“We must have missed the memo,” she says, looking beyond me and into the house.
It was after eleven when Zack and I left the house, so the countdown is probably on for the new year.
“You wanna go in?” I ask her, moving my gaze back to her eyes. This time, she dares me, studying my face intently as if waiting to call my bluff. I don’t have one. I’ll literally go wherever she tells me to. I’m hoping—
“I don’t like crowds. You cool ringing in the new year out here with some girl from Staten Island?”
Foolish grin makes its second appearance on my face, so I lick my lips to tame it just a little.
“For sure,” I say, leaning forward with my feet on the ground and elbows on my knees. “Though, you’re an Allensville girl now, aren’t you?”
She breathes out a laugh and stands, stretching her arms to the sky. It lifts her jersey and sweatshirt just enough that I get a glimpse of her cream-colored skin and the silver stud in her belly button. I never thought that would be my thing, but it’s totally my thing. Maybe it’s only my thing on beautiful blondes from Staten Island.
“Let me get used to being an Indiana girl for a while, then we can move on to the local titles, yeah?” She sounds so tough when she talks, and the contrast with her angelic face would be almost comical if it weren’t so goddamn mesmerizing.
I stand so I can match her height, and maybe get a better read on whether it’s okay to kiss a girl I just met at a party I didn’t want to go to. I kinda think maybe it is, but only because she didn’t want to be here either. And because she’s wearing a Jeter jersey. And because I’m pretty sure her eyes have put a spell on me.
With a foot of space between us, I measure how close we come in height while she glances around me to the house filled with people who have started counting down from ten. I was right to guess we’re only two or three inches apart. She licks the corner of her lips and smiles, her cheeks suddenly red, and not from the heat of the fire.
“Happy New Year, Hollis from Indiana,” I say, my lips in a closed-lip smile to stem off the hungry vibrations urging my body to lunge at her and taste her tongue.
“Happy New Year, Cannon from Indiana,” she returns, biting her lower lip but only briefly. She’s trying to keep up the act that she’s tougher than I am. Maybe she is.
I step toward her, my movement slow and cautious while I read her body language. She doesn’t move away, and her hands don’t nervously fidget at her sides. They’re tucked in the pocket of her hoodie, the front of the jersey lifted so she can slip them inside the warmth underneath. She’s so calm I’d almost think she’s sleeping with her eyes open, but I know she’s not. She’s staring at me with a dare—a welcoming dare.
I take another small step, lifting my hand to her chin and touching the pad of my thumb to the soft skin just below her pouting lip. I brush away her hair and bring my other hand up to cup her face.
“Happy New Year,” I whisper one last time, mostly to test the waters and see if she flinches. She merely breathes the words back and closes the remaining inches between our mouths until we’re locked in an electrifying kiss that feels like fucking home. I lift her chin, coaxing her mouth open just enough for me to slip my tongue inside to taste her sweet mouth. Her lips move with me, and her hands come up to grab at the front of my own hoodie, tugging on the strings as she slips away slowly with a giggle.
My face is numb in the wake of our kiss. It was ten seconds of my life, but quickly rockets up on my top-five moments list.
“Thanks for the New Year’s kiss, Cannon. I have to get home, but . . . maybe we can hang out sometime?” She lets go of the strings, her finger drawing a line down the center of my chest as she backs away.
“Most definitely,” I say, a bit stupefied that I’ve been so quickly whipped by a girl I barely know. Maybe it’s the haze of New Year’s Eve, or maybe I really have been overworking myself and I’m exhausted. Whatever it is, I’m grinning like an idiot again and it doesn’t go away for the rest of the night.
I’ve never had a coach want to hold a meeting with his potential players on January second, but that’s what makes coming here an even better decision. Coach Taylor has a reputation for being stern. His last job was at some private school in New York, and they took state twice, back-to-back. He sent us all texts on New Year’s Day telling us he wanted to get started with workouts before tryouts come up. There was a subtle overtone that the serious players would be here, so Zack and I arrived before anyone else just to prove we’re a cut above dedicated.
It’s cold as hell outside, so Coach invited us all to the small clubhouse behind the dugout. This might be a great program I’m walking into, but the facility is shit. Back home, we had brand new everything. My school was barely eight years old, which in terms of a high school lifespan is infant-like. This place was built in fifty-seven. The clubhouse has a plate on the door that says DEDICATED IN 1965. I’m not sure we aren’t breathing in lead and asbestos.
“Gentlemen,” Coach says, clearing his throat and getting our attention. There’s another cough from the back, but I can’t quite see who it’s from.
