by Ginger Scott
“No, sir,” I decide on. It’s the right response, and I can tell by the way he draws his mouth into a tight, satisfied smile. Despite this little spat, I know that I am, in fact, special. I know that throwing the way I do is rare, and I know he is aware of how rare it is. I know in my gut that this is simply him showboating to get the upper hand. But he’s tugging this little thread that leaves me unsure whether he means what he says. I get the insinuation—he’s not afraid to cut me. Right now, I’m not sure he is.
“Run it again.”
I blink, still out of breath from my two-hundred meter sprint. He pops his gum and gnashes his back teeth, flashing his canines.
“Now?”
Damn it, Cannon. Of course, now.
Coach shifts his stance, his shoulders squaring up with me, his arms still crossed over the taught coaching shirt stretched over his chest. He’s in shape, not a has-been.
“Right, now. Okay.” I exhale, letting my lips flap with the air. I’m probably going to throw up, but I get the sense he would be impressed by that.
Dropping my things at his feet, I jog over to the curve where I started last time. Just before I kick into a run, Coach calls out, “Two and a half minutes will put you on pace!”
I crane my neck back and stumble a little. That’s what a ten-minute-two-miler breaks down to over two laps. I planned to work up to that, maybe by next week. Mouth agape, I manage to stop myself from questioning this time, nod, and hope he’s too far away to see the WTF written all over my face.
“I’ll tell you when,” he says, lifting his arm and tapping on his digital watch. He’s actually going to time this.
I nod and kick out my legs, already tightening from cooling down. I get the idea that this—sprints—running in general—gets the blood moving, makes stretching more effective, and preps the heart rate. What I’m doing right now, though, is purely to satisfy his ego. It’s bullshit, but I’m gonna do it anyway.
He shouts Go as the largest group of fielders passes me for their second lap. I use their pace to kick me into overdrive, burning past them until I leave them well behind by mid-straightaway. My cheeks puffing in and out on a steady count, I mentally coach myself into the first turn, feeling the burn threaten my chest and numbness tickle my calves and thighs.
“A quarter through. Do this. A quarter through,” I grunt out, nobody around to hear me.
Beads of sweat slide down my forehead as Coach comes into view at the end of the track. He holds up his arm when I hit the curve again, tapping on his watch.
“Two seconds slow,” he shouts.
Fuck me all to hell.
My brain tells my legs to move faster, but I don’t know if they are. I pump my elbows back, hoping for slingshot, and lengthen my stride, thankful for my long legs. If I had to do this with more steps, I think I’d die.
I’m completely gassed by the time I get to the next curve, and now I’m basically falling my way through the rest of the run. I lean my weight forward, using it, grasping at every advantage, my breath coming out in heavy grunts and pants. I sound like a woman birthing a forty-pound baby. My arms begin to flail at fifty meters, my balance threatening at thirty, but I hold on through the finish line, giving in to gravity and tucking my shoulders as I fall into an awkward double summersault that gashes up my knee and leaves my forearm with one hell of a raspberry.
Finally stopped, I let my arms flop to my sides, my legs out like a scarecrow, my chest rising and falling like a giant, blood-filled heart. That’s what I am right now, and I’m not sure whether I’m going to pass out, vomit, or burst open.
Coach’s shadow shades my eyes, and I run my forearm over my matted, sweaty hair and forehead as he drops my ball cap on my chest. I clutch it, too tired to put it on my head, too exhausted to sit up. I shield my eyes from the sun with a chopped hand at my brow, my eyes wanting to close, my body begging me to sleep, right here, just for a minute or two.
“Eight-fifty-eight,” he says, followed by a snap of his gum. He gives it another chew and spits it out into the dead grass near the long jump pit.
“What?” I breathe out, not sure what he means. Afraid he’ll mistake my question for more attitude, I force myself to sit up, palms flat behind me, legs lifeless and stretched out before me. I shake my head and widen my eyes.
“Sorry. I mean, I don’t understand.”
He’s smirking. Smug prick.
