Varsity Rulebreaker

by Ginger Scott

  Zack is a solid hitter. If I throw anything near the plate without something wicked on it, he’ll get a piece of it. And maybe that’s what should happen. Maybe I throw for a duel, several pitches wasted, so no matter who comes out of this as the winner, really, we both do. But something tells me Coach Taylor has a nose for bullshit play. He’ll see right through it, and do I really want to be soft? This is too important for me, but if I humiliate Zack, his world will be crushed, and I can’t live with that either.

  He creeps into the batter’s box, digging his heavy feet into the loose dirt and twisting on his toes. This guy has had the same swing for years, and it’s dramatic and filled with all the little mannerisms he’s grown up watching the pros do on TV. Uncle Joel eats it up.

  “Come on, son!” My uncle claps three times before hooking his fingers into the backstop. He won’t be sitting down.

  Hollis signals for a fast ball, then sets up low and outside. She’s right. My cousin has trouble hitting the outside pitches because of his wannabe-pro-style swing. He’s too far from the plate, which makes him vulnerable. I nod, knowing it’s the right thing to do for me, but it’s going to make Zack look foolish.

  I wind up and send the ball flying at Hollis with my usual amount of pepper, but I miss her spot, giving Zack just enough to foul off and please his dad.

  “Atta boy. Come on, show him what you’ve been working on for two years!” My uncle cups his hands to clap this time, amplifying the slapping sound. It’s his way of boasting.

  Hollis stands and tosses the ball back to me after sliding her mask up on her head. She holds a palm out along with her open mitt. There’s a stink on her face, a sourness that has her lips sneering while her nose scrunches up. We’ve thrown enough together for her to know when I miss my spot on purpose. Damn her father for putting me in this situation. I know he’s trying to prove a point to my uncle, but I’m the one feeling the stress.

  I turn and kick at the rubber to ignore her stare, though I swear I feel the heat of it in my back. The smart move is to throw my slider, because that pitch starts out looking like the perfect strike then veers right into my cousin’s dead zone. Hollis must be in my head because that’s exactly what she calls. I breathe in through my nose and pause for a few seconds before shaking her off. Instead of calling a different pitch, though, she gives me the sign again. I shake my head one more time. Any pitch but this one. It will make Zack look stupid. I’ve gotten so much better at it over the last two years, and he hasn’t seen it enough to know it’s coming.

  Hollis drops her chin, eyes on the plate and her glove hanging limp on her hand. She snaps her head up again to meet my stare while I remain hidden behind my glove. I wish it were bigger, big enough to hide my entire body. I’ve muted my uncle’s clapping, but every now and then it breaks through. I wonder if Zack’s immune to it by now. He doesn’t seem to be fazed, digging his feet into the dirt while he anticipates my next pitch. He’s like a bull waiting to be let loose in the ring.

  Hollis gives me the same sign one more time, and when I shake her off yet again, she pulls her mask off and rushes toward me. I can see her gritting teeth by the time she’s halfway to me.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Jennings?”

  Wow, no mincing words.

  “I’m not feeling that pitch,” I lie.

  “Bullshit. You’re being a chicken. It’s the right pitch to throw. If this were a game, you’d throw it,” she seethes.

  She pulls her mask down over her face and runs back to the plate, crouching down and giving me the same sign as the last four, insistent and not waiting for me to nod in agreement. She sets up and snaps her glove for the ball a few times, no longer giving me the luxury of throwing anything but what she wants. If I don’t throw this, it’s going to look like a huge miss on my part. Stuck, I pivot and lift my knee, giving her the perfect slider that leaves my cousin whiffing the bat through the strike zone, not even close.

  “Oh, come on! Dude, you hit that! You know how to hit that, don’t you?” My uncle comes off like a drunk Little League dad, and if he were any other parent, Coach Taylor would toss him off the field. But my uncle approves his paycheck. Enough nay votes at the board meeting would make the principal nervous, and nervous principals fire people to make problems go away. Coach Taylor is stuck, just as I am. The only way he can make his point is by setting Zack up to fail. But I don’t want to be the one who stabs my cousin in the back. I don’t think I can live with that.

