It’s cold as hell outside, so Coach invited us all to the small clubhouse behind the dugout. This might be a great program I’m walking into, but the facility is shit. Back home, we had brand new everything. My school was barely eight years old, which in terms of a high school lifespan is infant-like. This place was built in fifty-seven. The clubhouse has a plate on the door that says DEDICATED IN 1965. I’m not sure we aren’t breathing in lead and asbestos.
“Gentlemen,” Coach says, clearing his throat and getting our attention. There’s another cough from the back, but I can’t quite see who it’s from. From the way it sounded, it came off a little bit snarky, like someone making fun of the new coach’s style. Coach seems to have picked up on the same nuance because he’s staring back there with a scowl on his face.
Bad idea, dude, whoever you are.
“First, thank you all for coming in today. The bad news is this isn’t just a meeting. We’ll be running two miles too. I’d like to see you all come in under ten minutes by the time season starts.”
The collective groan is comical. Me and Zack, though, we keep our mouths shut. Some of the guys showed up in slip-ons, and I have a sneaking suspicion Coach is not going to care. They’ll be running either in those or barefoot. Zack and I always dress. In fact, we have our gear and cleats in the car just in case.
Coach spends the next few minutes going over basics, like I had to do at my old school. I’ve already taken care of the things on the list like my physical and the waiver forms. I zone out through most of his talk, but perk up when he mentions competing for roster spots. Zack doesn’t flinch, probably because he’s been the starting catcher since freshman year. He’s solid. I am too. Hell, from what Zack told me, I will probably be the ace this year; but still, it’s never good to assume. There’s always someone busting their ass out there. I have to work harder.
“I’ll be pairing you guys for head-to-heads and training. Competition fosters greatness, and I don’t believe positions are guaranteed; they are earned. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” we all say. Funny how we know we’re supposed to.
“Okay, so listen for your names to be called. This will be your group until we move into official tryouts next month and I have our final roster. I’m keeping fifteen, and other than pitchers, some of you might not get to play. If you’re okay with that, stick around. If not, well, thanks for coming in today.”
Nobody leaves, but I can tell a few of the guys sitting in front of Zack and me want to. I glance sideways at Zack and he lifts his brows.
“This guy isn’t fucking around,” he says.
I breathe out a laugh and shake my head.
“Jennings,” Coach says.
Zack and I both answer.
“Oh, right. I meant Cannon first. Pitcher only, right?” Coach peers at me, his finger pushing up the brim of his hat just enough to bring his eyes out of the shadow. They’re crystal blue and a bit like lasers, wrinkled at the corners from squinting in the sun for years, I imagine.
“Yes, sir,” I respond.
He nods and makes a note on his clipboard.
“Jennings, Zack,” he says, reading my cousin’s name as it’s probably written. “You’ll be working with Hollis.”
Hollis? I casually glance around the room, not seeing the girl of my dreams. Maybe I didn’t hear it right.
The first thing I notice on Zack is the way his forehead creases, a dent between his brows. His mouth is parked in an O shape, so I slide my right foot into his to jostle him from this sudden trance.
“Hollis, uhm, okay. Sure.” He heard the same name I did. He also did not say yes, sir, and given the way Coach narrowed his eyes on him, it was not the right move.
Coach holds his clipboard against his chest, folding his arms over it and leaning his head to the side. I think if he could give Zack a detention for that answer, he would.
“Is there a problem with that?” Coach’s brows are lifted in expectation. I tap my foot against Zack again, willing him to respond.
“No, sir. No,” he sputters out.
“Good,” Coach says. “You might learn a thing or two from her.”
From her. Oh . . . fuck.
“You mind working out with a girl, Jennings?” Her voice is as rich with her Staten Island roots as it was when I kissed her two nights ago. Puzzle pieces fly together: her accent, Coach’s accent. His eyes, her eyes. New to town, her dad moved for work.
I turn just enough to catch her pulling her catcher’s helmet and mask from her head, her blonde hair tied up in a knot at the base of her neck.
“Gear’s a little tight, but it should do,” she says, handing it to her dad.
Fuck me, that’s her dad.
“Thanks for taking it for a ride,” he says, nodding to his daughter.
Fuck me, that’s his daughter.
“Sure, but next time remember . . . it’s ladies and gentlemen when you’re talking to us, ’kay?” she says, reaching forward and playfully punching his arm. Guess I know where the laugh came from when he started his speech. Pretty sure he’s not going to punish her for it, either, on account of her being right and all. Oh, and being his freaking spawn.
“Hey, Cannon from Indiana,” she says, the same mischievous bend to her lips that made me feel absolutely drunk on her mouth forty-eight hours ago.
I don’t dare respond with the same flirtatious tone I used last time, instead opting to nod as she backs away with a wink. I think I just got played.
“Your partner is leaving without you, son,” Coach says to Zack. My cousin is still a bit stiff from the shock of having to fight for his position against his new coach’s daughter. Talk about delicate.
“Oh, yeah. Thank you. I’ll catch up,” Zack says, his words all jumbled and hesitant. His confidence literally just crawled away and sank through the cracks of the clubhouse’s concrete floor.
Not wanting the same fate, I grab my bag from under the bench so I can escape without taking more blows to my ego. I’m nearly out, too, when Coach stops me by hollering my name. I turn with my back flat on the door, my mouth suddenly dry with the mystery of the unknown.
“I see you know my daughter.”
There’s a pregnant pause that’s thick enough to choke our football team’s offensive line. I keep expecting him to say more, to ask a question or shoot me some warning to stay away from her, which of course I will absolutely obey. He doesn’t. Just that one statement, along with his laser stare from his weathered death eyes.
“A little. We just met,” I say, finally, my delayed response clearly exposing my nerves.
“Hmm,” he says with a nod.
I pull my lips in tight, mostly to keep from saying anything else.
“Go on,” he says, after another painful pause.
Yes, sir. I only think it this time.
I round the clubhouse and look out on the track, where Hollis is about to lap someone. Zack hasn’t even finished tying his laces. My cousin is in trouble, but not as much as I am. If I want to make it to Vanderbilt, or anywhere like Vandy, I need to be at the top of my game. One midnight kiss, though, and my season is cursed. So help me if that vixen ends up calling my pitches.
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