“You ran an eight-fifty-eight two-mile pace. I lied about your first lap.”
He reaches down to help me to my feet. I puff out a sharp laugh, my chest giving out a breath it’s been working hard to find. I stare at his outstretched palm for a few seconds, working my way up to a full sit, my elbows propped on my knees. A drop of sweat falls from my brow into my eye, and I squint before taking the bottom of my soaking T-shirt to my face. Then I grip his hand and haul myself to my feet.
I slide my hat over my damp hair, tucking the sides in as we slowly cross the space between the track and the ball fields.
“You sure it was eight-fifty-eight?” I quirk a brow as I look at him sideways.
He lifts his watch to show me the time.
I have to stop walking to get a good look at it, and after a full two seconds of staring, I laugh out loud enough that the guys stop throwing and look at me.
“Hot damn! Woo!”
“Personal best, I’m guessing?” Coach questions.
I continue to laugh silently, a little in disbelief, and I nod.
“Uh, yeah. You might say that. My dad is going to think it’s an honest to God miracle,” I confess. My response pulls a laugh from him, a genuine one that’s raspy and accompanied by a smile that reaches his eyes.
I bend down and grab my glove and cleats, my body suddenly full of a zest, as though I could do that again if I really had to. I’m not going to offer, but I do feel that little additive pride gives my steps, and I’m not completely empty.
“Cannon,” he says as we near the bullpens. It’s the first time he’s said my first name, and the significance is not lost on me.
I nod and straighten my hat, pulling down on the sides to offer more shade and curve to the brim.
“Tomorrow when you come out here to run, know what you’re capable of, and don’t sell yourself short. Every workout and drill and warmup and stretch is an opportunity to be better. Don’t waste your own time on mediocre.”
I let my eyes meet his directly, feeling the burn of the uncomfortable stare, letting him look behind mine to see that I hear him, that I’m sorry, and that I’m about to prove to him that I am indeed special.
“Yes, sir,” I say, a little stunned at how damn good this guy is. It took two and a half minutes for me to buy in completely. And I’m in—one-hundred percent—when it comes to this team and this coach. What I’m not in for just yet is the catcher waiting in the bullpen with her helmet and mask balanced on her head, her hip jutted out, shin guards covering her legs, and chest protector layered over her Yankees practice shirt.
Coach lingers behind me, waiting to see what I do. My cousin is already catching Jay, and I know that’s on purpose. I can tell he’s pissed, based on the extra zip he gives to every ball he throws.
“You about ready, champ?” Hollis shouts. It’s both infuriating and sexy, and my brain is doped up on serotonin from just pulling off a miracle.
“Lemme get on my cleats,” I shout back, a neutral response that doesn’t raise Coach’s eyebrow or tick off Zack.
It’s going to be weird throwing to someone else right next to him. I’m already mentally preparing myself to pretend he isn’t there, that this is just some camp or a different team entirely. It’s a game of catch, with a girl who swears she can handle my heat. If I can run two laps like my life depended on it—and I think maybe it did, just a little—then I can do this.
She jerks her mask down and crouches behind the plate while I slip out of one set of shoes and into my cleats. Pounding her glove a few times, she stretches her legs out to the side one at
a time, clearly showing off how flexible she is. I catch Zack trying to do the same, and it’s not smooth. He stops trying after losing his balance on his left.
Relax, buddy. You don’t have to do everything she does. You’re good at doing it your way.
Dropping my turf shoes on the bench, I step up on the bullpen mound and dig in at the rubber. Grass overgrows much of it. This field needs some love. I roll my shoulders and hold the ball up for Hollis to see, making sure she’s ready for a warm-up toss. I throw it at half speed, not surprised when it pops in her glove above her head. She stands and rolls the ball in her hand a few times, and I hold my glove out for her to toss it back. We’re going to be here all day at this rate.
