by Ginger Scott
“He likes you.” June interrupts my negative thoughts, leaning forward with her hands one on top of the other, resting on the tabletop right in front of me. “You are Cannon Jennings’s type, based on everything you have told us. Mystery solved. That grumpy SOB has a weakness, and it’s a girl who can keep up with him and put him in his place. Don’t sell yourself short, Hollis. You’re a hottie, and nothing like anyone else.”
Well, shit. I might be in love with June just a little. I smile at her bashfully because that was a pretty big string of compliments to sit and take in all at once.
“Thanks,” I eek out. I’m more accustomed to someone telling me, “Nice line drive.”
Emboldened by June’s killer pep talk, I walk into study hall and take the seat to Cannon’s right, ignoring my usual self-imposed rules about sitting next to him. There’s no reason it should be any different in here than it is in our first hour, where we talk and laugh and sometimes—sometimes—brush fingertips over arms or thighs when the teacher isn’t looking.
“Hey,” I say, reaching over and squeezing his shoulder as I sit. He stiffens and immediately shifts his posture to lose my touch and put a few more inches of distance between us. It’s obvious, and his acting is bad.
“You scared me,” he lies. I’m starting to recognize the differences in his laughs, and the thin ones with more breath to them are definitely forced. Like this one.
“Yeah, I’m stealthy like that.” I look at him sideways, a little judgement in my squinted eyes.
“Right,” he says, shutting his mouth into a tight smile. He holds up his notebook and points to it, as if it’s some exhibit to prove he’s hard at work on his studies. The page is blank, and I can’t wait to see what he fills it with.
“Uh huh,” I say, pivoting in my seat so I face him more than not. Wearing my wry smile, I rest my elbow on my desktop and hold my chin while I glare at his mundane tasks.
He writes his name at the top, then the date. He taps the point of his pen on the next line a few times, finally writing down the word Canterbury.
“You’re not in Lola’s class,” I point out quickly. I know he’s not because he and I have the same teacher, just opposite hours. And we aren’t studying Canterbury right now; we’re still on Shakespeare.
Cannon blinks a few times while staring at the page, finally drawing a scribble of lines through his fake essay title before laying the pen flat on the page.
“Oh, hey, Hollis. What’s up?” Tory reaches over my shoulder as he walks in, holding out a fist. I pound it, already accepted into his circle. He takes the seat in front of Cannon but remains sitting to the side while the rest of the class filters in. His gaze bobs between the two of us—me staring at Cannon and Cannon pretending he sees nothing at all.
“Things weird here?” Tory wiggles his finger in the air between us, and I laugh out once, hard.
“Seems so.” I shake my head and right myself in my chair, leaning the opposite way to pull out my own notebook—for actual homework.
“Oh, I get it. You two hooked up,” Tory teases. My cheeks burn and I know without looking they’re florescent pink. I cough, unable to get the words out to put up an argument, and Cannon takes care of it for me, slapping his friend on the shoulder with his notepad.
“Dude, don’t be like Zack,” he grumbles.
“Ah, I see. Didn’t we already have this talk?” Tory waits for Cannon to lift his chin, and when he does, they spend a few seconds in a staring competition as though neither wants to give in.
“You aren’t responsible for your cousin, and your life is separate from his,” Tory finally says.
I draw my attention down to my notes and doodle, and wish I’d sat at least one more seat away. The smile inching into my cheeks is hard to hide. I like Tory, and I like what he said even more.
Cannon flattens his notebook again and brings both his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes then moving his fingers into his hair, kneading his scalp.
“I know that, man. I know. He’s just in this super fucked up place, and I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry.” He rolls his head to the side in his palm and reaches toward me with his free hand, fingers stretched out wide for me to weave mine into the empty spaces. I do and he squeezes a little, shaking our hands together in a gentle movement that’s also reassuring—and very, very public.
So does this mean we are a—we?
