Varsity Rulebreaker

by Ginger Scott

  Leaning to her right, she glances first up to the monitor and our teacher, then to the floor, where her backpack rests beside her leg. Tugging on the top zipper, she reaches in, feeling around for something, her eyes remaining up front—always the perfect student. The scene makes me smile, even if I feel a bit shunned. She straightens again, a pack of gum cupped in her palm. She works it open in her lap and pulls out a stick, unwrapping it without looking and popping it in her mouth. She turns to me mid-chew, one eyebrow raised and holds the pack out for me.

  “Gum?” she asks.

  I breathe out a quiet laugh and shift my focus from the pack back to her, studying her eyes and her features for a second or two.

  “Sure,” I respond, reaching over and pulling out the piece on top. Her gaze sticks to mine through it all, as I unwrap the stick while staring back at her, and even while I pop it in my mouth and begin to chew. I smile with closed lips when the gum goes soft, and she does the same, our jaws in sync as they work slowly.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  She responds with a slow blink, her lashes dusting the tops of her cheeks while her mouth curves up into them.

  That’s all it took. My chest is open, and I can breathe. Hollis is as comfortable with saying I’m forgiven as I was apologizing, and a stick of gum is her olive branch. Now, if only this feeling can stick all the way through practice. Somehow, I’m doubtful.

  My relief is short-lived. By the time Zack and I make it to the track to get our laps in, Uncle Joel already stands in the middle of the field next to Coach. I’m not sure which I want more—super powers that let me listen in from a distance, or to never know what they’re saying. Zack probably feels the same.

  We hit the track at the same time, and even though I finish before him, he’s not far behind. I turn to congratulate him with a raised hand as we walk back to our gear, but his eyes are fixed on his father so I let it fall to my side.

  Zack slings his heavy catchers’ bag over his shoulder, not bothering to roll it. I’m not sure whether it’s an act of showing off how strong he is, even after a run, or if he’s so angry about his dad showing up that his veins are pumping super-human blood.

  “Hey, it’s gonna be fine,” I say at his back. He’s not waiting for me, but I get it.

  He turns his head to the side, his eyes not fully reaching me as he nods. I slow my steps and let him gain some distance, maybe subconsciously wanting him to seem more dedicated than me, like he has hustle. By the time I reach the dugout, he’s already fastened on his leg guards and is jogging out on the field to stretch with Hollis and the other catchers. I let my gaze wander toward Uncle Joel while I switch out my shoes, glancing up and peeking from under the brim of my hat. He’s intently watching his son, arms crossed, while he remains stoic at Coach Taylor’s side.

  Nothing about this is good for anyone. Coaches aren’t interested in parental opinions, but because Joel is who he is, and because he has a say in hiring and firing and funding this program, Hollis’s dad entertains the conversation. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but I can read enough into the hard line of his mouth to know he hates every minute of this forced conversation.

  No longer able to stall, I grab my glove and kick my gear bag into the corner before jogging out to stretch with the other pitchers. I catch the end of Joel and Coach’s talk as I run by.

  “Lots of talent, like you said, Coach,” Joel says just before putting a hand on Coach’s shoulder, somewhere between a friendly pat on the back and an intimidating intrusion of his personal space. “But hey, I know you’ll make the right choice.”

  “The best choice,” Hollis’s dad adds as he draws his lips in for a tight smile. There’s an F-U behind those lips, and Joel knows it. I glance away before I’m caught staring, but listen to the end.

  “Of course. But we all know who the best is,” Joel closes with, walking backward in my periphery. I shut my eyes, wincing through my last few steps until I join the rest of my teammates.

  That weight I cleared out with Hollis this morning has been replaced by something heavier that takes up every inch of space inside. I feel as though my arms can’t move independent of my gut, my pulse controls the pace of my legs, and my head is going to either deflate or pop without warning.

