by Ginger Scott
“Thanks, Double D. I got this, though,” he says, spitting on the plate.
My eyes fall shut for a moment as I tuck my chin, acting as though I’m thinking about what to call next. Really, I’m just dreading the ass-chewing Zack has coming his way. Spitting on the plate is disrespectful, and there’s no way my dad didn’t see that. No matter where Roland throws this next ball, it’ll be called a strike simply because Zack just hit my dad’s nerve.
My head up, I send the same sign to Roland and line him up in the same location, maybe an inch or two more outside just to be safe. At this point, Zack would swing at the ball if he rolled it in. He’s too jacked and ready to show off his muscles.
Roland isn’t as good at hitting his target, and he ends up throwing the ball enough inside that Zack gets his bat on a piece of it, foul-tipping it right into my chest. It hurts as much as it always does, but the sting is gone by the time Zack is done chuckling. That guilty weight in my chest is gone now too.
“Strike two,” my dad says. I glance over my shoulder to catch the reflection off of his glasses. I squint at the brightness, but I give my dad a nod. I shouldn’t, because it’s these little communications that can get both of us into trouble, but I can’t help myself. Zack is under my skin, and he’s under my dad’s, too.
“Alright, Big Z. Time to show up or shut up,” I say. I rarely devolve into trash talk, but the guy brings out the worst of my personality.
He scoffs at me and digs in, his leg twitching with what I assume is a sense of urgency pulsing through it. He’s going to look ridiculous in about six seconds.
I signal for the curve, and Roland has a hard time hiding his smirk. If Zack were paying attention, he’d see it and be prepared. But he’s too far gone inside his head.
I set up dead-center of the plate, knowing that Zack will see me in his periphery and probably think that he’s going to get a fat meatball to rocket over the fence again. His swing comes almost a full half-second before the ball, the bat flinging end over end toward the dugout from his failed grip.
“That’s one!” I shout, counting the outs as I throw the ball around with my team.
I’m still standing on the plate when Zack leans forward and spits again, purposely targeting my cleat. The act is purposeful, spiteful, and cruel. And he is about to wish he weren’t in his own shoes.
“Bad move, Big Z. I mean, Big Zero.” I give in and let any hope for mercy slip away.
“Jennings!”
There’s no confusion about who he’s calling. My dad’s glasses are off, tucked into the front of his shirt by the time I spin around. He throws the clipboard down on the metal bleacher seat behind him, the clatter echoing around the field. My dad takes long strides around the backstop, through the gate, and into the dirt behind home plate where he steps in close enough to Zack that he could literally bite his nose if he wanted to. What surprises me, though, is the level of bravado puffing up Zack’s chest and drawing him just as close to my dad. This is how wild dogs get into fights.
Knowing I should, I walk out to the mound to give them some privacy. The distance doesn’t matter much, because my dad can be heard clear as day.
“Do you even want to be out here?”
His hand claps against his thigh, a gesture he makes when he’s truly frustrated.
“This is a team, not Zack Jennings play time!”
He turns to walk away but pivots almost immediately, pointing.
“Uncoachable. Disrespectful. Not the kind of athlete I want on my team!”
The quiet before the storm is thick, palpable, and we all taste it. Zack shuffles back a few steps, angry laughter bubbling from his chest as he glances to his side and stares in Cannon’s direction. There will be regret, probably on his part, and he will think he can repair the damage he’s about to do, but he can’t. My father is basically the Mr. Darcy of coaches, his opinion of someone gets set in stone pretty quickly.
Zack unvelcros his batting glove, making a show of it, his tongue pushed so hard into the crook of his cheek that I can see the lump it forms from several feet away. He leans over and spits on the ground between where he and my father stand, and before it hits the dirt, my father shouts, “Get off my field!”
My dad points to the parking lot, and his stare at Zack is hard. He rarely looks people directly in the eyes, but there’s no mistaking the point he makes right now. It’ll take a miracle for Zack to set foot on this field tomorrow, and I have never seen such a miracle happen in all my years of watching my dad coach.
It takes Zack a good fifteen minutes to pack up and lug his gear out to the lot, making a show of everything in front of the rest of us while we all do our best to play as if my father didn’t just lose his shit. To add insult, Zack peels out from the lot, fishtailing the back end of his car enough to send burnt-rubber-smoke into the air. The squeal was his ultimate F-U to my dad.
That miracle he’ll need just keeps getting farther and farther away.
Despite the sudden and very present tension felt on every square inch of the field and dugouts, we all manage to get through another hour of games until my dad calls the rest of practice and makes the next day’s workouts optional.
I linger, not packing up until everyone has cleared the field. I have to wait for my dad to finish talking with the other coaches anyhow, but I also want to talk with Cannon. He’s been abandoned here.
“Do you all live far?” I have a vague idea where their house is, but I’ve never been.
“Far enough,” he says, punching out a laugh. He lifts his bag up over his shoulder and breathes out heavily through his nose, his tired gaze landing on mine.
“You can’t walk home,” I say.
