by Ginger Scott
“Hold on,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. I tug the straps around her back and they cinch together with mine.
I peel back my upper body enough to look her in the eyes.
“May I?” I glance down to the space between us, where the last buckles are loose and need to be fastened.
She blinks nervously, but I can tell she isn’t scared. She’s something else, and I hope maybe what she feels is the same kind of reaction I’m having inside my chest.
“Make it tight,” she laughs out.
I breathe out through my nose and smile before looking down between us. Her hands grip my shoulders tightly and she rests her forehead against mine so she can watch as I lock us in together. When I’m done, I freeze in place for a moment, not ready to look up and meet her stare again. She’s close, and we’re touching, and I’ve felt her nose brush against mine twice since we’ve positioned ourselves like this.
Three times.
Four.
Her lips part with another breath, fear exhaled and a leap of faith drawn in.
“Ready?” I ask, still not moving my head away from hers. She nods against me.
My hands tentatively move to her waist, never moving from the invisible guideline drawn by the top of her jeans. She leans into me and circles her arms around my body, and when the weight of her chin rests on my shoulder, I let my muscles relax and flatten my palms on her back.
This is different than kissing as strangers. This is a literal leap, a sign of trust that goes way beyond. When I made this trip with Zack it was more about the thrill and being boys together who like to do daring, dumb shit. I may not have admitted it fully to myself until right now, but I dared Hollis to come out here because I want her to trust me.
“I’ve got you,” I promise just as I push us off from the ledge. Her fingers dig into me at first, but after a few seconds of gliding across the frozen stream below, she relaxes. And then the joyous laughter begins.
“Oh, my God!” she cries out, her head swiveling from where it rests on my shoulder. We’re halfway across the line, moving at a good speed, when she drops her hands down to my chest and leans back enough to see everything.
“This is amazing!” Her smile is all teeth and glee, like a kid seeing a true winter wonderland.
I had fun here with Zack, but this trip with Hollis is special. I haven’t looked at the scenery once; the only thing my eyes want to watch is her. We rotate as we travel, and her eyes blink from the wind and cold, but the dimples pushed up into her cheeks only grow deeper. The moonlight traces her lashes, lighting them up like flecks of gold. Her eyes glimmer like diamonds, her lips like candy, I lock in on them for a little too long, and she catches me. When her tongue passes over her bottom lip, I give in and meet her waiting stare. Damn that this zipline isn’t longer.
“Brace yourself,” I warn, glancing up in time to catch the safety rope as we glide over the second pedestal.
I wrap the rope around my forearm with one hand, and stop us as gracefully as I can. Hollis lets out a small grunt then breaks into laughter, her arms limp at her sides.
“Worth it?” I ask.
Her smile hasn’t dipped once, and she adds in an emphatic “Yes” with a nod before tilting her head to the sky, ready to climb to the next platform and make our trip back.
My chest is enlarged with pride, but other parts of me are swollen from something else, and unfastening our straps while trying to hide my painful erection is borderline comical. Thankfully, Hollis steps out quickly when I loosen the belt to create slack.
She’s already at the top of the next platform by the time I free myself, and the solo trip up the peg ladder gives me a chance to calm down and let the cold air work its magic before I gladly torture myself again.
This time Hollis helps, more familiar with the process and less afraid of what comes next. I expect her to hold on to me less so she can enjoy the ride and take in more of the skyline, a soft glow of the sun hinting at its impending rise. It’s like a line of glowing bright blue ink tracing along the slight hills. Rather than looking around completely, though, she holds on exactly as before. Her hands rest more comfortable around my neck this time, and as we slip away from the solid wood base and into the air, her fingers twist some of my hair. Everything I thought I had in check explodes, including my self-discipline.
