by Ginger Scott
It shouldn’t surprise me, and I guess really, it doesn’t. It disappoints me, though, and that takes me off-guard. I expected more from him, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he was so receptive on the track, or because up until this point, other than a really good kiss, Cannon Jennings has been nothing but an arrogant prick.
I power through about twenty more swings, noting the half-empty bucket. I could move on to regular swings, but because I’m stubborn—or because I can’t help but engage with this guy—I try one more time to show him the way.
“You sure you don’t want a turn?”
I study him until he finally blinks up from the screen. Our eyes would look so good together, I think. If only his didn’t make me absolutely mental.
With a slight eyeroll, he bends and tucks his phone under his mitt to protect it and lines up to swing left-handed. I smirk because it always looks weird to me. Honestly, I’d give anything to be able to do it. I look like a fool when I do anything left-handed.
“Don’t move your feet,” I say, pausing with the ball in my palm, an inch or so away.
He grimaces because he thinks my method is stupid, but he’ll understand next week when my dad makes him do this about a hundred times.
I place the ball and adjust the height of the tee up just a tick for his height. He lines his bat up with a few slow swings, stopping right before impact, then clears his throat as he wriggles his heels into the turf and loads for his first swing. Topping the ball with his bat, it dribbles from the tee and travels about six feet to the center of the cage. It takes every ounce of self-control for me not to revel. Holding in the laugh proves impossible.
“Fuck off,” he retorts, not bothering to wait for me to load the next ball and instead doing it himself. He repeats everything as before, and the result is the same, including my reaction.
“This is stupid,” he says, tossing his bat to the side and undoing a Velcro strap on his batting glove. I reach forward and grab his wrist, my need to coach stronger than my instincts for what is probably a bad idea. His arm petrifies under my touch, forearm flexed with threat. I unwind my fingers one at a time while my eyes are fixed on where they just were. Blood rushes back in to fill the pale spots left behind from my hard grip.
“Sorry. I meant you shouldn’t quit after two tries. It’s a drill, and you’ve never—”
“I know how batting practice works, coach. Thank you, but I’m good.” He offers a salute along with his sharp tongue and bends down, pulling his batting gloves completely off his hands. He picks up his mitt and cradles it under his arm, holding it like a kid holds a teddy bear but with a tinge of aggression. Phone in hand again, he resumes his position against the pole, leaning impatiently, put out that he has to wait for me to finish my drills before we can get on to doing something he likes. Something he’s good at.
Stunned at how quickly he can turn into a child, it takes me a few seconds to regain the ability to move.
“Have you always been this sensitive? Or is that a new thing?” I bend down to get a ball in my hand so my eyes aren’t insulted by his sour puss expression, but it’s still there when I look up. Rather than back down, I glare right back at him, placing the ball on the tee before taking deliberate steps back. Holding my palms out, I offer him a chance to prove me wrong.
He laughs through his nose and looks to the side, squinting as he stares off into the distance where the mound—his comfort zone—sits empty, dirt swirling in the air around it as the wind kicks up. Cocking his head to the side, he levels me with one more hard gaze before giving in, his gritted teeth and flexed jaw evidence of how much he doesn’t want to fall into my trap.
After picking up his bat, he sidles up to the tee, lining up his feet in a position I know in my gut is too far back. I clear my throat rather than say something immediately, which comes off totally passive aggressive. He pushes my buttons and brings out the fighter in me. It’s maddening.
“What?” His shoulders sag, the bat resting heavily on the left one as his hands loosen their grip.
I run my hand over my mouth and chin, giving myself a few seconds to plot the perfect words before they leave my lips.
“So, the point of this drill is torque and bat speed. And the reason you’re not making the right contact is because . . .” I pause and hold my open hands out while my eyes widen to stop him from thinking I’m being insulting. “I know you know how to make good contact. I know you can hit. I’m only trying to correct this one little thing, that’s all.”
