It shouldn’t surprise me, and I guess really, it doesn’t. It disappoints me, though, and that takes me off-guard. I expected more from him, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he was so receptive on the track, or because up until this point, other than a really good kiss, Cannon Jennings has been nothing but an arrogant prick.
I power through about twenty more swings, noting the half-empty bucket. I could move on to regular swings, but because I’m stubborn—or because I can’t help but engage with this guy—I try one more time to show him the way.
“You sure you don’t want a turn?”
I study him until he finally blinks up from the screen. Our eyes would look so good together, I think. If only his didn’t make me absolutely mental.
With a slight eyeroll, he bends and tucks his phone under his mitt to protect it and lines up to swing left-handed. I smirk because it always looks weird to me. Honestly, I’d give anything to be able to do it. I look like a fool when I do anything left-handed.
“Don’t move your feet,” I say, pausing with the ball in my palm, an inch or so away.
He grimaces because he thinks my method is stupid, but he’ll understand next week when my dad makes him do this about a hundred times.
I place the ball and adjust the height of the tee up just a tick for his height. He lines his bat up with a few slow swings, stopping right before impact, then clears his throat as he wriggles his heels into the turf and loads for his first swing. Topping the ball with his bat, it dribbles from the tee and travels about six feet to the center of the cage. It takes every ounce of self-control for me not to revel. Holding in the laugh proves impossible.
“Fuck off,” he retorts, not bothering to wait for me to load the next ball and instead doing it himself. He repeats everything as before, and the result is the same, including my reaction.
“This is stupid,” he says, tossing his bat to the side and undoing a Velcro strap on his batting glove. I reach forward and grab his wrist, my need to coach stronger than my instincts for what is probably a bad idea. His arm petrifies under my touch, forearm flexed with threat. I unwind my fingers one at a time while my eyes are fixed on where they just were. Blood rushes back in to fill the pale spots left behind from my hard grip.
“Sorry. I meant you shouldn’t quit after two tries. It’s a drill, and you’ve never—”
“I know how batting practice works, coach. Thank you, but I’m good.” He offers a salute along with his sharp tongue and bends down, pulling his batting gloves completely off his hands. He picks up his mitt and cradles it under his arm, holding it like a kid holds a teddy bear but with a tinge of aggression. Phone in hand again, he resumes his position against the pole, leaning impatiently, put out that he has to wait for me to finish my drills before we can get on to doing something he likes. Something he’s good at.
Stunned at how quickly he can turn into a child, it takes me a few seconds to regain the ability to move.
“Have you always been this sensitive? Or is that a new thing?” I bend down to get a ball in my hand so my eyes aren’t insulted by his sour puss expression, but it’s still there when I look up. Rather than back down, I glare right back at him, placing the ball on the tee before taking deliberate steps back. Holding my palms out, I offer him a chance to prove me wrong.
He laughs through his nose and looks to the side, squinting as he stares off into the distance where the mound—his comfort zone—sits empty, dirt swirling in the air around it as the wind kicks up. Cocking his head to the side, he levels me with one more hard gaze before giving in, his gritted teeth and flexed jaw evidence of how much he doesn’t want to fall into my trap.
After picking up his bat, he sidles up to the tee, lining up his feet in a position I know in my gut is too far back. I clear my throat rather than say something immediately, which comes off totally passive aggressive. He pushes my buttons and brings out the fighter in me. It’s maddening.
“What?” His shoulders sag, the bat resting heavily on the left one as his hands loosen their grip.
I run my hand over my mouth and chin, giving myself a few seconds to plot the perfect words before they leave my lips.
“So, the point of this drill is torque and bat speed. And the reason you’re not making the right contact is because . . .” I pause and hold my open hands out while my eyes widen to stop him from thinking I’m being insulting. “I know you know how to make good contact. I know you can hit. I’m only trying to correct this one little thing, that’s all.”
He gives me a slight nod, tiny enough that if I blinked I would have missed it.
I step up next to him and nudge his front foot with my toe, guiding him forward a few inches. Pacing around his body, I grab the barrel of his bat and pull it around as I walk the trajectory it would take for a normal swing. He lets me guide his hands while his eyes narrow and follow my movement with suspicion. His forearms flex as they rotate and though I don’t want to, I swallow at the sight; I know he sees me do it.
“You want to make contact . . . right