I knew she could play. I didn’t expect her to come out here and be weak or not at least hang. I expected Zack to blow her away, but I figured she would be able to handle a little bit of catch. This game is nothing like softball. It’s fragile and dangerous, and tiny mistakes in calculation result in disasters, in a blink. What I expected from Hollis was a gamble, a risky move for the sake of proving a point. My assumptions topple the second she sends the ball right back to my glove, hitting me square in the chest, the pop on my end as loud as it was on hers.
The sound is resounding enough that Zack stops mid-throw, distracted by the game of catch happening next to him. He eventually tosses the ball back to Jay, but I can tell he isn’t invested. I also see right through his lame attempt at tightening his mask so he can watch Hollis and me throw for a full minute. He’s crouched, fumbling with his gear, eyes lasered on the ball zinging between Hollis and me with increasing speed. Either seeing enough or realizing how obvious he is, he puts his helmet back on and drops to his squat, returning to Jay who was as lost in Hollis as the rest of us.
“Damn, girl,” he says. A second later my cousin pounds his mitt, forcing his partner’s attention back to him. Hollis just keeps doing her job, pretending not to notice any of it. She has to, though. Her mask hides most of her features, so underneath there must live a bit of arrogance. Not that it isn’t warranted. Damn.
I shake out my arm after our last toss and situate myself on the mound, ready to really throw, motioning that I’m starting with a four-seam. She lowers and pats her glove, flashing it open and closed where she wants it. She seems ready. Every little nuance is as it should be. This is the true test, and I’m glad Zack isn’t watching. No matter what happens, I’ll have to make him believe he has nothing to worry about, that she can’t handle this. To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m hoping for right now. If she can’t handle it, she’s going to get hurt.
I raise my leg and draw my hands in to my chest, then extend my arms with my stride as I push off and let it fly. It’s an inside pitch for a lefty, and meets her target right at the corner of the plate. A strike if they don’t swing, a probable double if they do. It’s exactly what she called for, exactly where she wanted it. And she handled it like it was nothing.
These odds are not fifty-fifty.
6
Hollis
It’s not like my dad to take Fridays off from workouts. He believes in using every inch given, and there are no rules against holding “optional” workouts seven days a week. Of course, everyone knows the unwritten rule of workout attendance—it’s silently mandatory. Not today. Today, my dad sent out a text blast around lunch hour letting everyone know they were on their own.
Apparently, for most of the team, this means bypassing the field completely after the last bell of the day and heading home, or to this hill everyone keeps talking about. I thought for a while I would be the only person to show up, but about five minutes into my run, Cannon arrives. I went a full mile today, to make sure I could still do it, and I’m about to hit my final stretch, my legs pleading with me to give them the rest I’ve been promising them for the last seven-eighths of a mile.
I slow to a steady jog and eventually a fast walk, my hands folded atop my head to give my lungs a good stretch. The sky is blanketed with a deep gray, the clouds thick and threatening to dump rain or snow, or a little of both. You can really see the weather out here. Back home, it was more of a surprise. The news told you the storm was coming, but the height of the borough’s buildings made it easier to ignore the oncoming threat. More times than I can count, I got caught blocks away with nothing but my bike to get me home. Something tells me rain and snowfall are a little different out here.
Cannon nods to acknowledge me. It’s . . . strange. We spent the week barely exchanging words. We talk more to one another in statistics than on the field, but that’s basically a proximity thing. I did the mental measurements and we’re less than two feet apart in stats. Out here, it’s sixty feet, six inches.
“Those clouds gonna do anything?” I force the question out because I want this to be pleasant. I don’t want him to finish his run and just go home. I’d actually like to practice, and that’s damn near impossible on my own. Not that I haven’t done it.
Finishing the laces on his shoes, Cannon rolls his compression pants into his socks and tugs down the pant legs of the joggers he’s wearing on top. He glances up as he stands, squinting from the reflection thrown off the clouds.
“Fifty-fifty,” he says.
His gaze is on me for a solid five seconds before I get his joke.
“Oh,” I breathe out with a laugh. “Right.”