“I’ll be fine—”
I don’t let him bother with the lie and march over to my dad, calling him out of the circle of coaches and doing my best not to eavesdrop. I hear enough to clue me in on things perhaps getting a little messy after today. Drama tends to do that, especially in high school sports.
“Cannon’s stuck here now,” I explain.
My father’s eyes flit from me to where Cannon stands beyond my shoulder. His shoulders slump and he glances back to the coaches waiting on him to finish their talk.
“I can’t give players rides. You know that,” my dad says. I understand. Especially now that he made such a public stand against Zack’s attitude. I also know enough to get why Zack’s father makes this messy.
“I’ll take him home. I’ll be back before you’re done.” I lean my head to the side and droop my eyes just enough to prey on his weak spot. I am just a player out here, but in all other aspects, I truly am daddy’s little girl.
He sighs and drops his hands in his pockets, looking off to the side before bringing the keys out and holding them out for me to take. Before I can grab them, he clutches them in his palm.
“Come right back. And this has nothing to do with practice. This is a friend driving a friend home.” He’s very literal, and given everything we’ve gone through in the past, I understand why.
“Got it.” I nod.
I take the keys and march back to Cannon. “Come on,” I say as I pass him, urging him to join me.
“Thanks,” he finally says when we’re halfway across the field. “Think he’ll be long? Should we just drop our stuff in the van then come back?”
“My dad can’t drive you, so I’ve gotta take you then come right back to get him,” I explain.
He scrunches his face as I hit the button that automatically pops open the back.
“That’s kinda weird. Nobody really cares,” he says.
I drop my bag inside and turn to face him as he shifts his to rest next to mine. Our eyes meet and I do my best to portray exactly how serious this is.
“Everybody cares. They always do, but only bring it up when they need to,” I say.
His brow knits as I close the back hatch, and I leave him there puzzled until I get inside and he joins me.
“My dad follows rules and regu
lations to a T. He documents everything, and he gets witness statements. Everyone in that circle out there talking today is going to be asked to write down their account of what happened. My dad doesn’t mess around.” And it’s all because of me.
Cannon gives me general directions as I pull out of the lot, and the first few minutes of the drive are spent with him alerting me where to turn and when. We’re turning onto his street when he brings the subject back to the one weighing on both our minds.
“My cousin is just really wound up, and the stress comes out poorly,” he says.
I put the van in park a few houses away from his and lean back with a sigh, letting my hands fall to the bottom of the wheel.
“Quit making excuses for him,” I say, rolling my head along the seat back until our eyes meet.
He blinks rapidly, as if computing my words, but instead of the argument I expect, he says, “You’re right.”
I offer a crooked, sympathetic smile.
“I know this isn’t fair for you. I’m so sorry.” Zack’s car isn’t in the driveway up ahead, which means he’s gone somewhere to blow off steam.
“He’s probably with Tory or Lucas,” Cannon says, pushing the lever to lean his seat back a little. He props a leg up and holds his knee, his eyes darting around the landscape beyond the van, as though searching for a way to make all of this right.
“Why does your dad play by the rules, like you said?”
I do my best to mask the sick expression I want to make. The way I feel inside can’t be helped. This subject was bound to come up, and I need to learn it’s simply part of the journey of a female athlete in a man’s world. It doesn’t make me hate it any less.
“Back in New York . . .” I pause to draw in a deep breath, to swallow down some courage. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be shocked to hear this, but not everyone wanted me to be on the team.”
He chuckles, but when he realizes it’s actually a sad statement on human behavior, he lets go of the humor, his laugh lines fading with the fall of his mouth back into a straight line.
“The weird thing is, most of the guys on the team? They were fine with it. My ex—”
“Ex?” he pipes up. Of course that’s the part he pays attention to.
“Yes, ex. Meaning, not my current boyfriend.” Are you my current boyfriend? This sudden question tangles in my head while I sort out the details of my sophomore and junior years at Xavier to share with him.
“His name is Jordan, so let’s just call him Jordan,” I say.
“I don’t like him.”
I laugh out and grab Cannon’s arm, and can’t help but smile at this sudden possessiveness. Also, it’s strange to reach out and touch him like this. It’s both natural and terrifying, a sensation only amplified by the way he reaches over with his other hand and weaves our fingers together.
“Oh,” I stammer out, staring at the way our hands look together. The story I was telling slips away, but Cannon brings it back to the forefront.
“I’m listening,” he says. And he truly is. This would probably be easier if he weren’t, at least not so intently.
I swallow.
“Jordan’s dad, his name’s Bill. He’s this big donor— Xavier’s a private school.”
Cannon nods, understanding.
“Anyhow, he basically ran the school’s sports department. He wasn’t the athletic director, or an employee. He was nothing more than a guy with one vote on a board of trustees. But he was—is—big on tradition. And girls should be on the sidelines, and in the stands, or . . .”
I pause to snort out a laugh because the thought is so ridiculous.
“In the kitchen, learning how to be a good and proper wife. A girl playing ball was, well, in his words, ‘a travesty.’” I add the air quotes to drive it home.
I can think of a lot of things that are travesties. Homelessness, hunger, a truly great person being murdered in cold blood. Me playing ball? Not even close. My presence is an inconvenience to sexist assholes who were probably never half as good as me.
