“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 let 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
