by Ginger Scott
“I was fine wearing these home,” she says, her teeth still chattering from the cold.
“Liar,” I say, kneeling in front of her to help her roll the long socks down her calves while she slides her pants down. She leaves her sliding shorts on, for modesty I’m sure, and even though they’re soaking wet, I don’t press the issue.
I take over pulling the wet pants down over her knees, her pale skin beading up from the instant chill, and that’s when the bright red scratches along the inside of her thigh come into view. I freeze my position and stare at her skin, my mind racing through dozens of awful scenarios. The one conclusion that I know is certain—she struggled.
Hollis stops breathing and her body goes incredibly still. I lift my hand and brush my knuckles along the line of abrasions that run from the curve of her knee up to the middle of her inner thigh. I lift my gaze but she’s stoic, clutching my sweats to her chest while she looks straight ahead. So much work is going into her expression to hold it at peace. She’s doing her best to give nothing away, but it’s her breath—or lack of—that speaks volumes. Leaning into her, I kiss the bruise forming along her knee and shut my eyes when her hand pushes my hoodie back and sinks into my hair.
“Tell me what happened.” My request is soft, and I get the answer I expect.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
I kiss the deepest red line again and blow to cool it, the goose bumps far from this part of her. With a hard swallow, I finish helping her pull her legs and feet away from the wet pants, then let her balance herself on my shoulder while she steps into my sweats. When I stand, we’re inches apart and her mask is not prepared. It’s only a glimpse, but her eyes are glassy. It’s a different kind of emotion she’s feeling; there’s a simmering to it. Those aren’t tears from fear or crying. No. That’s from anger.
“Hollis.”
“I said I’m fine. It’s nothing,” she snaps.
Foolishly standing in our frigid clubhouse in underwear and a hoodie, I have to take her at her word. It doesn’t mean I’m not going to make people pay.
We had plans to meet up with June, Lucas, Hayden, and Tory at Eight Lanes tonight, but I’ll let that be her call. I know how hard it is to hide how you really feel. It’s exhausting, and I’ve never had to do it for reasons that are meaningful and real, as I suspect she is right now.
“Take you home?” I lean my head toward the door and give her a moment to take in how ridiculous I look. As her lips curve, I know she’s let her guard down just a little, so to keep the bad thoughts from breaking in, I decide to dance. In the time my hands make it from the back of my head to my hips, she’s laughing hard.
“What is that?” She points at my legs in a circling motion, the sleeves of her double shirt tucked over her fingers.
“It’s the Macarena,” I pronounce, rolling my hips like an expensive stripper. In my head, I’m totally Magic Mike. I’m guessing by the way she covers her mouth and holds her stomach, though, the actual visual is a lot less sexy.
“No . . . it’s not,” she busts out mid-laugh.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” I say, feeling challenged to sell it. I make my body perform every awkward stripper move I know, knowing full well this is a mess, but it makes her laugh. It keeps her warm. It makes her smile for real instead of the pretend one that was stamped on her face.
Now, I need to keep it that way until I can even the score for her. I know exactly where to start, too, but for right now, I’ll drive her home.
18
Hollis
Every girl just needs a good cry sometimes. I spend a lot of time holding mine in. Even when it’s earned and I have every right to be weak and ugly, I suck it up and fake that everything is fine. I say I do it for others, to protect them from guilt, from feeling responsible or spending all their empathy on me. Honestly, though, I do it because I’m embarrassed. That thought in and of itself is shameful. It’s also true. I’m embarrassed that I let something break me, even a little. I’m embarrassed by the attention. I hate when people ask if I’m okay. So, rather than cry, I shove that feeling and all that sparked it deep into the pit of my soul.
I should have known that one day, something would finally be too much.
Cannon is waiting outside in his truck, the engine running. We’re going out with friends. It’s like an actual real date, in front of people, and I want to feel the same on the inside that I’ve been pretending to be on the outside.
I didn’t feel the tears coming. I ran upstairs for a quick shower and to change, because Cannon needs his pants back. And I want to look nice, to smell nice, to have goddamn beach waves in my hair!
Instead, I have been full-on wailing into my bath towel for five minutes straight, praying that the spray of the shower masks any sounds I let slip out.
It’s a good cry.
An ugly cry.
A necessary cry.
It’s all mine, and I’m taking it. I’ve sold myself short so many times, but no more. I’m tired. So fucking tired.
The hardest part is stopping myself from giving in to the same excuse I always use—at least it wasn’t worse. Truth be told, I’ve been through worse. I’ve had guys throw fastballs at my face on purpose when I’m in the batter’s box. I’ve had things stolen, had my name disparaged, been called insults that no guy on any of my teams would ever be called. They don’t spray paint those same insults on school walls about the guys, either. In the grand scheme of things, a little hazing by three guys who have fragile egos and feel threatened should not be the thing that breaks me.
But it is.
It is. It does. And it continues to while I stand with one leg in the shower and one out.
