on his fastball. I note that in the margin before the class ends, packing up and breaking between Cannon and his friend before they reach the door. My shoulders brush their arms as I pass, something I make sure of and do not acknowledge. I grin over it, childish as the move was, and I maintain the high all the way to the girls’ locker room.

  It would be easy to dump my things in my dad’s office, but again, I need that separation. It has to be noticeable for this to work. It’s one of the things I learned from Xavier; one of the things we did wrong, though I don’t know if that would have mattered. There was hostility brewing there for some people that ran deeper than the appearance of nepotism. I’m encouraged to see three other girls dress out with me. I’d braced myself to be the only girl in the weight room. It’s nice to have sisters. I don’t know them yet, so I rush to catch up to the last one in the locker room after I finish getting dressed. I reach her just as she hits the door with her palm.

  “Hey, wait up!” I yell.

  She pauses at the door, spinning to show me a bright smile that makes me feel as though she needs a friend in this class, too.

  “Hey! Oh, my God, I’m so glad I’m not the only girl.” She holds the door open wide and I slip by her, noting her slender arms and legs as I pass. I don’t think she’s done this sort of thing before, but I don’t know that for certain, and I would be a hypocrite if I assumed.

  “I feel tha
t. I’m Hollis.” I hold out my hand as I walk backward along the short sidewalk between the locker rooms and weight room. She’s amused by my formality, another habit I got from my dad, I guess, but she takes my hand and gives me a fish-like shake. I bury the creeped-out expression I want to make and commit myself to taking this girl under my wing in here. Goal one, learn how to shake with authority.

  “I’m Maddy. And I have no idea what I’m doing.” She laughs through her words.

  “Okay.” I nod, still walking backward.

  I sense the building is getting close, so I shift to turn and my chin slams into a thick bicep. An arm curls around me from the other side, catching me mid-collision. The smell is familiar, and it takes the same amount of time for me to place it as it does for him to speak.

  “You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Cannon’s hand instantly lets go of my midriff, as if repulsed at the realization that I’m the body he caught. I jump back, equally repulsed to be caught by him, and angry with my hormones for fluttering at his touch.

  “I don’t have to do anything to you,” I respond. Checkmate for having the right comeback, but boo for making my goal even harder to achieve.

  The three of us stand in an awkward triangle, Maddy caught in the middle of Cannon and my silent showdown. She’s tugging nervously at the bottom of her T-shirt. I see the movement in my periphery because I refuse to fully look away from Cannon.

  “Hi—ey,” Maddy interjects, thrusting her palm between the two of us. Oh, God . . . she’s going to shake his hand.

  Cannon’s gaze drops to the pale, spindly fingers quivering in front of him, and I flash my attention to my new friend, warning her to retreat with a buzzing shake of my head. She must be young. I think she’s a freshman. I never should have put the handshake idea in her head.

  “Hi,” Cannon says, his head cocked and eyes now on Maddy. I can’t tell whether he thinks this is a joke or not, but he tentatively takes her hand, his eyes flinching when he experiences the same thing I did.

  Oh, man. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.

  “I’m Maddy,” I hear her say.

  “Cannon,” he responds. I open my eyes in time to see their hands fall away, and I’m not sure who I’m more glad for that it’s over.

  “You should get better friends, Maddy,” he adds, before flinging open the weight room door and letting it slam in my face.

  Maddy. I’m more glad for Maddy.

  “He is beautiful,” she hums, her eyes entranced in the space he left behind.

  “He’s a pig,” I say without pause. I hold the door open for my infatuated friend, and as she passes me, a flash of jealousy hits my gut. I want to ignore it, but I’ve got a lifetime of experience acknowledging my feelings, and there’s no mistaking that’s what I felt. It was brief, and it was irrational. But it was there. And it’s because even as awful as Cannon is behaving, Maddy is right. He is beautiful.

  On the outside.

  5

  Cannon

  What are the odds that Hollis Taylor is in fifty percent of my classes? Scratch that; I’m tired of dwelling on odds of fifty percent. From now on, I avoid fifty-fifty like the plague! But seriously, do I have to start and end my day with her?

  Hollis is basically a hot but disheveled mess. By the time we had weight lifting together, she’d essentially tied her hair up in an actual knot. I’m pretty sure I saw a binder clip holding that shit up. And yeah, I was staring when she turned her back. That’s the problem with the hot mess part. She was wearing black leggings and a gray T-shirt that was about two sizes too big, and it shouldn’t have been sexy, but on her it just . . . was. There was something about the way she rolled the sleeves up tight over her toned shoulders that I couldn’t ignore. She’s tan, which is a rarity for this town, especially in the winter. Back home in New Mexico, everyone is always outside. Sun-kissed skin is a year-round feature. Everyone here looks pale. Hollis defies the gray, though, which means she must thrive outside. I guess New York tempers you for freezing cold weather.

  It’s blustery today, maybe forty-five degrees out. My arm hurts just thinking about throwing a bullpen, but Zack and my uncle keep telling me I’ll get used to it. I guess if I could get acclimated to regularly playing in ninety-degrees back home, then forty shouldn’t be a problem. By late April when playoffs hit, it should be about perfect. I just need to stay healthy.