Slipping back enough to force her eyes to meet mine, I do my best to read what they say. She doesn’t blink, her focus moving from my left eye to my right, as mine do hers. Her fingers curl my hair again, letting the short pieces slip through her knuckles while her nails scratch at the base of my neck. My palms at her waist, I give myself permission to stroke along her sides with my thumbs as we glide across the landscape at twenty-something miles per hour.
I sense the end of the ride coming, and reach out instinctively to slow our stop. I catch her against my body when my feet find solid ground, then let the safety rope go, remaining steady where I am for fear she’ll let go completely. Our feet tangle on the wooden planks, hers tucked inside my wide base. Either my eyes have adjusted or the sky is getting brighter because I can see every freckle that dots her cheeks and nose. I’m mesmerized by them, but equally as rapt that she seems as taken with mine.
I had no idea how much I actually won in our silly pool game. I don’t think I knew how much I wanted until this very moment. As her lips part, her tongue dashing out bravely into the cold to taste her skin, I’m overwhelmed with desire to take everything I can. I won’t break this trust, though. Of everything that this morning brings, her letting me help her fly is the most important.
Her fingers curl into fists at the back of my neck, and I’m so damn afraid she’ll let go and tear us apart. She doesn’t, though. Before I make a move to unfasten our straps, she lifts up on her toes ever so slightly, just enough to bring our heights in line. Her eyes skim down fleetingly to my mouth as she closes the distance between us, and her gaze hits mine again just as her soft lids flutter to close. She leans in, the ultimate of trust, and presses her mouth to mine in a chaste, soft kiss that I let her control completely. My only moment of greed is a soft suck of her plump bottom lip, and it’s pure torture forcing myself to let go, but I do.
Our lips part but her forehead remains on mine. I unbuckle our straps and eventually, the harness falls to our feet. Before Hollis steps back, she kisses me one more time, this one on my cheek.
“Thank you, Cannon,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, knowing our words should be reversed.
Despite spending the last hour in the freezing cold, I keep the shower temperature tepid while I erase the feel of her lips on mine and the visual of her body from my mind. It’s a good thing we drove back separately, because I don’t think my body could handle these thoughts with Hollis just a foot away from me in the warm car. My imagination is bad enough. The minute I pictured laying her down in the back seat, the ride home got really uncomfortable—and fast.
Finally somewhat coherent and no longer hard for a girl I’m keeping at arm’s length, I kill the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. When I come face-to-face with Zack’s sinister smile on the other side of the door, I expect him to make some joke about me draining the hot water or spending so much time alone in the bathroom. But that’s not what’s on his mind at all.
“The board is meeting about Coach Taylor.” He grins, arrogant pride seeping from the pores of his skin.
“Why?” I ask, when really my inner-voice is saying, What did you do?
“There are some questions about his techniques, and maybe how he makes his rosters.” My cousin passes me in the doorway and we trade sides as I step into the hall.
“But he hasn’t made any rosters yet,” I explain, my mouth watering with sickness.
Zack’s smile grows more ominous just before he winks.
“Exactly,” he says, closing the door on this conversation, and my face.
I spent the morning trying to earn Hollis’s trust and prove my i
ntegrity, and with one conversation with his father behind my back, Zack is threatening to burn that trust to the ground. All because a girl might be better at something than he is.
No might. She is better. And I need to start standing up for her, despite my family.
12
Hollis
I wasn’t sure my body would warm up after I climbed that pole this morning, but somehow, now I can’t seem to cool it down. I’ve been simmering from the inside out ever since I left the gulch this morning, and sitting next to Cannon in class earlier today rekindled everything.
Things have been pleasantly awkward since. I quite like pleasantly awkward. This time, the aftermath of our kiss is more promising. We went into that with eyes wide open. The only thing that can ruin this euphoria is currently finishing up his second lap, alongside Cannon.
“Looks like I beat you out here today, Double-D,” Zack says as he slows to a walk, pacing around me in wide circles while I stretch before my run. I glower up at him from my squatting stretch, waiting for him to finish his lame bra-size joke.