  Hollis throws the ball back and gives me a quick sign for the same pitch, again. It’s the right call, again. I nod, letting her know she’s right, but there’s no way in hell I’m throwing that pitch. My cousin needs this win a lot more than the rest of us. He’s the one who has to sit at the dinner table with my uncle tonight. Uncle Joel will brag when my dad calls tomorrow too, probably embellishing the tale of his son’s at bat against me, but I’ll text my dad to let him know I missed on purpose. My dad will get it. He knows how his brother is; Uncle Joel is . . . intense. Besides, family comes first.

  Right now, winding up and bringing my arms in then separating them with my stride, family comes first. The claps echo in some faraway place, the sound growing faster as the ball exits my nimble fingers. The threads spin line over line. It’s an easy-to-spot four-seam fastball that my cousin can’t miss. Hollis is already shifting her knees to adjust, her glove moving back to the center of the plate in a prayer that Zack swings through and misses.

  He won’t, though.

  He doesn’t.

  My cousin tosses his bat over his shoulder with his typical ego-driven flair as he holds up a fist and begins his slow trot around the bases. I maybe shouldn’t have made it quite so easy. The ball barely cleared the fence, but barely is always enough when it comes to home runs. My muffled ears clear and my Uncle’s whistles break through the barrier first.

  I feign disappointment, pulling my hat down on my face for a moment during his victory lap. I smile behind it, just for a second, and that’s how I know I made the right choice. By the time I slide it back in place, Hollis has walked off the field and into the dugout, throwing her glove with enough juice to take out five or six bats balanced against the fence.

  “Hey!” her dad shouts, snapping his fingers twice. She jerks her head toward him, her face stained with dirt, her eyes slits that glow with her anger. After a short standoff with her dad, her shoulders slump, and eventually, she looks down, pulling her mask and helmet off completely and undoing the knot in her hair. She stares at the water-stained concrete of the dugout for the next several minutes, and I’m glad, because the minute she looks at me, I’m going to quit thinking I made the right choice with that pitch.

  10

  Hollis

  I’ve never understood why people pace. What does walking back and forth in patterns do to solve problems? Nothing, that’s what. It does absolutely nothing. Yet here I am, not even sure who I’m the most angry with, and I am pacing.

  I bet my dad is in his room doing the same exact thing, maybe even having the same exact silent conversation with himself. This is all so pointless.

  Cannon doesn’t trust me. That’s the one thing I keep coming back to. If I’m ever going to catch for him in a game, when it truly matters, he needs to trust me. That’s not the pitch I told him to throw today, yet he threw it anyway. My conclusions are either a lack of trust or he knew Zack would hit it. He did his cousin a favor, and maybe—maybe—I should understand the family bond thing better. But wouldn’t it mean more if Zack actually earned it?

  There aren’t enough miles to be walked in this house to get my brain to stop. I need a better distraction, and homework is not going to cut it. I’ll be lucky to slow my mind enough by midnight to finish writing the lit paper that’s due in fourteen hours.

  “Gah!” I grunt out, throwing my copy of Macbeth on the center of my bed. I stare at the cover and laugh maniacally, though quietly. How appropriate that I’m reading a story about the struggle for political p
ower and how it tears people up from the inside out. Scotland’s got nothin’ on the politics of high school baseball.

  Restless, I ditch the quiet solitude of my room, closing my door behind me so my mom doesn’t mention the boxes still to be unpacked. My dad has finally parked himself on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table and some microbrew bottle in his hand. My mom’s sitting at the kitchen table with the reflection of her laptop glowing in her reading glasses. I grab the van keys from the counter and try to be smooth, soundless, but they jingle just enough to turn my parents’ heads my way.

  My mom pulls her glasses down to the tip of her nose and raises a brow.

  “Stir crazy,” I answer her questioning look. “I won’t be out late, and I will drive carefully, and yes, I am working on finishing my room.”