  Zack’s waiting for me outside the clubhouse, already dressed out and ready for workouts. I nod and grin, holding up my fist to pound as I pass.

  “First one dressed and ready, nice job,” I say before spotting Hollis already hitting the track beyond his shoulder.

  “Second,” he says with an eyeroll. Everything about him is closed off, already defeated.

  “Hey, you’re the starting catcher. Go show him why,” I encourage. My cousin fakes a smile that lasts for a fraction, then hoists his gear bag over his shoulder and trails backward toward the track.

  “Your stuff’s in the corner,” he says. His last class is near the front of the building, and he did me a major solid by hauling my things across campus.

  “See you out there,” I say.

  He merely nods and takes off in a rhythmic jog, the weight of his catching equipment smacking against his side with every step.

  There are only a handful of guys in the clubhouse when I enter, so my cousin is still a shining example of being on time by being early. Hollis and I came from the same spot on campus, so I’m not sure how she beat me here.

  For the most part, I know most of the guys doing the workouts. It’s the same team as last year, minus one senior who wasn’t very good. We should be tight this year, contenders, as long as we put the right people on the field. I can’t imagine Coach Taylor going the everyone gets to play route just so his daughter gets a turn, but my cousin’s worry is messing with my head. Today should put a lot of that to bed, though. We’re gonna be on the field, and I’m throwing to both of them. Weaknesses will show themselves.

  I pull on my compression pants and shirt and slip my shorts on over the top. Then I grab my cleats and push my feet into my turf shoes for the time being. There are only two other guys who are just pitchers like me. The rest of the rotation is made up of position players who throw decently. I like having a small squad to work with. It means I get more attention from our pitching coach, more work in, and better looks from the schools I’m targeting.

  I wait by the door for Jay and Roland, the other two in my group. When they grab their gloves and jog my way, I push through the door, the bright sun making me squint, and the steady wind drying out what’s exposed of my eyes. Goddamn, I miss the Southwest.

  We jog in sync down to the track and dump our gloves and cleats in a pile before starting our first lap. Our pace is steady but slow. By the time we round the curve, Hollis and my cousin are at the field, throwing.

  Atta boy.

  My gaze once again drawn forward, my eyes land smack on Coach’s. Arms crossed over his chest, he squints against the sun, his face hard. I’d say expressionless if it weren’t for the obvious ire slightly pulling down the corners of his mouth. I’m not sure what makes me speak up. Maybe I still feel the curse of my day and schedule, or maybe Zack is in my head. I stretch my hands out at my sides, palms up, and my lips move with the word just as my brain shoots a warning to my vocal chords. Noooo! Don’t . . . do . . . it!

  “What?” The simple question spills from my mouth, loud enough that it’s distinguishable, undeniable that it came from me, hostile and oppositional—all qualities that get you cut before you even make it to tryouts if you don’t throw like I do.

  My feet keep going, though my partners pick up the pace, distancing themselves from me. I don’t blame them. I manage to pull my stare from Coach as I round the corner and kick it in a little faster through the straightaway. When I pass Jay and Roland, they up their pace to match me, and by the time we round the next curve and hit the final straightaway, we’re near a sprint, a shotgun rac
e to see who crosses the finish line first. Roland edges me out by a foot, and I beat Jay by a full two strides.

  Chests pounding, the three of us rest our folded hands over our heads, slowing from a jog to a walk as we make our way back to our pile of gloves and shoes, cheeks red and mouths panting.

  “Jennings!”

  The guys don’t even spare me a glance. It was a long shot that he’d let this pass. Things always seem to start off this way with me. By the end of the season, I’m coach’s favorite, but for whatever reason, I always go into relationships adversarial. It’s a flaw. I’m aware. I hate it. Still, every fucking time!

  This one, it’s on Zack. And Hollis. I wish none of it concerned me, only Zack is the entire reason I’m here. Me and Zack, that’s how it was always meant to go down. Our fathers have this shared dream, and yeah, maybe there is some vicarious living happening, but regardless, it’s had years of hope invested in it. That’s too much importance to be ruined by some chick out to prove a point, and her pissed-off, protective father.

  “I’ll see you guys in the bullpen.” I nod. Jay lifts his hand up, but neither of them glances over their shoulders. They’re safe. My fuck up, my punishment.

  “Coach?” I say as I jog to where he stands at the edge of the track. Assistant Coach Dixon gives me a short nod, a hint of a smirk buried under his mustache. At least he’s amused by my hot head. I won’t have to do the make-up work with him.

  “Ten percent of the population is left-handed. You know that?” Coach Taylor’s jaw rolls as he chews at a piece of gum. His eyes are trained on the track, his focus on the clump of fielders making their way around it at different paces.

  “Something like that, yeah. I read that somewhere maybe,” I answer, even though I haven’t. It’s just a fact that seems about right.

  “I bet you think that makes you special,” he spits out, and my mouth pops open in awe. I close it quickly, disciplined enough to know that anything I say next will surely be incriminating. He snaps his gum once as his head swivels my direction, his eyes full of years of experience dealing with players like me.