“Dude!” The few people already here turn to look as Cannon chastises him, and I take advantage of his attention on his friend, darting to the other side of the room and making my way up front. I slip into a desk, pulling out my phone to double check my schedule that I have the right room. My hope is dashed quickly, though it was a longshot that there were two study hall locations at the same time. Tucking my chin into my shoulder, I peer behind me to see if Cannon has gone back to hibernating. His eyes are glued to mine the moment I glance in his direction. His mouth a hard line, and he gives a slow shake of his head as if he’s disappointed in me.
It’s the other way around, buddy.
Not wanting to let him in my head, or give him the satisfaction of feeling he matters, I shrug and shift my gaze to his friend. I nod a silent hello that makes his friend chuckle and nod back. I’m pretty sure he’s gotten the full story from Cannon, only neither of them have seen me play. Today is important, and I knew it would be. I’ve been in this position before, the one who has to prove herself to an overly skeptical crowd. The hardest part is that no matter how hard I work and how good I am, there are some who will still wear their blinders and refuse to acknowledge they maybe had me pegged all wrong.
Renewed, and amped with the familiar sense of drive, I turn back into my seat and pull my notebook from my bag, flipping to the middle to write my goals for the next five days. I got this habit from my dad. He’s always done it in his scorebooks and on lineup sheets. He doesn’t write down criticisms for his players, but instead takes the things he thinks they’re failing at and makes notes for himself, for the work he needs to do to make them better. It’s one of the things that makes him great at his job, and that’s not simply my opinion as his daughter. He won a few awards from the university he coached at for his player-driven dedication. It’s his approach, always looking for the things he can do rather than blaming someone else for failing on their end. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t expect his players to pull their weight. In fact, most of his players end up making their own notes, taking ownership of their weaknesses and goals. It’s a proven method that has made his winning record one of the best in East Coast baseball. It’ll work here, if the people in this program embrace it. The guy napping under his hat about twenty feet behind me gives me doubts.
The teacher for our study hall kicks out the door stop to shut the door before he beelines to the desk at the front of the room, laptop in hand. After a quick run through roll call, he ignores us completely, immersed in whatever he’s working on. If he weren’t typing constantly, I’d think the guy was watching porn. His eyebrows keep flickering in reaction to whatever he’s reading, and I’m distracted by it for longer than I’d ever admit. I find my focus again before the hour is done, sketching out five goals for today’s workouts. The physical stuff I’ll knock out without a problem, but that last item—make Cannon see me as his equal—will be ongoing, I fear.
I wouldn’t care so much if it weren’t for the fact Cannon is our ace. I haven’t even seen him throw in person yet, just the videos my dad watched from the scouting sites. I know his numbers and what he throws; I memorized all that before we got here so I’d be ready to catch him. I would never admit this to my dad, but I’m a little worried about Zack. The pitcher-catcher relationship is special, and they’ve had a childhood of playing catch to gel. They have blood ties. The only thing I have going for me is my hunch that I might be able to amp up Cannon’s adrenaline, pissing him off enough to gain a mile or two per hour on his fastball. I note that in the margin before the class ends, packing up and breaking between Cannon and his friend before they reach the door. My shoulders brush their arms as I pass, something I make sure of and do not acknowledge. I grin over it, childish as the move was, and I maintain the high all the way to the girls’ locker room.
It would be easy to dump my things in my dad’s office, but again, I need that separation. It has to be noticeable for this to work. It’s one of the things I learned from Xavier; one of the things we did wrong, though I don’t know if that would have mattered. There was hostility brewing there for some people that ran deeper than the appearance of nepotism. I’m encouraged to see three other girls dress out with me. I’d braced myself to be the only girl in the weight room. It’s nice to have sisters. I don’t know them yet, so I rush to catch up to the last one in the locker room after I finish getting dressed. I reach her just as she hits the door with her palm.
“Hey, wait up!” I yell.
She pauses at the door, spinning to show me a bright smile that makes me feel as though she needs a friend in this class, too.
“Hey! Oh, my God, I’m so glad I’m not the only girl.” She holds the door open wide and I slip by her, noting her slender arms and legs as I pass. I don’t think she’s done this sort of thing before, but I don’t know that for certain, and I would be a hypocrite if I assumed.
“I feel that. I’m Hollis.” I hold out my hand as I walk backward along the short sidewalk between the locker rooms and weight room. She’s amused by my formality, another habit I got from my dad, I guess, but she takes my hand and gives me a fish-like shake. I bury the creeped-out expression I want to make and commit myself to taking this girl under my wing in here. Goal one, learn how to shake with authority.
“I’m Maddy. And I have no idea what I’m doing.” She laughs through her words.
“Okay.” I nod, still walking backward.
I sense the building is getting close, so I shift to turn and my chin slams into a thick bicep. An arm curls around me from the other side, catching me mid-collision. The smell is familiar, and it takes the same amount of time for me to place it as it does for him to speak.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Cannon’s hand instantly lets go of my midriff, as if repulsed at the realization that I’m the body he caught. I jump back, equally repulsed to be caught by him, and angry with my hormones for fluttering at his touch.
“I don’t have to do anything to you,” I respond. Checkmate for having the right comeback, but boo for making my goal even harder to achieve.
The three of us stand in an awkward triangle, Maddy caught in the middle of Cannon and my silent showdown. She’s tugging nervously at the bottom of her T-shirt. I see the movement in my periphery because I refuse to fully look away from Cannon.
“Hi—ey,” Maddy interjects, thrusting her palm between the two of us. Oh, God . . . she’s going to shake his hand.
Cannon’s gaze drops to the pale, spindly fingers quivering in front of him, and I flash my attention to my new friend, warning her to retreat with a buzzing shake of my head. She must be young. I think she’s a freshman. I never should have put the handshake idea in her head.
“Hi,” Cannon says, his head cocked and eyes now on Maddy. I can’t tell whether he thinks this is a joke or not, but he tentatively takes her hand, his eyes flinching when he experiences the same thing I did.
Oh, man. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I’m Maddy,” I hear her say.
“Cannon,” he responds. I open my eyes in time to see their hands fall away, and I’m not sure who I’m more glad for that it’s over.