“Oh, no. Not like that. Double-D—Daddy’s Daughter.” He laughs at his lame joke and I dim my eyes. I mean, that’s basically a statement of fact. Most humans are their father’s child, biologically at least. I get what he’s insinuating, though. Nothing new. Before I can defend myself, Cannon walks up behind him and knocks his hat from his head.
“Don’t be a dick.”
I look down at my toes to hide my smile. I don’t need anyone fighting my battles, but after my morning, it’s reassuring to see Cannon do it.
Zack picks his hat up from the track and puts it on backward, which is one of my father’s pet peeves. I could warn him, but he deserves what he gets. He shoots me a sour look before he leaves the track and makes his way to the field. Cannon sticks around, but I sense his uneasiness in the way he keeps checking to see if his cousin is watching us.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I say, my stomach twisting with gooey butterfly feelings and insecurities galore. Of course he isn’t waiting for me.
“Hey, I just . . .” He swings his arm into mine as I stand and our fingers catch briefly.
Lightning bolts.
A breathy laugh slips out from his guilty smile. It’s sweet, as is the way he’s stammering and having trouble looking me in the eyes. Perhaps we got a redo on our first kiss. This one is going much better.
“I want to apologize for him, my cousin?” He points over his shoulder with his thumb. He glances behind him but I reassure him before he fully looks.
“He’s in the dugout. He can’t see you,” I say.
“Right,” he says, sucking in his bottom lip.
“You don’t have say his sorrys, by the way. I know he’s not you. And you aren’t responsible for him. He can say them himself, or not. That’s a direct reflection on him.”
Cannon nods, shuffling backward a few steps to not get caught dawdling. My dad’s favorite word is hustle.
“How’d you get to be so smart?” He punctuates his flattering question with a crooked smile that turns into a wink.
“Lots and lots of lessons learned,” I say, alluding to more that he realizes. He takes it at face value, though, and nods toward the track.
“You better hustle,” he teases. I’ll have my laps done in time. The one true perk to being coach’s daughter is knowing not to fail to meet his expectations. I know what I’m supposed to do and when, which is why letting Zack get a hit he didn’t earn yesterday irks me so much.
Apparently, it’s still quite a sticking point for my dad, too. Apparently, it’s a sticking point for my dad, too. He’s pulled Zack aside in the bullpen, and based on his familiar and animated hand gestures, I’d venture to guess he’s putting some pressure on him.
Great. Pressure on Zack is going to translate into more hostility toward me.
I finish a little slower than my normal time. I don’t check on my smartwatch, but I don’t have to. I slowed down on purpose, putting off the inevitable head-to-head competition I know is coming. I was pumped for it until I caught my dad giving Zack the anti-pep talk.
I dump my gear in the corner of the dugout as they return from their chat session, and the glare Zack shoots my way is ice cold.
“Go throw,” my dad says, tossing a ball with a little extra zip straight into Zack’s chest. “With her,” my father adds, pointing in my general direction.
“Pssh.” The annoyed rush of air that slips from Zack isn’t meant for my dad, and he manages to keep it just quiet enough for me and me alone.
“Well? Hurry up,” Zack says, not bothering to wait for me or look my direction.
I follow Zack to the outfield, where we pair up next to everyone except the pitchers. My dad paces around the duos, assessing form and how serious each player is taking something so simple. It doesn’t take more than three or four throws for him to get to us and make an example of Zack.
“Is that how you throw down to second?” My dad asks the question loud enough for nearby players to hear. Zack’s cheeks burn bright red, and it’s not from the cold air.
“I’m still warming up, Coach,” Zack replies, throwing the ball back to me with more energy under my father’s watchful eyes.
“Uh huh. Well, we should always practice with the same verve we have when we play.” My father’s sunglasses hide his eyes enough that it’s hard to tell when he’s looking at you. He has a habit of never quite staring at someone head-on. It’s a trick he uses to see what expressions people make when they think he’s not fully paying attention.