  Somehow, I get through my stretches without bending over to vomit, and I remind myself to breathe, hearing Tory and June’s advice in my head. I’m in charge of me, and Zack’s shit is his. Only, I’m living with all of this, and his dad and my dad, and Zack—family—is the whole reason I’m here in the first place. Lines are hard to draw, and while I get what Tory meant, I don’t think he understands how tangled everything is when it comes to this season—this team. Maybe I did get Hollis’s forgiveness today, but if I can’t walk this line just right, I’ll end up betraying my family, and that apology will require a lot more than a pact made over some Doublemint.

  “Jennings!”

  I turn to answer the same time Zack does, both of us responding with, “Yes, Coach” from either end of the field. Coach Taylor lifts his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose just under his glasses.

  “Sorry, I keep forgetting. Cannon,” he says, gesturing for me to rush over.

  I pick up my glove and do as asked, noting that my cousin watches my every move while finishing his stretches.

  “I’m gonna have you throw to Hollis today,” he says the moment I step up to him.

  My mouth goes dry. My uncle is pacing around the dugout just beyond his shoulder.

  I squint from the sun as I look at him. It’s bright as fuck out today, the sky filled with puffy white clouds. I never wear glasses, though. I don’t like the feeling of anything on me when I’m throwing. Extra swag is always a distraction. If I could get away with ditching the cap, I would.

  “You sure about that, Coach?” I question. I know immediately that he’s sure, and that I should shut my damn mouth, but that sick feeling taking over my insides made me ask.

  He doesn’t respond with words, only a look, one I have to read through the sheen of his Oakleys.

  “Right, okay.” I nod and head toward the bullpen. I get about ten steps into my jog when Coach stops me.

  “We’re on the mound today.”

  I pause mid-step and spin on my right foot, coming back toward him. He’s making a point, and I’m part of the performance. There are seven of us out here who can throw, and at least three who are going somewhere after this year. He could have led with any duo, but he chose me and Hollis on purpose. I’m the best, but Roland or Jay would have been great choices for this exhibition. Jay has a better curveball!

  My inner-dialogue continues on a constant stream while Coach calls Hollis out and points to the plate. She rushes into the dugout to grab her mask and chest protector while I kick at the rubber and push the dirt exactly the way I like it. She has no idea that Zack’s dad is the weird guy wearing the crisp white dress shirt and deep blue tie hovering around the bench while she gets dressed. She doesn’t even glance his direction despite the fact he is practically memorizing everything about her with that judgmental stare.

  It’s then that I realize exactly why Uncle Joel is out here. Someone said something.

  I know it wasn’t Zack. He was hoping to just win the starting job and have this never be an issue. Too late for that, though. It’s the only issue in Joel’s sights. My uncle rubs his chin, looking on while Hollis rushes into place, shaking dirt from her mask before pulling it over her head and face. She pats her glove a few times to tell me she’s ready, and I circle the mound, stepping up a few feet behind the rubber to do some warm-up tosses while she stands.

  I shoot a glance at my uncle before throwing. His arms are crossed firmly over his chest and he’s chewing at the inside of his mouth. It’s an old habit from his playing days when a wad of tobacco was always tucked inside his lip.

  There’s no way out other than marching off this field in protest or quitting to go play tennis, a sport I absolutely suck at, so I shuffle ste
p toward Hollis and throw the ball. It hits her glove and creates a poof of dust before she pulls it free and sends it back to me on a zipline. I sneak another look in my uncle’s direction while I set my feet again and note how sunk in his cheek is. He’s chewing on it harder. He was hoping the rumors weren’t true, but it’s hard not to see that Hollis is the real deal.

  She’s not only good, she’s better.

  She and I continue our warmups until the rest of the team moves into the dugout, displacing Uncle Joel. He moves behind the backstop, just over Hollis’s right shoulder, and takes a seat in the bleachers, his tie blowing across his body with the breeze. He has to be cold. Even with the sun and clouds reflecting the heat, it’s maybe fifty out here. I’m wearing thermal compression pants and a long sleeves, and I feel the slight wind cut through the threads.

  “Jennings,” Coach shouts. This time I’m the only one who answers, Zack sitting on the bench with his water jug balanced on his knee. My cousin’s eyes reach mine when I respond to our coach and the look of betrayal absolutely slays me.