“So, what did they do, like, make a rule or something against you?”
I shake my head and look out my side window, the memories still crystal clear in my head.
“Our field was about a block away from the campus, which is kinda normal for Staten Island. Our locker room was in a basement under the gym, and the coaches’ offices were buried in the back, behind the showers. No matter what time of day it was, when the power went out, it got pitch black in there. We had a big game against our rival, and one of the other players’ dads caught me during my walk to the field and told me my dad left his scorebook on his desk.”
The self-blame weighs down my insides the way it always does. No matter how many times I rationalize what happened, the small inner voice I try to keep quiet pipes up and tells me I let it all happen.
“The locker room was clear. I made sure because I was only supposed to be on the women’s side. I was just going to run in, grab the book, and go. I didn’t even suspect something when the lights went out because, like I said, that stuff happened all the time.”
I can tell Cannon expects something worse by the way his eyes are locked open yet slanted with disappointment. Thank God it wasn’t worse. That thought repeats in my head a lot. Really, though, what I’m doing is giving them all an excuse for what they did do to me.
“I couldn’t find the book.”
“There was no book,” he concludes.
I breathe out through my nose and look down at the place where our hands still touch, at the way his thumb is now stroking my skin in careful, slow circles. I shake my head.
“There was no book,” I echo him.
His fingers twitch as his muscle tense.
“Nobody was in there,” I add quickly, taking the worse scenarios out of his imagination. “They locked the door. It was made of thick, heavy metal and it was old. Nothing about my old campus was to code, and that was the only way out. The most important game of the year was about to happen and I was buried below ground a block away.”
“Damn, Hollis.” His head falls to the side in sympathy, but I also see the relief in his eyes. I understand it because I feel the same relief whenever I remember what happened. I’m coming to terms with the fact it was a truly awful thing, even though it wasn’t worse.
“I missed the first two innings. Jordan finally came looking for me with my father’s keys. There was a scout for the local community college there who never got to see me play. Maybe for a lot of players that isn’t the end of the world, but for a girl who wants to play this game in college, any school open to the idea of putting me on their roster is a big deal. They took that away from me.”.
“Did the guys get kicked off the team? Expelled? Suspended at least?” His questions are so full of hope. I’m about to dash his outlook on humanity.
“It was parents who locked me in there. Three in particular, including Jordan’s dad, Bill.”
The way Cannon’s mouth hangs open isn’t rehearsed or pretend. His eyes drill into me, unblinking, waiting for me to say, “Psych!” or, “Just kidding.” Oh, how I wish I could.
Cannon twists in his seat, letting go of my hand for a moment while his gaze drifts off into the place where the pavement meets the horizon.
“You deserve to play, Hollis. No, you deserve to start.” He’s so resolute in his words, his mouth closed tight to punctuate the finality of them while he shakes his head. His eyes haze and it’s almost as if he’s playing out an argument with someone else in his head, preparing to defend me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean over the console and press my lips to his cheek, holding his jaw with my hand. His head moves in slow motion, turning to face me, his mouth opening with a faint breath. Our eyes meet briefly, his falling lashes my only clue that his close just before mine. He palms my cheek as his mouth captures my bottom lip, and in a single heartbeat, we’re kissing.
Nothing about the moment is rushed, and every pass of his lips ag
ainst mine is tender and sweet. Light tastes of my tongue with his are tempered by measured suckles of my top and bottom lips. He takes his time, shifting enough in his seat to steady my head in both of his hands. The way he holds me makes me feel cherished, and this is now one more thing that’s going on my list of things to really, truly adore about Cannon Jennings.
13
Cannon
Walking in on a conversation and having it go stone-cold silent is never a good sign. That’s what just happened, and I know my uncle and Zack were talking about pushing out Coach Taylor. I heard enough before I came down the stairs to get the general idea of their discussion.
The fact they aren’t bringing it up now, in front of me? That means they don’t trust me to know the details. That’s both good and bad. Good morally because I don’t want to be a part of something I don’t believe is right, and bad because I can’t prepare anyone for what might be coming.
Would I warn Hollis, though? Should I now, even though what I know is really just a bunch of bitching and whining over runny eggs at the breakfast table.
I don’t know what time Zack got in last night, but I know he was drunk. I heard him vomit, twice. After Hollis dropped me off, I called Tory and spent most of the night playing video games with him and his brother and Lucas. I suspect Zack was out with a few of the baseball guys, getting support for his bruised ego.
If anyone tries to take this out on Hollis, I am going to lose my shit.
“How’d practice go yesterday?” My uncle tests me with that question.
“Ask Zack,” I say without meeting his gaze. I stuff a mouthful of eggs and potatoes in my mouth.
“I wouldn’t know. I got sent home,” Zack grits out, shoveling food into his own mouth to avoid talking.
Clearly, they’ve already talked about what happened. Everything about Zack’s tone is rehearsed. The awkward silence, broken by the occasional scrape of a fork along a plate or the clunk of a full coffee mug on the table, is meant to flush me out. I don’t fall for any of it.