He grants me a short laugh of his own, accompanied by the slightest tick up on one side of his mouth. It pushes a dimple into his cheek and for a flash, I get a glimpse of the boy I kissed to ring in this year. It’s gone before he turns toward the straightaway of the track for his run.
I let him get about fifty meters into it before my legs relent and let me take on another two laps. I’ve already cooled down, so the tightness in my hips keeps me from sprinting to catch up for the first half-lap, but I’m loose by the time I hit the curve and we round it together, crossing in front of the home stands with our strides in sync.
We both glance to our sides, making eye contact for a stride or two.
“You already ran,” he pants out. He’s breathing harder than I am. I gloat internally.
“Didn’t want you to run alone. It’s good to have someone push you.” My pulse is picking up again, partly from the cardio, but mostly from this awkward conversation. I decide to let the rest of this run finish in silence, and Cannon seems all right with that, picking up his pace for the second lap. I have to double my steps to keep up. He’s only an inch or two taller, but it feels as though his stride is twice the length of mine now that we’re really running.
We cross the finish line and I’m a solid ten meters behind. I expect to see him turn and gloat, but instead, he lifts his arms up to match mine and utters “Good run” through pants.
I nod. It was.
We walk in large circles until our heart rates find their way back to normal, and pick up our gear. I didn’t come out here expecting a bullpen, and he’s probably on his day off from throwing, but I’m both tense and pleased that he makes his way into the dugout with me.
“Think you can manage to throw strikes?” He jerks his head toward the batting cages as he drops his bag on the bench.
I set my gear on the opposite end and unzip the pouch with my batting gloves inside, pulling them on while I study the nearby netting. I twist my mouth as if I’m really giving his question thought.
“Guess I can throw ’bout as accurate as you can,” I respond, looking back at him with a shrug. He laughs, a genuine one, but it’s short. Like a punch.
He follows me into the cages and I move a tee into position. He lets out an exasperated sigh.
“What?” I glance up, tugging the tee’s neck to the right height. “Hate tee work?”
“It’s torture,” he says with flat eyes.
“Then you’re not doing it right.”
The laugh that crackles from his body is less genuine this time. I drag a bucket of balls to my side and balance a ball on the tee, gesturing with an open palm to le
t him go first.
“Nope.” He moves back to the corner where he can lean his weight against one of the poles, crossing his feet and pulling out his phone, probably skimming through social media.
“You wanna go second?” I ask.
“I don’t wanna go at all. I’ll wait for you to throw,” he responds without looking.
I shake my head as my gaze moves away from him. He’s gonna be in a world of hurt next week when my dad moves on to hitting drills. He doesn’t believe in skipping steps, even if your only job is pitching.
The best pitchers are the best they can be at everything else.
He put that mantra out there often at my last school. For the most part, the players bought into it all. My ex, Jordan, bought into it hardcore, which is probably the only reason my dad was all right with us dating. He was mediocre as pitchers go, but he was always at his best. Drive counts for a lot more than talent in my dad’s eyes. Too bad that sentiment wasn’t shared by Jordan’s father.
I push that thought out of my head and instead focus on my target, digging my feet in at a comfortable distance and taking a few slow-motion practice swings without my bat. I glance at Cannon as I reach down for my bat, but his attention is still on his screen, probably flipping through pictures of our classmates doing stupid shit and documenting it all for public consumption. I hate social media. It’s the downfall of my generation.
Eyes back on the ball in front of me, I rotate my hips and bring my bat back, twisting with a hard swing, leaving my feet in place. Cannon must have stopped his social binge long enough to catch me because he repeats the same simmering chuckle he gave before.
“That’s your batting stance?” He cocks a brow.
I open my mouth to explain how tee drills work, but then decide it doesn’t matter. I close it into a straight, unaffected line while meeting his stare with a harder one. The familiar competitive growl in my belly mixes with the constant need to prove myself as I place another ball on the tee and repeat the same drill. This time, Cannon snorts a laugh through his nostrils, and by the time I glance up, he’s back to his mindless phone skimming.