  “Yes?” I swallow, thankful I’m out here on the mound alone so no one can read the subtleties in my expression.

  “Think you can handle three live batters? I’m looking to give you all three apiece today.” He glances to his right where Jay and Roland stand waiting to go next.

  I nod, choking down the bile.

  “Sure,” I say, dipping my chin and kicking the dirt out a little more to find my perfect fit.

  I signal to Hollis that I’m ready to throw a few warm-up pitches for real, and she crouches down, ready to take them. We start with a few straight fastballs, and I easily hit her location. I shut out the sounds of players taking position behind me, ignoring my infielders throwing the ball a few feet away. I throw a change up and a curve next, one a little off target, forcing Hollis to drop to a knee to block it. The ball kicks away from her when she does, and she stands, jogging over to get it. I catch the pleased smirk on my uncle’s face behind her, his shoulders shaking with laughter at the “silly girl trying to play a man’s game.”

  Suddenly, I’m at another crossroads, not sure whether I want Hollis to shine or fail miserably. Maybe she’ll be mediocre, and Zack will be a little less mediocre. There’s no win in this situation.

  “Johnson,” Coach calls out. One of the guys I don’t know well grabs a helmet and rushes out to the batter’s box, the first unlucky supporting cast member in this play called Get This Nosey-Ass Board Member Parent Off My Field.

  My guess is Johnson is a freshman, maybe a sophomore. His knees are quaking, and it’s not only his pants blowing in the wind. Those suckers are skin tight. Hollis glances up at him then back to me, pounding her mitt before reaching down and giving me the sign for a two-seam right down the center.

  I nod before winding up and rocketing the ball to her without as much as a blink from Johnson in the box. Hollis throws the ball right back to me while Johnson steps out and adjusts the Velcro on his gloves, as if that’s what made him freeze and forget to swing.

  I let myself be amused for a moment, also glad that this first batter is nothing special. Hollis handling my straight fastballs is meaningless. Hell, I could affix a glove to a folding chair for this, no catcher necessary. Nothing about this impresses my uncle, which means so far, my cousin is off the hook for having to prove anything in front of his dad.

  It takes three pitches to strike Johnson out, and Coach forces the poor guy to stay up there and try to bunt for three more throws. He can’t get a single one fair, though, so before my pitch count gets needlessly high, Coach lets him off the hook.

  “Madden, you’re up,” he shouts, patting Johnson on the back as he runs by. If anyone is quitting to join the tennis team today, it might be him. Dude looks shell shocked.

  Marcus Madden is another story. I know it, and so does Hollis. Marcus and I played fall ball out here together, along with Zack, which means Uncle Joel knows a thing or two about Marcus’s swing. There are two guys who can put the ball over the fence if you’re not careful, and Marcus is one of them.

  As Marcus takes a few practice swings, my uncle sits up tall, rolling his shoulders and clasping his hands in front of him, elbows on his knees. He rubs his palms together greedily, and I can’t help but imagine he’s making a wish for one of those dingers right now. Either that or a harsh foul ball right into Hollis’s head.

  I grumble to myself, my voice a hum only I can hear, then step up on the rubber with my glove shadowing my chin while I look in for Hollis’s signs. She asks for another straight fast ball, and I shake her off on instinct because I know better. Maybe I should let it go and get this over with, let Marcus round the bases and gloat. Hollis gives me the sign again and I suck in a hard breath, this time giving in.

  “Fine,” I mutter.

  She moves her glove a few inches inside, crowding Marcus, which is smart, but maybe not pushing him tight enough. I wind up and let loose, both hoping it’s enough and just enough at the same time. His swing is awkward, and the ball clips off the bat near his hands.

  Coach whistles at me, and I turn as he tosses me a new ball. Hollis stands and kicks the other ball behind her before getting set for me to throw again. Her sign is exactly the same, and she sets up in the same spot. I’m tempted to shake her off, but after staring at her for a solid five seconds I decide, “What the hell.”

  I wind up again and throw the exact same pitch, getting the exact same result. This time Hollis scoops the foul tip and tosses the ball back to me in one smooth move. If this were a real game, I’d be gloating right about now. Ahead in the count, the clutch hitter one strike away. But it’s not a game, and my uncle is now standing. So is my cousin.