  That last bit’s a lie.

  She grimaces and says “Uh huh, sure.”

  “Thanks,” I say through an exaggerated smile, palming the keys and heading on my way.

  “If you see Jennings, let him know I wanna talk to him before workouts tomorrow,” my dad says as I leave. I glance at him, but he’s already turned his attention back to the television.

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “Either,” he says before taking a long sip of his beer.

  His ominous threat gives me a little boost as I leave the house. It’s tacky to be happy about other people getting in trouble, but I’m all right with being a little tacky right now. It’s better than some of the things I’ve wished on Zack and Cannon over the last hour. Nothing too bad—jock itch or premature baldness. Or getting cut from the team. I know that last wish won’t come true. They’re too good, and my dad would get called out for retribution. Zack’s dad would make sure of it. I’ve had enough of other player parents getting involved to suit me for a lifetime.

  I’ve yet to check out the bowling alley that June works out. She’s been encouraging me to come visit during her work hours for the last week, and now seems like the perfect time. I could use another female to vent to. I shoot her a text to make sure she’s there then head toward the main part of town. The lot is pretty full when I pull in. Cheesy eighties music blares through the doors every time someone comes or goes. It reminds me of a joint back home where I used to get slices of pizza with my dad after games.

  I check my phone before going in to see if June responded, but nothing yet. She’s probably busy. Buzzed on the nostalgia of hearing Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” which my dad always points out was my mom’s favorite song growing up, I’m smiling by the time I push open the door. The overhead lights are dimmed, and neon-colored lights line the lanes and walls of this place. It’s a bit of a dump, but in that perfect kind of way. The carpet is obnoxious swirls of color, some of them glowing more than others from the black light shining along the main walkways. My white socks and shoes are vivid, as is the NYU emblem on my sweatshirt.

  I make my way to the counter where a few people are in line for shoes, and I’m relieved when I see June rushing around to check people in. Stepping to the side, I lean against the counter and wait for her to have a free moment to talk. She catches sight of me on one of her trips to grab shoes and a smile lights up her face. Mine does the same, proof that I really needed this—a person.

  “Hey! Look who finally showed up!” June holds up a finger and rushes back to her register to cash someone out. She clears the line in about two minutes and comes back to me with two large cups filled with Coke.

  “Perk of knowing the junior assistant manager.” She smirks. I take the straw and pull the wrapper off, blowing the bit left on the end up in the air for her to catch.

  “Fancy,” I say, sucking in a big drink.

  “Mondays are league nights, so it gets pretty busy. You have to come back on a Sunday morning. We can literally bowl while I’m on the clock if you want,” she offers.

  “Oh, tempting. I’ll have to take you up on that. You know, I was Staten Island sixth grade champ with a pretty wicked one-forty-one,” I brag. I haven’t bowled since junior high, so I’m pretty sure I’d have to work to match that score again.

  “Well, I’d only take you by a hundred or so,” June teases. I laugh out hard but stop when I realize she’s not kidding.

  “Another perk of the job, I guess, huh?” I say.

  She cracks her knuckles dramatically to show off, then winks.

  “Hey, I’ll set you up with pool if you wanna stick around and hang out when I’m done here. We can grab a late dinner.” She pulls a box of pool balls out from under the counter as more people walk up to her register. I ate dinner already, but I could really use the girl time, so I nod and smile, taking the balls and my drink into the pool hall area, away from most of the crowds.

  The neon lights don’t glow in here. It’s peacefully dim, the room just dark enough to conceal Cannon until I’ve unboxed the balls at the pool table that’s apparently directly behind him. He jumps at the sound, and his movement makes me yelp and grab my chest.

  “Oh, shit!” I say through a nervous laugh. My heart is pounding at a marathon runner’s pace. “I didn’t see you.”

  He was wearing his hoodie up over his hair but he pulled it back when I startled him. My gut says he’s here hiding. For about four seconds, I’m distracted by the adorable way his hair flops around, before I remember that I want to punch him.