“Well, for the record. I like you two. I like her more, but I like the two of you as a thing,” Tory says, pointing to me when he makes the joke at Cannon’s expense. We both breathe out a small laugh, and before our hands separate, Cannon’s thumb runs along my knuckles a few times for added reassurance.
The door clicks shut behind us and we all straighten in our seats out of habit. So far, Mr. Orson has been a cool study hall monitor. In the nearly two weeks I’ve spent with him, I’ve learned that as long as you remain fairly quiet, you can do whatever you want in here. You can also walk out for restroom and water bottle-filling breaks anytime you want. A girl I know does lines in the bathroom and goes missing for the middle twenty minutes of class every single day.
Maybe it was my power lunch with June, or perhaps the little tease of Cannon’s hand on mine—whatever the root of it, I decide to test the liberal in-and-out policy for people who aren’t ditchers and drug-addicts. Well, not full-time ditchers anyhow. I would say I’m more of an extended-leaver who wants to make out with my maybe boyfriend.
The idea doesn’t feel stupid when I bite my lip and glance over my shoulder while nudging Cannon, and I still feel pretty bold and confident all the way out the door. The humiliation doesn’t creep in until I’ve been leaning against the wall just outside the culinary arts room for five full minutes and my stomach rumbles because the bread smells so freaking good.
I’m close to giving up my nefarious plan and head back into class when the door swings open at the opposite end of the hallway and Cannon steps out. I push off of the wall and tuck my hands into my back pockets. He stops in his tracks and drops his hands into his front ones, tilting his head to the side before nodding toward the building exit on his end. I nod back and we maintain eye contact while we leave the farthest building from the main office.
Our doors open in sync, but I hold on to mine for an extra second or two while I take in the view of him as he makes his way closer to me. A sly grin pushes a dimple into his right cheek. He cocks his head to the left a few feet from the exit and soon disappears behind a brick wall.
Nervously scanning the area around me, I rush to duck around the same space, freaked out that I’ll get caught doing something I shouldn’t. My smile is almost manic over this tiny moment of social and academic recklessness. My cheeks are pushed high and my lips stretched as wide as they’ll go to accommodate my aching grin when I round the corner and run into Cannon’s chest head-on.
“Oh, door locked?” I laugh out nervously. His hands grip my shoulders to spin me around, and he cages me like a defender keeping me from getting to the goal line. It only takes a second for my mind to switch gears and realize he is ushering me away from something.
“What is it?” I force my body to face him, working against his efforts to turn me around.
“It’s nothing. Door locked, so let’s go somewhere else.”
He’s a bad liar. His tone betrays him easily, the even volume and guarded choice of words indicating that something set him off. His caginess ratchets up my frustration so I push past him, flinging his hands from my waist and arms until I break free and step into the walled-off space he was hiding from me.
Someone called me a cunt.
Wow.
“That must have been a pretty fat Sharpie,” I say, my arms going limp to my sides while I take in the scribbled words on the maintenance door.
HOLLIS IS A CUNT
“I mean, it isn’t very original,” I say, quick to pretend I’m unfazed. “He’s just playing off of tropes and sensationalism. And there’s a pretty big movement amo
ng women to take that word back and redefine it, make it our own.”
The tears come regardless of my brave face. I shudder, and choke on the emotion that rises up my throat faster than I can push it back down. The insult burns and I hate that I let it.
“Hollis.” Cannon’s arms are around me before I can protest. I rock as he holds me from behind, non-stop sniffles and guarded breaths working to wipe away any proof that this affected me whatsoever.
“It’s fine,” I say, pulling an arm free to wipe my palm across my cheeks and eyes. “I’m fine. Whatever. It’s stupid.”
Trembles have set in. I’m both hurt and livid, and both fight to rule my emotions. The one thing I’m not, though, is surprised. And in a moment when all I want to do is erase this experience from existence and rush back to the safety of my desk and the walls of study hall, I can’t because the distant sound of male laughter and a golf cart motor gets louder by the heartbeat.
Cannon and I both duck behind the wall, his body flush against mine as if shielding me from oncoming enemy fire. His fingers move to my chin then slide up my lips, holding my mouth closed lightly as he breathes out, “Shh.”
