by Ginger Scott
One.
I’m at eighty-one pitches. That means I can throw this guy eighteen and still be under my cap. God help me if I have to throw more than four, though. My arm is beat.
I’d like more than a one-run lead in my arsenal, especially now that the Henderson team seems to know what to do with my fastball, but I’m glad to have the edge. My dad has always told me that pressure is what makes the man on the mound. Well, if I’m not man enough after throwing up my orange Gatorade behind the dugout before this inning and still climbing back up on this rubber, I don’t know what a man is.
“Come on, Can. You got this.”
My dad’s voice cuts through everyone else’s and I manage to block the rest of the noise. We started this inning in the heart of their line-up, and the guy at the plate is the only one to have gotten a hit off me tonight. It was a dinger over the right field fence.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Repeat.
My cousin taught me that trick when we were kids. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it, but he said it controls the heart rate and helps you clear your head. Maybe it’s all voodoo bullshit he made up, but in baseball, whatever works is never considered weird. Hell, Hollis has worn the same socks for every game in the division playoffs—unwashed. If we make it to the state championship, her dad is going to make her ride on the roof of the bus, or at least put her socks in cargo.
“Hey!” Her muffled voice carries through her mask and she punches her mitt to get me focused. I wait for her sign, praying it isn’t a fastball. My ego can’t take another dinger. She gives me the slider sign, and I take another one of those deep breaths before bringing my glove in to my chest and winding up. I miss my mark, but Mr. Eager Homerun Hitter swings and misses.
“That’s right, Can! Go right at him!”
This time, it’s Zack’s voice that breaks through. After all the shit we went through, somehow, we’ve mended a lot of broken trust. It took an entire season to get to where we are, and we still have a ways to go, but I credit Zack for making the first move. He marched into Coach’s office the morning after he sent him home to think and told him to remove him from the potential roster for the season. In the back of his mind, maybe he thought Coach Taylor would go soft and tell him to stay, but he couldn’t, not after everything he did. And not after a two-week suspension from school on top of it all.
At this point, baseball isn’t healthy for Zack. At least, not competing. It’s something he’s slowly come to realize, thanks to therapy. That was his second move, an idea of his own. Being a fierce competitor who sometimes gets carried away isn’t so bad when you’re eight and weigh fifty-seven pounds. When you shave and weigh two-ten? Different story. Zack’s anger issues were more than festering, they were exploding, and it’ll take him a while to fully scratch the surface and see what’s underneath. Competition, though, is a trigger. That much he’s learned. But he seems to handle it all right when he’s on the coaching side.
I went to Coach Taylor in mid-April, right before playoffs started, and with Hollis’s blessing, asked if he could be team manager. Zack missed the comradery so much, and it never seemed fair that Jay and Roland got to skate by but he didn’t. Hollis didn’t call them out publicly, and neither did Zack. They accepted the free pass, and that’s on their consciences. Every time they ask Hollis to forgive them, though, she says, “No.” They get a taste of what they deserve.
Zack’s worked his way back into some good grace, though I think he will always be held at arm’s length by Hollis and her dad. My Uncle Joel was also pretty rocked by the realization that his son was willing to physically intimidate a girl just to get his way on the field. There was a lot of self-reckoning at the start of the season, and my uncle has learned enough over the last few months to know that he can’t be here to watch while his son sits inside the dugout with a clipboard. This was never part of the dream.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Repeat.
Hollis sets up for another slider and I take her sign, willing my arm to listen to her this time and throw the ball exactly where she wants it. I’m closer, but I still miss my location, and the little piece of the ball that the giant in the batter’s box gets goes flying into the night sky and across the road that runs behind the clubhouse, slamming into the metal roof of someone’s shed. I can’t fathom the dents that must exist up there.
Eighty-three pitches thrown. One more, and I can be done. One more, and this guy goes home. We go home. I kiss Hollis. I get that offer from Vandy that I’ve been holding out for before committing to Cal Tech. Hollis is in Tennessee, at a small D-two that has no idea the bargain they got when they offered her a scholarship. I need to be in Tennessee so I can witness it happen—the moment she changes the world.
I’m no longer able to block out the noise. I can’t focus on only my father, or coach, or Zack. It’s all chaos ringing in my ears, my mental state too zapped to do more than focus on throwing a ball ninety feet right where Hollis wants it.
I shake my arms out at my sides and lean forward for her sign. She gives me a fastball and I shake her off. She looks down then over to her dad, and I take the time for one more round of voodoo.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. No time to repeat.
Hollis punches her mitt, and I read into the force she puts behind it. She’s gonna call for a fastball, and if I shake her off, she’ll call time and come talk to me. I just don’t know if I can throw it to this guy.
She gives me the sign and I stare at it for a solid three seconds before giving in with a nod. I don’t have faith in my arm, but for some reason, she does. If I’ve learned anything from four months of throwing to this woman, it’s that she knows her shit, and when I don’t listen, I get burned.
