“Glad you’re amused,” I grumble, brushing my palms along the fresh raspberries scraped into my kneecaps, noting the new hole in my favorite pair of joggers.
By the time I’m upright and on my feet, Cannon has made his way to my side. I jerk, surprised by his instant—and very close—presence. He tilts his head, maybe curious at my reaction, then lifts his hand, a ball balanced at the tips of his fingers.
“That pitch,” he begins, blinking his focus to the ball. Mine follows as he slowly rotates the ball in the air between us, the seams moving at an angle away from me. “It’s not quite a full curve. I throw it more like a slider, so the ball tends to . . . go . . . like . . . this.” He bends as he gives his description, walking the ball through the air and over the plate along the same trail it took the two times he threw it.
“You make that up?” I ask. He’s crouched down, his quad muscles completely filling out his joggers, thighs tight and thick like a man. I swallow at the sight of them. He must notice because he rises, clearing his throat. I’ve just objectified him. I scrunch my face, embarrassed, while he’s not looking.
“My dad used to throw it when he was in college. He showed me how when I was in Little League.” He tips his head up and hits me with dazzling eyes that are warmed by this fond memory. It’s sweet, and genuine. His mouth quirks up, dimpling his cheek. “I threw that sucker all the way to the championship one year.”
He laughs once, eyes narrowing over his growing smile as he looks back to the ball in his hand. He rolls it in his fingers.
“You win?” I ask.
He glances up through dark lashes. My list of things I like about him is ever-growing, though admittedly superficial. His chest quakes with one more short laugh before he shakes his head, tossing the ball in his hand and gripping it with a firm palm, fingers spread along the seams just where they’re meant to go.
“Nah. We ended up facing this team from Albuquerque full of massive seventh-graders with no fear. They knocked that pitch over the fence seven times.”
I wait a breath before giving in to the laugh his story pulls from me.
“Ouch,” I say, tapping my bat on the plate a few times, signaling I’m ready to try and send one over the fence too.
“Yeah, but I’ve gotten a lot better at it since then,” he teases.
“We’ll see,” I fire back.
We’re bonding, and it’s nice. I like Cannon, beyond the obvious attraction, which really is a bad idea on all levels. We could be friends, and I meant what I said in our statistics class that first day—I might be able to help him. As much as his dad taught him about the game, mine’s taught me a lot, too. About how to make good pitchers better.
“Give me what you’ve got, Smalls,” I shout, a little Sandlot throw-back that makes him chuckle.
Muscles primed, I shift my weight, ready to hit that strange curveball of his, but instead of getting ready to throw it, Cannon drops the ball into the bucket at his side, his gaze off to the side.
“This your idea of only being an hour?”
I didn’t see Zack walk up, and my stomach sours with the instant intensity brought to the air with his company. Everything about Cannon’s posture changes with his cousin’s presence, and that friendly banter between us grinds to a halt.
“Just taking some swings,” Cannon says, acting as if he’s packing up and getting ready to go.
“We just started, actually,” I interject. Cannon doesn’t look at me, instead continuing to kick balls toward the bucket to put them away. Neither of them responds to me, which only makes the beast grow in my belly, the one that tells me to scream and call ’em as I see ’em.
“Cannon.” I assert his name, like a teacher would. Like my dad would. He spares me a sharp glare over his shoulder. “Aren’t you gonna take a turn?”
“Bahahaha!” His cousin accentuates his over-the-top cackle by grabbing his stomach and arching back. I assume he’s making a joke at Cannon’s expense, because he’s a pitcher and pitchers rarely hit. But that’s not the case at all.
“What, are you gonna throw to him?” His eyes are squinty, his lips pulled in so tight that there are deep divots where they pucker on either side. It’s a truly ugly face.
I open my mouth, the beast ready to engage, then snap it shut, not giving in to the urge. I shift my gaze to Cannon and lift my brow as he hoists the bucket of balls and sets it on a metal chair that looks as though it’s been beaten by more than a fair share of line drives and bats.
“I’m done here.” His answer is definitive, short and clipped, the kind of response a trainer gives a dog.
A punchy laugh escapes my chest. I’m dumbfounded, and within thirty seconds, I’m also alone. The Jennings boys cross the field without a single glance or goodbye, and I hate that I’m hurt by it. This is always what I expect, yet somehow never fully see coming. I should probably let it go, see them on the field again Monday with renewed armor around my feelings.
But that’s never quite been me either. I’m always up for a fight, a trait both of my parents have sewn into my fabric. Before they make it to their car, I hustle and pack up my own gear, double-timing it to my mom’s van that my dad left behind for me to get home.
I’m pretty sure Zack and Cannon don’t notice me in their rearview as they speed out of the lot, fishtailing through