  My eyes shift to Coach but he keeps his gaze firmly affixed to the clipboard he’s balancing on the dugout fence. This is his daughter’s call, and he trusts her to make the right one.

  “Give him hell, Madden,” my uncle taunts from behind the plate. A few of the guys in the dugout lean forward to see who the obnoxious parent is. Coach glares in Joel’s direction, the sun glinting off of his sunglasses as the tendons in his neck flex. I’d laugh my uncle off if he were actually doing this in jest, but he’s not. The same ugly side his son has when he’s challenged is coming out right now.

  Hollis flashes me the sign for my slider while everyone else is occupied with Zack’s dad. It’s a smart call, and if I were on my own, it’s what I’d want to throw. Marcus digs in with his palm out to me to give him time. While he’s a good hitter, his ego is a bit much. During games, he can drag his at bat out with annoying rituals and time-outs. He’s been warned by umps for being excessive, but knows there’s nothing anyone can do about it. You hit the ball like he does, you can call time-out to paint your nails with glitter if you want and coaches won’t care.

  Once he’s ready, I waste a few extra seconds staring from behind my glove just to eat at his nerves. He’s lined up as if he’s anticipating me going back inside. It’s a gamble, but one he had to take. If I do, he’ll be ready to punish me for it. But I’m not. My only task now will be not to miss.

  I wind up and throw, my world switching into slow motion as my back leg swings around with my follow-through, my eyes up while my hand cuts through the air and skims along my shin. I get my glove up and ready, because I know better than to stand there defenseless. But there’s no need; the ball cuts exactly where I want it to go, trailing away from Marcus as he swings through hard enough to lose his balance and land on one knee.

  Hollis stands and pushes the mask up on her head, flashing me a proud grin that I can’t help but mimic. My uncle catches it, too, so I let it drop as soon as she throws me the ball and shouts toward the dugout.

  “Next!”

  She stands there with her gloved hand on her hip, mask pulled up while wild strands of hair blow in the strengthening wind. They’ve come loose from what is probably an actual knot she tied with her hair under her helmet. Dirt lines her cheeks, darkened by sweat. And through
it all, her blue eyes glitter like sapphires, the one beautiful thing she cannot cover up and hide no matter how hard she tries.

  There’s something exceptional about her, and I admit that to myself right now. She’s not just beautiful, though goddamn is she. It’s something more than that—this vibe she has that seems so invincible. While Marcus wears his confidence like an arrogant bastard, Hollis wears it like a queen, every jewel in her crown owned. All of the compliments in the world would be meaningless to her, though. All she cares about is her own expectations for herself. I wonder if she ever falls short like I do.

  “Jennings.”

  The sound of my name shakes me from my trance and I shout, “Huh?” to my coach, only to realize that for once he means the other Jennings.

  “Grab a helmet,” Coach orders.

  Zack stands dumbfounded for a beat, his body rigid like a deer’s at the sound of a predator.

  I blink.

  “Well, go on,” Coach barks, his East Coast accent suddenly thick over so few words.

  I gulp as Zack rushes to grab his helmet, stuffing it on his head and slipping his bat from his bag. He rushes out toward the plate, forgetting that he still wears his leg guards, and Coach has to remind him by clearing his throat, then pointing at them.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” my uncle mutters, his volume loud enough that I hear him easily. I’m sure most of us did. I recognize the way Zack’s jaw tightens and his lips come together in a tight seal. Uncle Joel was merciless when Zack struck out growing up, and as we get older, my cousin bottles his anger in and buries it under that same expression.

  I feel trapped, so many outcomes possible in the next few minutes. Nobody knows what I can throw better than the guy at the plate. Zack and I have been apart for two years, but when we came back together, it was seamless. That is, until Hollis ripped things open. I stare into her eyes sixty feet away. She’s squinting with thought, probably working out how we navigate this situation her dad purposefully put us in. She bangs her glove against her hip a few times to clear the dirt away then squats, glaring up at my cousin as he takes a few warm-up swings.