1
Cannon Jennings
I’m perfectly content ringing in the new year with a sparkler and leftover pizza. Unfortunately, my cousin Zack is an extrovert. He needs to feed off the energy of others. I prefer to eliminate distractions.
“It’s one party, Can. You need to pull the stick out of your ass and enjoy one night. One party will not derail your future.”
Zack has been on me about loosening up for weeks. Deep down, he’s probably right . . . to an extent. If I keep grinding like this through my entire senior year, I’ll burn out before I even land at summer camp wherever I get signed. But when you’ve dreamed of pitching for Vandy since you were six years old and it’s legit within your reach, it’s hard to let up off the gas, even just a little.
“Come on, man. It’s New Year’s Eve.” Zack’s head falls to one side and his lip juts out.
“Are you gonna fuckin’ cry?” I toss my glove to the corner of the sofa and get to my feet. Zack rubs his hands together while shuffling his feet in this weird-ass jig.
“I’m not going if you’re going to do that,” I say, pointing at his lower half. He freezes and instantly stands tall, rolling his shoulders and clearing his throat.
“Sorry. Must have been overcome with shock that Cannon Jennings is actually going to do something social,” he says.
“Pfft,” I huff at him. I grab my keys and my lucky hat and we both head out to my car.
Zack is overexaggerating. I’ve been social. I went to a party a week ago, and I’ve made some decent friends. I’ve done pretty well for being the new guy at school. I moved in with my cousin over the summer as part of the grand plan my dad and my uncle, Zack’s dad, devised to maximize the attention we both could get for offers to play college ball. Zack has caught for as long as I have pitched, and we used to play together when we were younger. But Zack’s family moved to Indiana for work right after junior high, and it broke up our dream duo. We’ve both done all right without the other, but we’ve got one more year to really show our stuff, and Allensville Public High just hired a new coach—with Division One coaching experience. It means I’m sleeping on the futon in the spare room at Zack’s while my parents sell our place in New Mexico. Once they do, we’ll move into a rental together—and I’ll have a bed that doesn’t fold up during the day.
“I don’t know June very well,” I mention as we pull up to the Mabee house. We only live two blocks from them, so the drive was easy.
“Yeah, but you know Lucas, so it’s all good,” Zack reassures me.
He gets out of the car with an actual skip in his step, still cradling the six-pack of micro brew he snuck from his dad.
I let myself enjoy the quiet of the car for one more breath. He’s right. I’ve gotten to know Lucas pretty well, and the D’Angelo twins. They’re all pretty decent athletes, and it’s nice to mess around and do things with a group of guys who aren’t all about baseball. I gel with Tory D’Angelo the most. He’s got plans to play basketball in college, so he gets my constant focus. I swear, as much as my cousin Zack says he wants to play college ball, he doesn’t seem to have the obsessive passion that I think it takes.
My cousin raps on the window, tired of waiting on me, so I get out and put on my best happy-to-be-here face.
It’s a strange collection of people inside. Someone who clearly is someone’s father opens the door for us, and he eyes the beer in Zack’s hand as we enter.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have brought beer,” I whisper to my cousin, but he ignores me, weaving through the house and into the garage, where an extra refrigerator is stuffed with drinks. He pulls a beer out and hands it to me, taking one for himself, too. I arch a brow, not sure this is allowed.
“It’s fine. June said as long as we don’t make it obvious around the adults, we’re good to go.” Zack pops the cap off and takes a swig, gesturing for me to do the same. I do, but only because drinking half this beer might settle the knots in my chest. I’m not so great at social things.
We weave through the house to the back yard where I recognize more faces. My shoulders relax when I spot Lucas sitting near the fire pit with space next to him. I nod in his direction, letting Zack know where he can find me, and head toward the flames. Lucas’s girlfriend, June, beats me to the open seat by two seconds, and I’m about to bail when an absolute goddess steps in behind them.
I don’t know a lot of people in town or at school, but how I’ve missed this face, I have no idea. She’s tall, maybe only an inch or two shorter than my six-foot-three, and her long blonde hair looks like molten gold as she stands near the fire. I can’t tell if her eyes are gray or blue, but I need to get closer to settle the debate in my head. She’s supermodel hot, but playing it down in a pair of baggy jeans and an old baseball jersey worn over a hoodie to keep her warm. I bet her dressed-down look keeps her under the radar. Most of the fucking douchebags at this school only want to keep score and see who can date the hot girl first. Lucky for me, she showed up tonight dressed for the part of exactly my type.
“Jeter fan, huh?” I say, stepping up next to her and tugging on her jersey sleeve.
A short laugh puffs from her naturally pink lips while she takes a small sip from her cup. I suspect she’s actually drinking soda, so I casually set my beer on a small patio table behind me.
“Yankee fan. Jeter’s all right,” she says, a wry smile on her mouth. I hold her stare for a full breath, partly to challenge her and also to get a good handle on the color of her eyes. Blue, and maybe a little green too.
I match her smirk with one of my own, letting it crawl up into my cheeks before glancing down at the small patch emblazoned on the right sleeve of the jersey. This thing came from a game.
“Bullshit,” I say, nodding toward it.
She twists her head to the side and tucks her chin, noting the authentication patch with a slight breath and a smile.
“You got me,” she says, her eyes flitting up to mine. I again hold them for a long second, this time because I like the way it feels when I challenge her to return my stare. She’s a worthy opponent, and I’m the first to break.
“You a fan?” she asks.
“Of the Yankees? Fuck no. But Jeter’s special; he’s like a level above the Yankees. He’s folklore,” I say.
Our baseball banter must annoy Lucas and June because they make a lame excuse to leave us alone. We take over their seats, propping our feet on the lip of the firepit and settling in so we can glance at one another.
“I have another one of these . . . signed,” she says, pulling down the front of the jersey to even out the Yankees logo.
I lift my brows, impressed. Also, I catch a hint of her accent, which I’m pretty sure is from the heart of New York, possibly one of the boroughs.
“Super fan, I take it?”
She wobbles her head side to side, playfully, and her eyes dance with this proud kind of joy you only get when you have a childhood full of memories at the ballpark. I know because I’ve got them, too. Between spring nights at New Mexico State and spring breaks spent in Arizona hunting autographs from my favorite MLB stars at training camps, I’ve got a pretty full childhood of baseball fairy tales of my own. I can’t wait to write my name into those stories.