I mean, it’s not like I’m going to shout, “Hey, here I am—ditching class to check out the mural smearing my character.”
His touch on my face softens, but his hand stays where it is. I’m quickly more comforted by it than I am offended, especially as the voices of the two men in the cart become clearer. This part of campus is the most private. That’s why it’s where students go to vape, and it’s why a minute ago I thought maybe I was going to make out back here with a guy I’m quickly letting every guard I’ve ever had down for.
For our school’s athletic director, Tom Wallis, and Cannon’s uncle Joel, though, this spot is the perfect spot to organize a coup.
“You think you have enough players willing to go on the record that Taylor’s breaking code of conduct? This can’t be some me too shit show.”
My breathing becomes harsh, my chest quaking with fury as my hands grip the front of Cannon’s sweatshirt, forming fists around the fabric.
“Yeah, it’ll go way beyond him playing favorites with his girl. The man just isn’t the right fit for our program, and it’s a plain and simple fact. His methods aren’t going to work out here, and we have to make the fix before tryouts.” Joel Jennings’s tone is even. Calm, in fact. He’s had this plan brewing for days. For the life of me, though, I can’t fathom anyone other than Zack who’d back the crazy idea that my dad isn’t the kind of coach who builds great programs. He’s either bluffing that he has the numbers behind him or he’s paying players to take up his cause.
“He’ll lawyer up, you know,” our athletic director says.
A muffled voice breaks through on the radio in their cart, something about being needed at the front office.
“Let him. In the meantime, Coach Gage is ready to take over.”
They drive off, finishing their conversation too far away to be heard. Those few words Cannon and I heard are enough, though. Coach Gage is a nice guy, but he’s seventy-two. He’s been volunteering out here for decades. My dad was talking about him at dinner the other night, joking to my mom and Ben and I about how impressive it is that he can still hit pop flies so well. The guy has no interest in leading a team, but he’s also a pushover, which is probably how Zack’s dad pressured him into taking over my dad’s job.
“I have to tell him,” I realize aloud, pushing from Cannon’s cover and slipping out into the open.
The golf cart is nowhere to be seen. I bite the back of my hand, teeth gripping my knuckles while I sort out the rush of thoughts. Cannon is never more than inches away from me. I’m shaking mad.
“Hollis.” He spins me and palms both of my shoulders to catch my gaze and stop the world from spinning. I’m having a panic attack.
“Breathe,” he says.
So I do.
15
Cannon
I knew Hollis wouldn’t be able to wait for the end of the day to see her dad. I’m only glad she didn’t rush over to his office in the state she was in. When she skipped out on weightlifting, I figured she was probably talking to him. Now that his door is locked shut and she’s out on the field throwing with Zack and a few of the other guys, I’m not sure what to think.
Today was optional. It’s my cousin’s fault that Coach called off the remaining organized practices for the week. Next week is the last one before tryouts. I’m not worried about myself, but I am worried about Zack. It’s not that he needs the practice, as much as he needs a serious personality adjustment to make sure he doesn’t get himself benched—or worse, cut.
Or course, if Coach Taylor goes away, maybe that’s not an issue. I can’t buy into the idea that Coach Gage will like my cousin any better, though. I guess that fact is moot, since Coach Gage will be manipulated into building the team as my uncle sees fit.
I miss my dad.
My gear bag slung over my shoulder, I pull my phone from my pocket and send my father a text while I walk out to join the others. I wonder if they bothered to run? I’m sure Hollis did.
I message my dad to see where he’s at, and when he replies with 100 miles to go, my lungs open up, taking what feels like the first full breath I’ve drawn in ages.
A hundred miles puts him in town tonight. It means I’ll have a rational set of ears to talk to, and wise advice to help me navigate this clusterfuck of a senior season.
With a clearing breath, I tuck my phone in the side pocket of my bag and head down to the field to join the others.
“We ran already,” Zack says before I drop my bag and change my shoes. He’s robotic with his throwing, and equally so with his words.
