He laughs through his nose and looks to the side, squinting as he stares off into the distance where the mound—his comfort zone—sits empty, dirt swirling in the air around it as the wind kicks up. Cocking his head to the side, he levels me with one more hard gaze before giving in, his gritted teeth and flexed jaw evidence of how much he doesn’t want to fall into my trap.
After picking up his bat, he sidles up to the tee, lining up his feet in a position I know in my gut is too far back. I clear my throat rather than say something immediately, which comes off totally passive aggressive. He pushes my buttons and brings out the fighter in me. It’s maddening.
“What?” His shoulders sag, the bat resting heavily on the left one as his hands loosen their grip.
I run my hand over my mouth and chin, giving myself a few seconds to plot the perfect words before they leave my lips.
“So, the point of this drill is torque and bat speed. And the reason you’re not making the right contact is because . . .” I pause and hold my open hands out while my eyes widen to stop him from thinking I’m being insulting. “I know you know how to make good contact. I know you can hit. I’m only trying to correct this one little thing, that’s all.”
He gives me a slight nod, tiny enough that if I blinked I would have missed it.
I step up next to him and nudge his front foot with my toe, guiding him forward a few inches. Pacing around his body, I grab the barrel of his bat and pull it around as I walk the trajectory it would take for a normal swing. He lets me guide his hands while his eyes narrow and follow my movement with suspicion. His forearms flex as they rotate and though I don’t want to, I swallow at the sight; I know he sees me do it.
“You want to make contact . . . right . . . here.” I stop the bat just as it meets the ball, holding it firm and glancing up to make sure he’s looking. His focus isn’t on the mechanics I’m demonstrating at all. It’s on me. More specifically, he’s zeroed in on my eyes. He was just waiting for me to finish my silly little show, until I looked up to find his jaded, pursed lips and completely intolerant expression.
“You think this is stupid. I got it,” I say, letting go of the bat and backing away. I’m so damn mad at myself for trying. I don’t know why I don’t give up when I’m faced with these situations. I’m forever that girl who thinks she can change people’s minds.
I’m about to give him his out, tell him we can do it his way, go straight to hitting from live pitches, when he rears back and rotates his hips, bat following and making hard contact as it drives the ball like a bullet into the metal posts at the other end.
We both stare at the point of impact for a few seconds, and I breathe out a little laugh to accompany my half smile. I’m not sure whether I’m more surprised by the result or his effort. Rather than attempt more conversation, I decide to simply feed him another ball, silently placing it on the tee and stepping back as he moves his feet into position—the right position.
Another swing. More great contact.
I nod, whispering a “Yes” under my breath. He’s still brooding, and any celebration on my part is going to come off as gloating. Not that it isn’t warranted, because I was right, but making a big deal out of that won’t make things better. It’ll only drive the wedge back in that uncomfortable place between us.
We continue on with this pattern, wordlessly working out and going through my usual round of drills. Cannon lets me set the pace and go first so he can copy everything I do. He doesn’t resist when I nudge his feet, but I never once breathe a word aloud. It’s odd, but it’s working, so I don’t fight it.
After the fifth time of picking up all the balls, Cannon kicks the remaining few into the far corner and takes the bucket in his hand, carrying it to the screen at the end so he can throw to me.
“You ready?” His voice startles me because we’ve been carrying on in silence for so long.
“Yeah,” I respond, settling into my comfortable hitting position and nodding for him to begin.
I have noticed a lot of things about Cannon that I will never tell him. It’s enough that he’s already had his lips on mine, but beyond being the best kiss I’ve ever had, he also has the kind of voice you wish could wake you up in the morning and put you to bed at night. It affects me more when he says very few words.
Like now, when he said, “You ready?” It came out in this deep timbre that just hung in the air, the sound of the y at the end lingering a little longer than it would from any other mouth. And then there’s his movement. He pitches as if he’s putting on a contemporary ballet, every tick of his muscles purposeful, each pause met with a fluid extension of his arms and legs. The way he draws his leg up and separates his arms before exploding with a slingshot of power that sends the ball exactly where it’s meant to go—exactly where I asked for it—is pure perfection.
His talent is undeniable, but there’s an undertone of truly primal appeal that I have been fighting every single time we throw together. I find myself growing jealous of the times he works out with his cousin, and not because I think Zack is a threat to my playing time. I’m envious that he gets to watch Cannon work.
Those movements are now on display, and for his first three or four pitches, I’m thrown off my game. A smug satisfaction tugs his lip up on one side, and it’s enough to shake me out of my awe. I send his next pitch barreling back at him, my ball striking the metal of the L-screen shielding him. He flinches and I shoot him a smirk of my own, flipping the bat in my hand for show. He shakes his head, and looks down at his feet with a quiet laugh that I instantly add to my short list of traits I admire about him.
Lips puckered, he flexes and digs in to throw me another pitch, contributing to this game of batting-practice chess that our competitive sides decided to play. I swing way too early, fooled by the slowed-down ball that seems to float by long after my bat slices through the zone.
“Whoa!” I grin at the path the ball took over the plate, impressed with a pitch my dad should know he can throw.
“You like that?” He tips his chin up, the shadow of his hat leaving his eyes for just a moment.
“That wasn’t bad,” I say, not wanting to inflate his ego too much.
“Not bad.” He chuckles. “Not bad, she says,” he continues on, a teasing spirit to his tone. It is hard not to find this Cannon Jennings utterly charming.
Swinging his arms around at his sides, he puts on a serious face, leaning forward as if getting a sign from his catcher. I play along and drop my bat to the side, crouching down and giving him the sign for slider, which is what I think that was. One of his eyes closes more than the other and his lip ticks up. I heed the warning and shoot to my feet, grabbing my bat and readying myself for the pitch. This one sails through even slower, somehow fooling me so badly that I swing hard enough to tie up my legs and trip myself. It’s mortifying, and to add insult to injury, Cannon laughs like a madman at the other end of the cage, rearing his head back and holding his glove against his gut.
“Glad you’re amused,” I grumble, brushing my palms along the fresh raspberries scraped into my kneecaps, noting the new hole in my favorite pair of joggers.
By the time I’m upright and on my feet, Cannon has made his way to my side. I jerk, surprised by his instant—and very close—presence. He tilts his head, maybe curious at my reaction, then lifts his hand, a ball balanced at the tips of his fingers.