He gives me a slight nod, tiny enough that if I blinked I would have missed it.
I step up next to him and nudge his front foot with my toe, guiding him forward a few inches. Pacing around his body, I grab the barrel of his bat and pull it around as I walk the trajectory it would take for a normal swing. He lets me guide his hands while his eyes narrow and follow my movement with suspicion. His forearms flex as they rotate and though I don’t want to, I swallow at the sight; I know he sees me do it.
“You want to make contact . . . right . . . here.” I stop the bat just as it meets the ball, holding it firm and glancing up to make sure he’s looking. His focus isn’t on the mechanics I’m demonstrating at all. It’s on me. More specifically, he’s zeroed in on my eyes. He was just waiting for me to finish my silly little show, until I looked up to find his jaded, pursed lips and completely intolerant expression.
“You think this is stupid. I got it,” I say, letting go of the bat and backing away. I’m so damn mad at myself for trying. I don’t know why I don’t give up when I’m faced with these situations. I’m forever that girl who thinks she can change people’s minds.
I’m about to give him his out, tell him we can do it his way, go straight to hitting from live pitches, when he rears back and rotates his hips, bat following and making hard contact as it drives the ball like a bullet into the metal posts at the other end.
We both stare at the point of impact for a few seconds, and I breathe out a little laugh to accompany my half smile. I’m not sure whether I’m more surprised by the result or his effort. Rather than attempt more conversation, I decide to simply feed him another ball, silently placing it on the tee and stepping back as he moves his feet into position—the right position.
Another swing. More great contact.
I nod, whispering a “Yes” under my breath. He’s still brooding, and any celebration on my part is going to come off as gloating. Not that it isn’t warranted, because I was right, but making a big deal out of that won’t make things better. It’ll only drive the wedge back in that uncomfortable place between us.
We continue on with this pattern, wordlessly working out and going through my usual round of drills. Cannon lets me set the pace and go first so he can copy everything I do. He doesn’t resist when I nudge his feet, but I never once breathe a word aloud. It’s odd, but it’s working, so I don’t fight it.
After the fifth time of picking up all the balls, Cannon kicks the remaining few into the far corner and takes the bucket in his hand, carrying it to the screen at the end so he can throw to me.
“You ready?” His voice startles me because we’ve been carrying on in silence for so long.
“Yeah,” I respond, settling into my comfortable hitting position and nodding for him to begin.
I have noticed a lot of things about Cannon that I will never tell him. It’s enough that he’s already had his lips on mine, but beyond being the best kiss I’ve ever had, he also has the kind of voice you wish could wake you up in the morning and put you to bed at night. It affects me more when he says very few words.
Like now, when he said, “You ready?” It came out in this deep timbre that just hung in the air, the sound of the y at the end lingering a little longer than it would from any other mouth. And then there’s his movement. He pitches as if he’s putting on a contemporary ballet, every tick of his muscles purposeful, each pause met with a fluid extension of his arms and legs. The way he draws his leg up and separates his
arms before exploding with a slingshot of power that sends the ball exactly where it’s meant to go—exactly where I asked for it—is pure perfection.
His talent is undeniable, but there’s an undertone of truly primal appeal that I have been fighting every single time we throw together. I find myself growing jealous of the times he works out with his cousin, and not because I think Zack is a threat to my playing time. I’m envious that he gets to watch Cannon work.
Those movements are now on display, and for his first three or four pitches, I’m thrown off my game. A smug satisfaction tugs his lip up on one side, and it’s enough to shake me out of my awe. I send his next pitch barreling back at him, my ball striking the metal of the L-screen shielding him. He flinches and I shoot him a smirk of my own, flipping the bat in my hand for show. He shakes his head, and looks down at his feet with a quiet laugh that I instantly add to my short list of traits I admire about him.
Lips puckered, he flexes and digs in to throw me another pitch, contributing to this game of batting-practice chess that our competitive sides decided to play. I swing way too early, fooled by the slowed-down ball that seems to float by long after my bat slices through the zone.