I glance to Hollis for verification and she quirks a brow and nods. That fucker really did run.
I stare at her for a few extra seconds while she throws, long enough to get a read on her expression to see how things are after talking with her dad, if she even had a chance to. I’m not able to read much from her expression, but I can tell she isn’t exactly happy. She doesn’t look as worried as before, though, so I leave them to finish throwing while I get in my run.
My times are getting faster every time I do this. I think about the difference I’ve seen in myself since I met Coach Taylor—and Hollis. I’m more than faster; I do things with purpose, and that thinking is beyond the field.
I wonder how I would react to the way my cousin acts if I didn’t have a personal connection to Hollis. What if I never went to that New Year’s party? What if she was simply coach’s daughter, no connection to me at all? Would I have bothered to form one?
I never would have liked what Zack has done, but shamefully, I’m pretty sure I would have tolerated it—more so than I already have. I would have drawn a line and made it not my problem. My dad is like that. He doesn’t approve of a lot of things, including the way the CEO of his engineering firm back home treated his female coworkers. My dad never said anything to anyone who could do anything about it, though. I suppose I haven’t, either. I have made my point to Zack, though. I realize that’s not enough, especially after what we saw—and heard—outside the study hall rooms.
I’m pacing after my run, checking the time on my smart watch, when Hollis jogs over from the infield. My instinct is to rush back with her, to avoid giving my cousin more reason to talk about us being alone, but then it hits me.
Fuck it.
Let him hate on me too.
“Hey,” I say, leaning into her and kissing her jaw. She’s sweaty, but I don’t give a damn.
Her eyes are wide when I pull back, and her mouth is a hard line.
“What are you doing?” she growls in a whisper.
I scrunch my shoulders and tilt my head, a little thrown that she’s not game for throwing the PDA in my cousin’s face. If he’s part of my uncle’s plans, then he can deal. In fact, he can deal no matter what.
“Zack’s being weird,” she adds.
I glance over her
shoulder where my cousin is dragging mats out for hitting on the field. He seems super motivated, especially compared to the half-assed effort he’s put into workouts so far.
“I’ll give you that, yeah,” I agree, picking up my gear and walking with her back to the field. She holds my mitt to justify walking with me.
“Did you talk to your dad?” I ask.
“That’s the thing.”
My head swivels to meet her gaze, and I can tell by the slant to her eyes that something changed.
“Yeah?” I question.
She walks close to me as we enter the dugout, constantly scanning to make sure we’re alone enough for her to share details. She nods to Roland and I study him while he pulls his water jug to his mouth and chugs. He laughed at her this morning, which speaks volumes about his character. Would I have been different? I like to think so but honestly, probably not.
Hollis waits for him to jog out to the base path to help Zack unroll the mats. Not wasting a second of our time out of earshot, she leans over the back of the bench and looks me in the eyes.
“Coach Gage told my dad he’s going to have to retire. Said he and the wife bought an RV and plan to visit the grandkids in California. He’s done after tryouts.”
We blink at one another while I digest the new information and form an opinion. I’m not sure what to make of it, and I can tell neither is she. One thing is certain: the school won’t be able to count on Coach Gage to fill a last minute coaching vacancy this close to tryouts. It means we have time, though I’m not sure how much. My uncle works quickly, and secretly. He’s good at making connections; part of his slick marketing savvy.
We make a pact to play along, to play dumb and let Zack lead out here. Giving him a little bit of authority might be a good way to reach him, but my gut says we have to play this careful.
Hollis warms up my arm and we spend the next hour and a half taking live at-bats. About a dozen players show up, and between Roland and me, we throw a good eighty pitches. The rest of the at-bats are taken off the tee or the machine, which must be about as old as the clubhouse. The metal plates are warped, which makes every fifth pitch come out a little wild. One buzzes my cousin’s head, and as he collapses to his ass and tosses his bat to the center of the field, I brace myself for him to think Hollis did it on purpose, simply because she dropped a ball into the feeder.