  “My dad wants you to see him before practice,” I say without transition. Cannon’s eyes scrunch up. “Just, he said if I saw you before tomorrow’s practice. I didn’t think I would this soon, and ya know . . . I don’t want to forget.”

  “Uh huh,” he deadpans with a slow roll of his eyes. He turns his attention back to the other table, rolling one of the balls across the table and back again.

  “Don’t throw shade at me just because my dad isn’t happy with you. I have nothing to do with his coaching decisions.” I mumble the words, irritated at the obvious insinuation Cannon makes. Most people—all people—assume that I’m basically my dad’s assistant. I must get favors. He must be willing to punish people just for me, right? I mean, I couldn’t possibly earn things on my own, and no way does my dad has ethical standards.

  “Pshh, whatever,” I mutter at my own thoughts.

  “You just don’t get it,” Cannon says, suddenly facing me, tossing the cue ball in his palm.

  I abandon the balls on my table and lean into the side with my arms crossed.

  “Don’t get what? That you don’t trust me to call your pitches or that you would rather make your cousin look good than let him earn it on his own?” I can tell I’ve hit a nerve by the way his eyes flinch. He doesn’t back away, though, abandoning his ball to the other table and stepping into my personal space until he’s close enough for me to smell the mint on his breath.

  “Did you take a minute to consider what the rest of the night would have been like for Zack if I struck him out? You saw my uncle out there. Imagine that at home, where there is no place to run off to.” His eyes pierce mine, a penetrating stare that challenges me, and my stomach churns at his point.

  “That why you’re here? Hiding from your uncle?” I change the subject and shove a cue at his chest.

  “Something like that,” he says, his voice low, words trailing off as if he just realized we’re close enough to share each other’s breaths. He wraps his hand around the stick I gave him and his eyes flit to my mouth then back up to my gaze.

  “You any good?” His head tilts with his question, but I think maybe he’s challenging me as an excuse to put distance between us. The break is welcome. When he’s close, I don’t think clearly.

  “I’m all right.” I shrug and face the table to properly rack the balls. I’m being coy. My family has a pool table. Or rather, we did. When I was old enough to hold the stick right, my dad put me up on a bar stool and let me play. I’m not a shark or anything, but I know my way around a game of nine-ball.

  Cannon meanders to the opposite end of the table, working the chalk cube at the end of
his stick.

  “What’s the wager?” he says, glancing up at me before tossing the chalk in my direction. I catch it in my palm and squeeze it tight while I hold his stare for a beat. I could play this two ways. It could be a game, for fun, for something silly or maybe even slightly flirtatious. Lord knows there’s a thousand butterflies beating in my chest rooting for me to take that route. But the tiger in my soul is even more demanding and pushes me to make a point while I still can.

  My tongue gently tastes my upper lip before I suck in and grab hold of it with my teeth, locking in the nervous laugh that’s dying to escape my throat. I’m going to make a business deal. The most gorgeous guy I’ve ever met is daring me to change the course of our relationship over a game of pool I have a really good chance at winning, and I’m going to instead opt to teach him a lesson.

  My God, what is wrong with me?

  He’s literally my kryptonite right now, black long-sleeved shirt with three open buttons at the top, dark fitted jeans that rest low on his hips and show off that tempting bit of skin just above the band of his boxer briefs. His feet are stuffed into unlaced white Vans, and damn it all to hell, even his ankles are cute. Unlike me, he’s taken a shower since that shit-show of a practice. His hair is damp, curling into loose waves that he keeps brushing away from his eyes. All of that is enough to make me get all stupid with my choices, but it’s whatever that smell is that accompanies him most of the time that’s thick and fresh and alluring as fuck right now.

  Good thing I’m as close to repulsive looking right now as I can get. I’m still wearing dad’s sweatpants rolled down to fit my waist and my Yankees World Series sweatshirt. That knot that Cannon likes to affectionately tease me about is a doozy right now, to the point it’s going to take a bottle of conditioner to work it out. I did wash my face, though, so there’s that.