“Whoa!” I grin at the path the ball took over the plate, impressed with a pitch my dad should know he can throw.
“You like that?” He tips his chin up, the shadow of his hat leaving his eyes for just a moment.
“That wasn’t bad,” I say, not wanting to inflate his ego too much.
“Not bad.” He chuckles. “Not bad, she says,” he continues on, a teasing spirit to his tone. It is hard not to find this Cannon Jennings utterly charming.
Swinging his arms around at his sides, he puts on a serious face, leaning forward as if getting a sign from his catcher. I play along and drop my bat to the side, crouching down and giving him the sign for slider, which is what I think that was. One of his eyes closes more than the other and his lip ticks up. I heed the warning and shoot to my feet, grabbing my bat and readying myself for the pitch. This one sails through even slower, somehow fooling me so badly that I swing hard enough to tie up my legs and trip myself. It’s mortifying, and to add insult to injury, Cannon laughs like a madman at the other end of the cage, rearing his head back and holding his glove against his gut.
“Glad you’re amused,” I grumble, brushing my palms along the fresh raspberries scraped into my kneecaps, noting the new hole in my favorite pair of joggers.
By the time I’m upright and on my feet, Cannon has made his way to my side. I jerk, surprised by his instant—and very close—presence. He tilts his head, maybe curious at my reaction, then lifts his hand, a ball balanced at the tips of his fingers.
“That pitch,” he begins, blinking his focus to the ball. Mine follows as he slowly rotates the ball in the air between us, the seams moving at an angle away from me. “It’s not quite a full curve. I throw it more like a slider, so the ball tends to . . . go . . . like . . . this.” He bends as he gives his description, walking the ball through the air and over the plate along the same trail it took the two times he threw it.
“You make that up?” I ask. He’s crouched down, his quad muscles completely filling out his joggers, thighs tight and thick like a man. I swallow at the sight of them. He must notice because he rises, clearing his throat. I’ve just objectified him. I scrunch my face, embarrassed, while he’s not looking.
“My dad used to throw it when he was in college. He showed me how when I was in Little League.” He tips his head up and hits me with dazzling eyes that are warmed by this fond memory. It’s sweet, and genuine. His mouth quirks up, dimpling his cheek. “I threw that sucker all the way to the championship one year.”
He laughs once, eyes narrowing over his growing smile as he looks back to the ball in his hand. He rolls it in his fingers.
“You win?” I ask.
He glances up through dark lashes. My list of things I like about him is ever-growing, though admittedly superficial. His chest quakes with one more short laugh before he shakes his head, tossing the ball in his hand and gripping it with a firm palm, fingers spread along the seams just where they’re meant to go.
“Nah. We ended up facing this team from Albuquerque full of massive seventh-graders with no fear. They knocked that pitch over the fence seven times.”
I wait a breath before giving in to the laugh his story pulls from me.
“Ouch,” I say, tapping my bat on the plate a few times, signaling I’m ready to try and send one over the fence too.
“Yeah, but I’ve gotten a lot better at it since then,” he teases.
“We’ll see,” I fire back.
We’re bonding, and it’s nice. I like Cannon, beyond the obvious attraction, which really is a bad idea on all levels. We could be friends, and I meant what I said in our statistics class that first day—I might be able to help him. As much as his dad taught him about the game, mine’s taught me a lot, too. About how to make good pitchers better.
“Give me what you’ve got, Smalls,” I shout, a little Sandlot throw-back that makes him chuckle.
Muscles primed, I shift my weight, ready to hit that strange curveball of his, but instead of getting ready to throw it, Cannon drops the ball into the bucket at his side, his gaze off to the side.
“This your idea of only being an hour?”
I didn’t see Zack walk up, and my stomach sours with the instant intensity brought to the air with his company. Everything about Cannon’s posture changes with his cousin’s presence, and that friendly banter between us grinds to a halt.