I hate that I saw it coming. I hate that I still gave them the benefit of the doubt when Roland and Jay took opposite sides of me in the dugout while we packed up. I knew they were going to grab me. I even braced myself for it, prepared all the things I would say, practiced the face I’d make to pretend I was having as much of a good time as they were. It happened like clockwork—the two of them taking me by the arms, lifting me high enough that my feet couldn’t reach the ground. It had to be them. They’re the only two tall enough.
I laughed while they dragged me through the dugout, my thigh catching on the loose chain link while I kicked.
I didn’t kick enough.
I kicked just enough.
Zack was only pretending to roll up the hose after watering the field. The water was still on. I heard the pump; the hose was taut from the pressure; the spray nozzle was leaking.
The first blast of water stung. I didn’t shiver until at least twenty seconds passed. I was still laughing, still playing along and taking this rite of passage that I know no other guy on this team had to go through.
“You wanna be one of us, don’t you?” Zack shouted.
Yes. yes, I do!
The words were internal, only for me. Outside, I laughed and played along.
“Don’t! It’s cold!”
Of course it was. They knew it was. I struggled to break free, but they held me down and Zack moved closer, the spray harder, the water colder. My skin was numb, already ripped apart as much as it could be from the blast of cold water. It hit my face next, and I coughed from the drowning sensation.
I stopped laughing. I started kicking in earnest.
“Come on, Double-D. It’s just a little water!”
His cackling laughter was muffled by the water, by the rush of blood over my eardrums, by the pounding in my chest, and the screams of anger clawing their way up from where I’d buried them for far too long.
The cry was coming. They were going to see it.
I wonder if Zack’s eye is black? I hit him so very hard.
“Honey, everything all right in there?” I drop the towel on the floor at the sound of my mom’s voice.
“Just cleaning out a strawberry from sliding today!” She’ll buy the lie. She always does.
“That boy has been sitting in his truck in th
e driveway for a while now, so, uh, Dad went out to talk with him.” That thought actual breaks through the noise in my head. The puckered smile on my lips feels good.
“He’ll survive,” I shout through the heavy rain that I let hit my face. With every drop of water, my eyes free themselves. The puffiness is disappearing; the redness will go away soon. This cry has come to its end.
I’m able to pull myself together with the aid of five more minutes of hot water, and after a half-assed attempt to scrunch my own hair into beachy waves, I rush downstairs to save Cannon from my father’s company.
“Sorry, I had a lot more dirt than I realized,” I lie as I slip into the passenger seat. I lean over the console to meet my dad’s gaze through Cannon’s window.
“Hey, Daddy.” I smile at my father, everything from before neatly packed away where it belongs.
“Take it easy on him,” my dad jokes. He pats the open window frame twice with his heavy hand, and I stifle my laugh because that’s his way of warning Cannon that he could end him if he wanted to.
“Good night, sir.”
My dad’s expression as Cannon rolls up the window is priceless, his brow pulled in tight and his mouth twisted in a very distinct version of, “What the hell was that?”
“He intimidates you.” I snuggle into my seat, glad to be dry and warm and clean.
“Yes. Very much,” Cannon agrees without flinching.
For the short drive to Eight Lanes, I get to live in this little bliss. There’s no need to pretend, no threat to my pride lurking around the corner.
Only, there is.
Cannon doesn’t know Zack’s joining us tonight. I can tell by the abrupt stop that sends me forward into the dash. I plant both my palms against it to stop myself. The jarring action is too much to keep my bliss in place.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Cannon seethes. It’s just a thing people say, but I think perhaps he means it.
“Please, Cannon.” The sound of my hard breathing is strange to my ears. I’m struggling with this. It’s too big this time. I feel Cannon’s eyes on me but I force myself not to look into his until I’m in complete control of myself. I don’t know that I could ever be fully prepared for all I see in his eyes when I finally do.
I’m not alone in this.
It isn’t about baseball, or about his season or his brotherhood—hell, his family! It’s about a wrong, and doing what’s right. And I’m asking him to ignore that feeling in his own chest. I don’t want him to. I don’t want this to be anything. I want it to go away so I can win on the field. I’ll do it that way, the only way it ever should be between me and any other teammate or competitor. Equal—even.
“What did he do, Hollis? You can trust me,” he says.
“I know,” I answer without hesitation. I grab his hand and squeeze it hard. My eyes focus on my grip, the way my veins bulge with the strength of my clasp on his hand. When I loosen my hold, he tightens his, and that small gesture breaks me just a little.
“It was just hazing,” I begin, knowing in my gut that I’m starting out with a lie.
I shake my head.
“Tell me, Hollis. I promise you, I won’t betray you.”
His words are direct, and they cut deep. My dam breaks, and those tears I worked so hard to bury, the embers I put out in the shower, they come gushing out again.
Cannon pulls into the lot and drives to the opposite end, to an area where the lights don’t fully glow. We’re protected by the darkness and fully alone. He kills the motor, shifts in his seat and cups my face in both his hands, erasing the tears with his thumbs as fast as they fall.
“He hurt you.”
I shake my head no, because he didn’t really. None of them did. Not physically, other than some scrapes and bruises. Emotionally, though, yeah, Cannon is right. The only way forward is to share what happened, but the last time I did this, committees met, parents got together and made alliances and cast votes. My dad was out and we were on our way to Indiana.
