“You should get better friends, Maddy,” he adds, before flinging open the weight room door and letting it slam in my face.
Maddy. I’m more glad for Maddy.
“He is beautiful,” she hums, her eyes entranced in the space he left behind.
“He’s a pig,” I say without pause. I hold the door open for my infatuated friend, and as she passes me, a flash of jealousy hits my gut. I want to ignore it, but I’ve got a lifetime of experience acknowledging my feelings, and there’s no mistaking that’s what I felt. It was brief, and it was irrational. But it was there. And it’s because even as awful as Cannon is behaving, Maddy is right. He is beautiful.
On the outside.
5
Cannon
What are the odds that Hollis Taylor is in fifty percent of my classes? Scratch that; I’m tired of dwelling on odds of fifty percent. From now on, I avoid fifty-fifty like the plague! But seriously, do I have to start and end my day with her?
Hollis is basically a hot but disheveled mess. By the time we had weight lifting together, she’d essentially tied her hair up in an actual knot. I’m pretty sure I saw a binder clip holding that shit up. And yeah, I was staring when she turned her back. That’s the problem with the hot mess part. She was wearing black leggings and a gray T-shirt that was about two sizes too big, and it shouldn’t have been sexy, but on her it just . . . was. There was something about the way she rolled the sleeves up tight over her toned shoulders that I couldn’t ignore. She’s tan, which is a rarity for this town, especially in the winter. Back home in New Mexico, everyone is always outside. Sun-kissed skin is a year-round feature. Everyone here looks pale. Hollis defies the gray, though, which means she must thrive outside. I guess New York tempers you for freezing cold weather.
It’s blustery today, maybe forty-five degrees out. My arm hurts just thinking about throwing a bullpen, but Zack and my uncle keep telling me I’ll get used to it. I guess if I could get acclimated to regularly playing in ninety-degrees back home, then forty shouldn’t be a problem. By late April when playoffs hit, it should be about perfect. I just need to stay healthy.
Zack’s waiting for me outside the clubhouse, already dressed out and ready for workouts. I nod and grin, holding up my fist to pound as I pass.
“First one dressed and ready, nice job,” I say before spotting Hollis already hitting the track beyond his shoulder.
“Second,” he says with an eyeroll. Everything about him is closed off, already defeated.
“Hey, you’re the starting catcher. Go show him why,” I encourage. My cousin fakes a smile that lasts for a fraction, then hoists his gear bag over his shoulder and trails backward toward the track.
“Your stuff’s in the corner,” he says. His last class is near the front of the building, and he did me a major solid by hauling my things across campus.
“See you out there,” I say.
He merely nods and takes off in a rhythmic jog, the weight of his catching equipment smacking against his side with every step.
There are only a handful of guys in the clubhouse when I enter, so my cousin is still a shining example of being on time by being early. Hollis and I came from the same spot on campus, so I’m not sure how she beat me here.
For the most part, I know most of the guys doing the workouts. It’s the same team as last year, minus one senior who wasn’t very good. We should be tight this year, contenders, as long as we put the right people on the field. I can’t imagine Coach Taylor going the everyone gets to play route just so his daughter gets a turn, but my cousin’s worry is messing with my head. Today should put a lot of that to bed, though. We’re gonna be on the field, and I’m throwing to both of them. Weaknesses will show themselves.
I pull on my compression pants and shirt and slip my shorts on over the top. Then I grab my cleats and push my feet into my turf shoes for the time being. There are only two other guys who are just pitchers like me. The rest of the rotation is made up of position players who throw decently. I like having a small squad to work with. It means I get more attention from our pitching coach, more work in, and better looks from the schools I’m targeting.
I wait by the door for Jay and Roland, the other two in my group. When they grab their gloves and jog my way, I push through the door, the bright sun making me squint, and the steady wind drying out what’s exposed of my eyes. Goddamn, I miss the Southwest.
We jog in sync down to the track and dump our gloves and cleats in a pile before starting our first lap. Our pace is steady but slow. By the time we round the curve, Hollis and my cousin are at the field, throwing.
Atta boy.
My gaze once again drawn forward, my eyes land smack on Coach’s. Arms crossed over his chest, he squints against the sun, his face hard. I’d say expressionless if it weren’t for the obvious ire slightly pulling down the corners of his mouth. I’m not sure what makes me speak up. Maybe I still feel the curse of my day and schedule, or maybe Zack is in my head. I stretch my hands out at my sides, palms up, and my lips move with the word just as my brain shoots a warning to my vocal chords. Noooo! Don’t . . . do . . . it!
“What?” The simple question spills from my mouth, loud enough that it’s distinguishable, undeniable that it came from me, hostile and oppositional—all qualities that get you cut before you even make it to tryouts if you don’t throw like I do.
My feet keep going, though my partners pick up the pace, distancing themselves from me. I don’t blame them. I manage to pull my stare from Coach as I round the corner and kick it in a little faster through the straightaway. When I pass Jay and Roland, they up their pace to match me, and by the time we round the next curve and hit the final straightaway, we’re near a sprint, a shotgun race to see who crosses the finish line first. Roland edges me out by a foot, and I beat Jay by a full two strides.
Chests pounding, the three of us rest our folded hands over our heads, slowing from a jog to a walk as we make our way back to our pile of gloves and shoes, cheeks red and mouths panting.
“Jennings!”
The guys don’t even spare me a glance. It was a long shot that he’d let this pass. Things always seem to start off this way with me. By the end of the season, I’m coach’s favorite, but for whatever reason, I always go into relationships adversarial. It’s a flaw. I’m aware. I hate it. Still, every fucking time!
This one, it’s on Zack. And Hollis. I wish none of it concerned me, only Zack is the entire reason I’m here. Me and Zack, that’s how it was always meant to go down. Our fathers have this shared dream, and yeah, maybe there is some vicarious living happening, but regardless, it’s had years of hope invested in it. That’s too much importance to be ruined by some chick out to prove a point, and her pissed-off, protective father.
“I’ll see you guys in the bullpen.” I nod. Jay lifts his hand up, but neither of them glances over their shoulders. They’re safe. My fuck up, my punishment.
“Coach?” I say as I jog to where he stands at the edge of the track. Assistant Coach Dixon gives me a short nod, a hint of a smirk buried under his mustache. At least he’s amused by my hot head. I won’t have to do the make-up work with him.