I bring the ball in and spare a glance at the hitter’s eyes. He’s squinting, and I’m not sure whether he can’t see me or he’s so amped with adrenaline that he’s narrowed his vision down to nothing but the ball.
Hollis flashes her glove at the outside corner then sets up inside in an attempt to throw him off. I feel for the threads of the ball with my fingers, search for that perfect spot. There’s one thread that’s a millimeter thicker than the rest. I’ve located it before, and I swear it gives me an extra mile per hour on release. My index finger finds it and my lip ticks up.
Okay, buddy.
I wind up, trying hard to give nothing away, but grunt when I release the ball. I swear everything gets all movie magic-like the moment the ball leaves my hand. I hear music in my head and the ball seems to travel in slow-motion from my fingertips to Hollis’s glove. The rotation is perfect, and my leg rotation is enough to send me down the mound and off to the left. I keep my glove up, ready for the big guy to zip the ball right back at me, and with the swing he’s loading, if he does, it will knock out my teeth.
I flinch as his bat passes through the zone. When I hear the smack of the ball against Hollis’s leather, I fall to the ground in exhausted disbelief.
The rush of cheering caves in on me as I blink up at the sky, letting my glove fall off my hand and the stupid grin eat up my face. Hollis falls on top of me first, her mask tossed off somewhere along the way.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” She’s screaming in my ear, and it’s glorious. I poke at her sides and she pokes back until more of our teammates pile on. We’re suddenly children, wallowing and kicking in the dirt and grass because we won a plastic trophy that will sit in a glass case for fifty years. It’s a big-ass plastic trophy, though, and that’s worth it.
I finally get to my feet and rush over to my cousin, lifting him in a bear hug as he pounds on my head with excitement.
“Yeah!” He growls as I set him down and we bump chests. Having him here for this, still, despite everything, hits me hard, and I hug him a second time. Tighter.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says, his mouth at my ear. “So fucking proud.”
And happy tears break free.
His heavy hand pats my back as we rock, and then he hands me off to Coach who is as big a cry baby about this as I am. In fact, a quick look around the celebration and I realize Hollis is the only one of us with dry eyes. So much for stereotypes.
When the division president walks out from the dugout with our trophy in hand, we settle down, each of us taking a knee despite the fact we want to keep jumping and screaming until our voices are gone.
“Coach Travis Taylor,” the man says, holding the trophy on one side while Coach holds the other. Flashes go off for the photo op while parents and students whistle and clap. “On behalf of District Twelve in the great state of Indiana, our congratulations to the Allensville Public Fighting Eagles for winning this season’s district championship tournament. Represent us well at State.”
Our roar breaks through before he can finish his words. He shakes our coach’s hand, and takes a step back so Coach Taylor can hold that pretty award high above his head.
“You did this! Lady, gentlemen.” We all laugh because it’s maybe the first time he’s gotten Hollis’s request right.
The moment is amazing all on its own, and would be enough if it ended here. But then something unexpected trumps everything else.
“Hol-lis. Hol-lis. Hol-lis.”
Zack starts the chant, clapping with her name, encouraging others to join in. That one-run lead we had came off her bat. She drove in two, and those runs were the only ones we scored all night. I may have thrown well, but even that is thanks to her. This game? This series? It’s her win as much as it is ours.
“Hol-lis! Hol-lis! Hol-lis!”
We’re all doing it now, clapping loudly and turning her cheeks cherry red. Her dad walks toward her with the trophy in hand and urges her to her feet. She’s bashful about it, but I know at her core, she’s also eating up the moment. Inside that body lives a tiger.
As soon as she takes the trophy from her dad, our howling becomes deafening. We’re on our feet in a second, and Miguel, our shortstop, and I raise Hollis up on our shoulders. I watch his hands because as proud as I am of her, I’m also a jealous boyfriend. I’ll take over her full weight and run her ass out into the parking lot if he makes a move.
Miguel keeps his hands in check, though, and Hollis wears a smile that dents her cheeks with dimples so deep I think they may never get erased. Her brother begs for the trophy at her father’s side, so we finally let her down and Coach Taylor takes over possession, keeping guard on the prize while everyone alternates taking pictures with it.
The only prize I care about is still in my arms.
“You know the Vandy guy came, right?” She puckers her lips into a controlled smile while I nod, swaying her in my arms while we stand apart from the crowd.
“Uh huh.” I’d actually managed to keep that thought under control for that last batter, and it’s a good thing I did. If I let that thought enter my domain, I probably would have sailed my first pitch into the dugout.
“I have a good feeling,” she says, leaning into me until our foreheads touch.
I let my hands fall to her hips and close my eyes to protect this moment and keep this small space between only us.
“I’ve had a good feeling since midnight on January first,” I say.
“Oh, is that right?” she asks.
“Mmm. It is.”
“Still, though. Vandy.” She lets my dream linger in the air as a wish.
“I have a good feeling, too,” I finally admit. “My gut instinct has very little to do with tonight’s game, though.”
She pulls back enough to show me her quirked brow.
I tuck her hair behind her ear, knowing she’ll tie it in a knot the first chance she gets.