He is always paying attention.
My dad spreads his legs to get comfortable in his stance, arms crossed over his chest while his head swivels to follow the ball Zack and I continue to throw. My partner’s footwork is sloppy, and I notice my father’s focus on the ground for several seconds, my clue that he sees it. He’s memorizing it. It won’t be something that comes up now, but it will come up today.
We manage to survive warm-ups without more commentary from my dad, and as much as I want Zack to get his due, I also don’t want to be this close to him when he gets it. I feel a little bit like the tool being used to punish him.
I’m grateful for the distance that comes with my dad dividing up the teams. He puts Zack with Cannon, which could be for a lot of reasons, but it’s definitely not because he’s letting him off the hook. There are enough of us out here to have three squads, and one of the new assistant coaches takes mine. His name’s Ernie Ruiz, and my dad lured him away from a school two towns over. He made the call the moment he landed this job. Ernie Ruiz has one key line on his resume that singled him out and made him my father’s number-one candidate—he was a Yankee. Only for sixteen games in the majors, but wearing pinstripes for any amount of time is as good as blood to my dad.
For most of the guys out here, today is going to be a good time. That’s what will separate the keepers from the cuts. It’s a game of three outs, and the three teams keep rotating, scoring as many runs as they can until my father decides time is up. It seems like a silly game to take everyone’s minds off of the pressure of warmups and tryouts just around the corner, but every coach out here is watching for the ones who truly work. All games count for something.
It doesn’t take long for the first two squads to make their outs, so I do a little strategizing with my squad as we take the field. I didn’t get Cannon, but I did luck out with Roland on my team, and the one thing he has in his arsenal is a really good curveball. Zack might have gotten the pitch he wanted yesterday, but today he won’t be so lucky.
“Look out, DD, here comes your nemesis,” Zack shouts from the dugout. I glare through my mask in time to catch him stretching out his hands as he puts on his batting gloves. His joke carries to a few of the other guys, who laugh at my expense, pitifully trying to cover their snickers with fists over their mouths.
Fools.
Any sympathy I had for Zack drains. I get the rough spot Cannon is in, but it’s lik
e I told him—he is not his cousin. I won’t treat them the same. Zack hasn’t yet earned my respect.
“Batter up, Big Z!” I say, pounding my glove as I crouch into my squat. I can tell by his swagger as he steps up to the plate that he thinks I’m complimenting him, feeding his ego.
“You like that homer yesterday? I got plenty more in here. It’s gonna be a long season, babe.” I’m not sure whether his voice is as snarky as I hear it, or if it’s the filter I seem to wear whenever he speaks. I’m not sure I could hear him any other way.
“I bet it is, Big Z,” I say, echoing the nickname.
He sniffles out a laugh and digs his toes in. Everything about his approach is so affected, so cartoon-like. His feet are so set in their position, there’s no chance for him to move them at a moment’s notice.
“Come on Zack, you got this,” Cannon calls from the bench. His encouragement hits my gut in a curious way. I’m a little soured by it, which I know isn’t fair. He is being positive, which is what he should always do. And that’s his cousin, so there is that extra pressure. It’s just . . . I truly want Zack to fail this time.
I signal for a fastball low and outside, just like before, knowing it will work. And like yesterday, he swings himself off balance, landing on his knee as he twists.
“Strike one,” my dad says, marking it on his scoresheet from behind the backstop. My dad likes to watch scrimmages from off the field, to see how people react to him being present but not in their face.
“I got this. Come on,” Zack says, sniffing again, but this time as a show of how tough he is. He digs his feet into the exact same spot and I stare at them for a beat while a wave of tightness twists my insides. He isn’t learning.
“You sure you don’t want to make an adjustment?” I cough out my suggestion, keeping my voice low enough for my dad not to notice. I’m not sure why I’m helping, and I know before his reaction that he won’t take my advice.