Without pause, Cannon leans forward into me, pressing his lips on mine softly, as if sucking away my struggles and making them his own.
“Promise me you won’t tell my dad,” I say. It can’t become his battle again. He’s fought for me too many times. He’s lost.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” His words come out in soft kisses against me, whispers as he closes the space between us even more, ensuring our privacy.
I breathe deeply and let the silence settle in, looking down as I sit back because I think it’s easier without staring into his perfect blue eyes. No more excuses at my disposal, no more fear of judgement. Just one more abusive, sexist, small-minded moment in an unfortunately long teenaged history of such moments.
“Jay and Roland picked me up first.”
I swallow before continuing, feeling the weight of his eyes on me even though I’m not looking at them. I deliver the rest of the story—an event that lasted seven minutes at the most—with very few breaths. Once the words begin to flow, they don’t stop, and details I made excuses for, like the way Zack pushed his knee into my thigh and lifted the bottom of my shirt to expose my stomach so he could see if the harsh spray tickled.
Are you ticklish, Double-D?
By the time I’m done with the story, I’m no longer crying. My breathing is normal, and my rage is under control. I’ve given the power to someone I trust, and he’s struggling with it, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if wringing someone’s neck.
“You promised you wouldn’t say anything,” I repeat.
“I did, and I won’t.” His voice is hoarse, that familiar anger I’ve felt so often brewing in his throat.
“We don’t have to go in. We can just stay here, in the truck. Or somewhere else—”
“I don’t know how you could stand to see him . . . any of them? Hollis, I don’t know how you can do this. I’m not strong enough.” He shakes his head in disbelief of it all.
“You don’t have to be strong enough. I do.” It’s a simple fact, something I learned young and live every time I play the game I love.
His eyes close and his nostrils flare for a few deep breaths, a move I also recognize.
“You don’t have to be nice to him,” I relent, a give that makes him smile slightly on one side. I figured he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut with Zack, but it’s everyone else who I don’t want involved. Mostly, I don’t want this to be my dad’s obligation. Not again, however wrong that is for me to think.
Cannon glances up to his rearview mirror, scanning the lot for several quiet seconds, then finally cranks the key and shifts his focus to me.
“You sure you still want to be here?”
I contemplate my choices. I can go into that bowling alley and be with my friends and have a great night with a guy I’m falling for more every second he blinks, or I could let Zack win. I could go back home and sulk about all the things I’m missing out on. I could think about what happened today and how I reacted. I could replay it and think of all the ways it’s coming at me again.
“I choose to live my life, and I want to be here with you. If Zack wants to go home, he’s more than welcome.”
I’m committed. Clearly, so is Cannon.
His eyes harden on his rearview mirror as he shifts into reverse. We fly backward in a straight line, and I test the tautness of my seat belt just in case.
“Hold on,” Cannon says, and I should probably be afraid and tell him to slow down. Those words don’t leave my lips, though, because I know exactly what comes next. And though I didn’t ask for it, I want to let it happen.
I’m going to let it happen.
It’s probably wrong.
I don’t care.
We’re maybe going twenty-five, tops, on impact. It’s enough to completely crumple Zack’s trunk and tear the bumper from his car. Cannon pulls forward just as quickly as he smashed into his cousin’s car and whips around the parking lot, eyes scanning for witnesses. He finally comes to a st
op in a spot near the front of the alley, close to the door—dozens of spots from the scene of the crime.
Is it a crime when it’s family?
“I think I can keep my mouth shut now,” he says.
A slow grin creeps into my cheeks. I unbuckle and lunge at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and shoulders and kissing him so hard he laughs a little at the force of it. Within seconds, he’s kissing back, cradling me over the center console and running his fingers through what in my mind are the most awesome beachy waves.
“Thank you,” I say when we break away. I make the awkward crawl back to my side of the truck, but before I step out, Cannon flips up the center console into the seatback, making a smooth bridge between us for the ride home.
“Huh. So, you’re saying I could have done that, like, a while ago?” I quirk a brow, my energy still buzzing with adrenaline. I feel like a justified delinquent, and it feels amazing.
“I like watching you climb over the center.” He shrugs, not one bit ashamed.
I hold on to that beautiful blue gaze while I slide the rest of the way out of the truck and close the door on his stare. We meet at the front of his truck, wearing matching smirks reserved for people who share epic secrets. Cannon slings his arm around me and holds his key fob up over his other shoulder, beeping his truck locked as we make our way inside the alley.
“Don’t you want to check the damage to your truck?” I ask.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
I believe every word.
19
Cannon
I want to punch him. His car is barely drivable, but that’s not enough. I want to rip his perfectly combed hair from the roots of his scalp and feed him the clumps. He’s a disgrace to our family, to our name, and I’m not going to let him get away with this.
I won’t break Hollis’s trust. I won’t go to her father. But I am going to tell someone. And if this goes down the way it should, none of this will touch any of them and justice will get served. It’s going to require some faith from me, though. And the things my father told me will need to be true.
