“What?” The simple question spills from my mouth, loud enough that it’s distinguishable, undeniable that it came from me, hostile and oppositional—all qualities that get you cut before you even make it to tryouts if you don’t throw like I do.
My feet keep going, though my partners pick up the pace, distancing themselves from me. I don’t blame them. I manage to pull my stare from Coach as I round the corner and kick it in a little faster through the straightaway. When I pass Jay and Roland, they up their pace to match me, and by the time we round the next curve and hit the final straightaway, we’re near a sprint, a shotgun race to see who crosses the finish line first. Roland edges me out by a foot, and I beat Jay by a full two strides.
Chests pounding, the three of us rest our folded hands over our heads, slowing from a jog to a walk as we make our way back to our pile of gloves and shoes, cheeks red and mouths panting.
“Jennings!”
The guys don’t even spare me a glance. It was a long shot that he’d let this pass. Things always seem to start off this way with me. By the end of the season, I’m coach’s favorite, but for whatever reason, I always go into relationships adversarial. It’s a flaw. I’m aware. I hate it. Still, every fucking time!
This one, it’s on Zack. And Hollis. I wish none of it concerned me, only Zack is the entire reason I’m here. Me and Zack, that’s how it was always meant to go down. Our fathers have this shared dream, and yeah, maybe there is some vicarious living happening, but regardless, it’s had years of hope invested in it. That’s too much importance to be ruined by some chick out to prove a point, and her pissed-off, protective father.
“I’ll see you guys in the bullpen.” I nod. Jay lifts his hand up, but neither of them glances over their shoulders. They’re safe. My fuck up, my punishment.
“Coach?” I say as I jog to where he stands at the edge of the track. Assistant Coach Dixon gives me a short nod, a hint of a smirk buried under his mustache. At least he’s amused by my hot head. I won’t have to do the make-up work with him.
“Ten percent of the population is left-handed. You know that?” Coach Taylor’s jaw rolls as he chews at a piece of gum. His eyes are trained on the track, his focus on the clump of fielders making their way around it at different paces.
“Something like that, yeah. I read that somewhere maybe,” I answer, even though I haven’t. It’s just a fact that seems about right.
“I bet you think that makes you special,” he spits out, and my mouth pops open in awe. I close it quickly, disciplined enough to know that anything I say next will surely be incriminating. He snaps his gum once as his head swivels my direction, his eyes full of years of experience dealing with players like me.
“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
