“Hi,” I mouth, holding up a hand. His cheeks sink in, his jaw clenching as he grunts and hoists the tire over again. The boom doesn’t startle me this time. Cannon looks away, tearing tape from his hands with his teeth.
“You know the Jennings boys?”
“Huh?” I jerk back to the muscle-man behind the counter. “Oh. A little. I’m new here, like Cannon. From Indiana.”
I giggle lightly to myself, but he just looks at me like I’m nuts.
“You’re from Indiana?” The man quirks a brow, and I realize how stupid that sounded.
“No, it’s just a nickname. Sorry, inside joke,” I mumble.
“Ah,” he grunts. He centers himself at his register and I spot the half-empty pack of cigarettes left on the chair he was sitting in. My assessment is spot on so far.
“You wanna a day pass, sugar?”
I roll my shoulders from habit. Some men have always talked to women that way, but it still makes me want to vomit and punch them when they do it to me. That’s what you get when your mom teaches women’s studies for an online university. I hear the same lessons every semester, and the one about the cycle of labeling hits home.
“Sure, pumpkin,” I shoot back. His eyes dart up, away from his register drawer, probably not sure he heard me right. I wink to let him know he did, and he laughs through one side of his mouth—the one with a well-chewed toothpick hanging out.
“Alright, then,” he says. I hand over my card and he rings me up for a five-dollar pass while I scan the board behind him for the monthly rates. There’s an old black-and-white photo tacked on a corkboard, and even though I don’t quite see the similarities, I take a gamble.
“That you?” I motion to it.
He glances behind him and pulls the pin from the board, bringing the photo closer.
“In my prime,” he says, fond memories tugging up the corners of his mouth, toothpick and all. He leans forward on both elbows, studying the photo closely.
“You know, I could have put those Jennings punks in their place back in my day. Joker flips that tire like he’s something, but I’d like to see him move the whole goddamn tractor!” His joke echoes loud enough that Cannon turns his head and grimaces. I can tell this banter must be normal between them.
“Well, I’ll try and put him in his place for ya. What do you say?” I expect more of a laugh than I get, but there’s a slight smirk and hint of a nod. He’s daring me to try, or at least, I decide that’s what that gesture means.
I move over to the area near Cannon, dropping my things on the metal chair in the corner and pulling one of the jump ropes from a hook on the concrete wall. He paces around the tire with his hands threaded behind his neck, a good deal of sweat discoloring his gray T-shirt, his hair slick and floppy and super sexy. His hands fall to the bottom of his shirt as he turns to face me, and he lifts the front to wipe the moisture from his face, giving me a good view of his perfectly sculpted abs and widening chest. He’s disciplined, and that is sexier than the damp waves of hair falling into his eyes, but just barely.
“This is a cool place,” I say, swinging the rope out to untangle it as I hold on to either end.
“I guess,” Cannon laughs out, a bit abruptly for someone whose tongue was in my mouth a couple of days ago. My gaze ices over as he turns away.
“Oh, I get it,” I say, lining the rope up with the front of my feet. I glance up to briefly catch his eyes on mine.
“What?” he grunts, grabbing a water bottle from the floor near my things. He twists the top and guzzles down every last drop.
“Nothing. Just that you’re one of those,” I say with a shrug. Swinging the rope out, I wait for it to come back at my feet and I jump, a methodical double bounce to my feet as I whirl the heavy rubber rope in circles around my body to get my heart rate up.
“One of what?” He doesn’t make the pfft sound after his words, but it’s implied in the sour look he wears. Standing, he grabs a rope and moves about ten feet away, turning to face me as he jumps rope a little faster than me.
I wobble my head side-to-side and glance up, catching sight of the loose blonde hairs that have crept out from my head band and hair tie. I blow at them, maintaining my jumping speed. I’m not winded in the least. Back home, we lived on a hill. Dad made me sprint up it ten times in a row before I was allowed to sit at the dinner table. This rope, it’s nothing.
“One of those guys who kisses girls for fun, then acts like a total prick the next time he sees them.” The thwap of my rope against the concrete floor picks up its pace as I take away the double bounce and jump fast enough to hear the wind caused by my rope whirling through the air.
Cannon’s rope stops completely.
“Okay, now, hey,” he says, a defensive shake to his head. “That’s not fair.”
He runs the side of his fist over his brow to blot away sweat, his rope clutched against his hip in his other hand.
“Okay, how?” I continue to swing and jump, my heart rate picking up. Like hell am I gonna let my breathing pattern reflect that, though. I’ll pass out first.
“How? Pfft!” Aannd there it is. His forehead dents and he puffs out a heavy laugh. I can’t wait for the excuse he’s trying to form. I see his brain working in overdrive behind his scrunched-up eyes. He’s still pretty, just a little less so because I don’t like boys who act like assholes to make themselves feel cool or whatever.
“You didn’t tell me you were Coach’s daughter!” He points at me with the same hand that holds the rope, and it swings harshly as he gesticulates. I can’t help but laugh, which only pushes more of his buttons. Irritated, he grabs my rope mid-air and tangles it around his palm, ripping the ends from my grasp.
“I’m sorry, was I supposed to offer up my resume?” I giggle at the thought and imagine that scenario playing out.
Hi, I’m Hollis Taylor. I’m almost eighteen, and my favorite foods are fried zucchini and every kind of cheese. My parents are Dina and Travis Taylor, and they’re forty-two and forty-three, respectively. Oh, and my father, he’s a coach. Oh, you play baseball? Me, too! No, not for fun. Like you! No, I don’t think I should play softball. Why? Because I like baseball. Oh, but it’s for boys? Huh, I didn’t know that. Is there a sign somewhere that says NO GIRLS ALLOWED?
“You don’t understand,” he grunts out, interrupting the argument going down in my head. Cannon continues to pace with both of our ropes tangled in one hand.
“Spot me?” I say, moving on to the squat rack. I shuffle the plates around, pulling out the forty-fives while he fusses with the mess he made with the ropes.
I’ve got my bar ready to lift by the time he’s done, but he stops about ten feet short of the rack, his hands on his hips, shirt soaked with sweat and his black joggers pushed up on his calves in that super cute way.
“No, I’m not going to spot you. I can’t . . . I mean, you’re—”
“Coach’s daughter,” I say with a roll of the eyes. I step under the bar and find the right fit along my shoulders. I wait a beat to see if he gives in, and when he doesn’t budge I step forward with the bar balanced along my back and shoulders and steady my feet. I get through two whole squats before he mutters, “Fuck” to himself and steps in to assist me.