“There can be no Hollis Taylor of Tennessee without a Cannon Jennings in the same area code.”
My stupid joke earns a beautiful smile, and we seal it with a kiss before joining our family and teammates and friends for what promises to be a long night of celebration. That wish will have to linger a little while longer, but I’m no longer worried about it coming true.
What Hollis says goes, and if it doesn’t, she’ll bend it to her will.
She’s a game-changer.
Series Epilogue
Lucas Fuller
Whoever thinks being smart must equate to being good at giving speeches clearly never heard my attempts.
Writing my graduation speech was easy. I knocked that sucker out in forty minutes. It’s just one big trope when you think about it. The future is waiting. It’s yours to take. We all will change, yet stay the same . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah. Saying it in front of six hundred people, however, is a whole different ball game.
And Tory will not quit bagging on me about it.
“Don’t forget to take your change, I mean make change, I mean accept change, or I’m changing. I change, you change, we all change! Weee!” He’s really latched on to the theme, which I blundered and completely blew, forgetting two lines then going back to them later, awkwardly.
I punch his arm hard enough to make him spill a little beer in his lap.
“Hey!”
“You done now?” I glare at him and he brings his mug close to his chest, hugging it with both hands.
“Ch-ch-ch-changes.” He gets out one more, but thankfully Abby made it back in time for graduation and is there to smack him on the back of the neck for me.
“Thank you,” I say to her, crossing behind her and kissing the top of her head.
It’s after hours at Eight Lanes. Well, technically, it’s closed. But June still has a key, and her former boss pretty much thinks she walks on water, so we moved the party here. We all chipped in forty bucks to pay for the beer we plan to drink tonight because we don’t want to steal. But we do aim to get lit. Hayden and Lola volunteered to play sober, so we’ll make it home in decent shape.
I can’t believe after tonight, half our crew will be gone. It still doesn’t feel real, even though in less than twelve hours, it’s happening.
Cannon and Hollis are the first to go, and I think the only reason they’re partying it up tonight is because they know they have a thirty-one-hour bus ride to look forward to when they wake up. I love football, but man, there’s no sport on the planet I find important enough to ride on a bus for that long. They’re going to Cali for a summer baseball league before making that same awful trip back in August so Cannon can report to fall camp for Vanderbilt. It’s too bad that Central Metropolitan doesn’t get to play Vandy just for one exhibition. I’d love to see those two go head-to-head on the field. June and I plan to go watch a few of their games in Cali, a last-hurrah trip before we pack up and move in together in Boston.
I’m surprised her mom went for it, but when June got accepted at the last minute to Boston College, one of the best ways to cut costs was for the both of us to split a bedroom in a two-bedroom apartment. Our roommates are a gay couple who have lived in the place for two years, and after a few video chats to make sure we all gel, June and I decided they are the same exact personalities as us. Conner is June, for sure, and Dax is me, to the point he and I have already made plans to host the fantasy football draft for the league we’re starting in the fall.
I have a damn good feeling about life there—life with June in general. But one step at a time. We both come from broken marriages, so taking the long route to forever gets us there all the same.
Lola, Hayden and Naomi are leaving next week for Europe. I guess that’s what I get for opting out of my last year of Spanish. They both stuck with it and get to go on an immersion trip to Spain for three weeks. It’ll also cancel their language requirement for their undergrad without having to test out of it. I’m going to have to spend my summer on a refresher crash course so I pass when I get to MIT. My brain only has room for so much, and with the math I’m looking to face, language classes are out.
At least Tory and Abby will be around for most of the summer, though I can tell they’re anxious to get to Chicago permanently. They’ve driven
there at least six times in the last month for theater auditions, registration, and freaking deep-dish.
I’m a little lost in the nostalgia when June crawls into my lap, but she has a way of bringing me back to the present. She’s home, and as I look around at my group of friends, I realize in so many senses of the word, we are all home to one another.
We’ve taken over one of the pool tables because lighting up the lanes makes this place look way too open. Tonight is all about us, our final time together, and we don’t want outsiders busting in.
“Ladies and gents! A toast!” Tory announces.
June hands me a ten spot without looking over her shoulder because I won our bet for who would be the first person to stand on the table. It’s always D’Angelo—always this D’Angelo.
Properly beered up, we each raise a glass, holding our amber-filled mugs high and proud.
“To ups and downs, and forever friends. Allensville will never look the same without us. In fact, someone might say that this place is going to change.” I lean my head back and close my eyes while I groan. He is literally never going to stop making fun of me.
“Cheers!” June says, doing what she does best by putting the focus on the positive.
“Cheers!” The sound of our collective voices imprints in my mind and I immediately tell myself to hold on to it. To this moment.
We’re scattering. It’s inevitable. But we’ll all still have this place in time. We’ll always have us, and that was the point of my speech. Change happens regardless of how hard you hold on—to people, to places—and want to keep them the same. But life isn’t about the place or the time—it’s the friendships. And when you change together with those you love, you can always find your way back.
.
THE END
Acknowledgments