“Just taking some swings,” Cannon says, acting as if he’s packing up and getting ready to go.
“We just started, actually,” I interject. Cannon doesn’t look at me, instead continuing to kick balls toward the bucket to put them away. Neither of them responds to me, which only makes the beast grow in my belly, the one that tells me to scream and call ’em as I see ’em.
“Cannon.” I assert his name, like a teacher would. Like my dad would. He spares me a sharp glare over his shoulder. “Aren’t you gonna take a turn?”
“Bahahaha!” His cousin accentuates his over-the-top cackle by grabbing his stomach and arching back. I assume he’s making a joke at Cannon’s expense, because he’s a pitcher and pitchers rarely hit. But that’s not the case at all.
“What, are you gonna throw to him?” His eyes are squinty, his lips pulled in so tight that there are deep divots where they pucker on either side. It’s a truly ugly face.
I open my mouth, the beast ready to engage, then snap it shut, not giving in to the urge. I shift my gaze to Cannon and lift my brow as he hoists the bucket of balls and sets it on a metal chair that looks as though it’s been beaten by more than a fair share of line drives and bats.
“I’m done here.” His answer is definitive, short and clipped, the kind of response a trainer gives a dog.
A punchy laugh escapes my chest. I’m dumbfounded, and within thirty seconds, I’m also alone. The Jennings boys cross the field without a single glance or goodbye, and I hate that I’m hurt by it. This is always what I expect, yet somehow never fully see coming. I should probably let it go, see them on the field again Monday with renewed armor around my feelings.
But that’s never quite been me either. I’m always up for a fight, a trait both of my parents have sewn into my fabric. Before they make it to their car, I hustle and pack up my own gear, double-timing it to my mom’s van that my dad left behind for me to get home.
I’m pretty sure Zack and Cannon don’t notice me in their rearview as they speed out of the lot, fishtailing through the dirt shoulder. Masked by the cloud of dust left in their wake, I feel around the underside of the van’s bumper until I find the lockbox where my dad stuck the key. I drop my gear in the back and jump behind the wheel, zipping out of the lot while the trail of dust still lingers in the air, showing me the way. Tail lights in view, I slow enough to not be obvious and follow them. We stop at a house nestled in the woods, th
e driveway filled with shirtless guys playing basketball and surrounded by the kind of girls who only want to hang out and watch them. Any other girl would either slink low in the driver’s seat and pass on by or park and find a friend to ogle with. Maybe that’s because they don’t have a basketball rolling around their back seat like I do.
The thundering in my chest slows when I recognize Lucas, and I find my footing as I slip one foot out of the driver’s side and spot June sitting with a group of girls on Lucas’s open tailgate. It would be so simple to hop in the back with her, the ease of it so inviting that my fingers twitch at the feel of the ball. I’m tempted to play this a different way. Be a different kind of girl. Take the easy route.
Don’t ever betray the person you are.
My dad’s words echo around my head amid my mental battle. He gave up a lot so I never have to diminish who I am. And I’m not the girl who sits on the sidelines. I’m the girl who puts herself in the game, who changes the rules.
I hop out of the van and open the back door. Ball in hand, I slam the sliding door shut and jog across the street, dribbling along the way. It’s been awhile, but every step I take bolsters my confidence and comfort with the ball. June’s head pops up when she sees me. Waving her hand, she announces my arrival, inviting me to join her, over where the girls are. I smile back and stay the course.
Zack and Cannon were only a few paces ahead of me, and I jog three steps to close the gap, tapping my apparent nemesis on the shoulder until his toes square with mine after he turns. Zack doesn’t even flinch in surprise, as if he expected me; his smirk dares to suggest he may have even lured me.
“I’ve got next game,” I announce, fully taking the bait if that’s the case. I’ve learned not to ask permission. They never grant you access if you’re timid. That’s not how you change minds and break into their exclusive clubs.
