We hit the track at the same time, and even though I finish before him, he’s not far behind. I turn to congratulate him with a raised hand as we walk back to our gear, but his eyes are fixed on his father so I let it fall to my side.
Zack slings his heavy catchers’ bag over his shoulder, not bothering to roll it. I’m not sure whether it’s an act of showing off how strong he is, even after a run, or if he’s so angry about his dad showing up that his veins are pumping super-human blood.
“Hey, it’s gonna be fine,” I say at his back. He’s not waiting for me, but I get it.
He turns his head to the side, his eyes not fully reaching me as he nods. I slow my steps and let him gain some distance, maybe subconsciously wanting him to seem more dedicated than me, like he has hustle. By the time I reach the dugout, he’s already fastened on his leg guards and is jogging out on the field to stretch with Hollis and the other catchers. I let my gaze wander toward Uncle Joel while I switch out my shoes, glancing up and peeking from under the brim of my hat. He’s intently watching his son, arms crossed, while he remains stoic at Coach Taylor’s side.
Nothing about this is good for anyone. Coaches aren’t interested in parental opinions, but because Joel is who he is, and because he has a say in hiring and firing and funding this program, Hollis’s dad entertains the conversation. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but I can read enough into the hard line of his mouth to know he hates every minute of this forced conversation.
No longer able to stall, I grab my glove and kick my gear bag into the corner before jogging out to stretch with the other pitchers. I catch the end of Joel and Coach’s talk as I run by.
“Lots of talent, like you said, Coach,” Joel says just before putting a hand on Coach’s shoulder, somewhere between a friendly pat on the back and an intimidating intrusion of his personal space. “But hey, I know you’ll make the right choice.”
“The best choice,” Hollis’s dad adds as he draws his lips in for a tight smile. There’s an F-U behind those lips, and Joel knows it. I glance away before I’m caught staring, but listen to the end.
“Of course. But we all know who the best is,” Joel closes with, walking backward in my periphery. I shut my eyes, wincing through my last few steps until I join the rest of my teammates.
That weight I cleared out with Hollis this morning has been replaced by something heavier that takes up every inch of space inside. I feel as though my arms can’t move independent of my gut, my pulse controls the pace of my legs, and my head is going to either deflate or pop without warning.
Somehow, I get through my stretches without bending over to vomit, and I remind myself to breathe, hearing Tory and June’s advice in my head. I’m in charge of me, and Zack’s shit is his. Only, I’m living with all of this, and his dad and my dad, and Zack—family—is the whole reason I’m here in the first place. Lines are hard to draw, and while I get what Tory meant, I don’t think he understands how tangled everything is when it comes to this season—this team. Maybe I did get Hollis’s forgiveness today, but if I can’t walk this line just right, I’ll end up betraying my family, and that apology will require a lot more than a pact made over some Doublemint.
“Jennings!”
I turn to answer the same time Zack does, both of us responding with, “Yes, Coach” from either end of the field. Coach Taylor lifts his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose just under his glasses.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting. Cannon,” he says, gesturing for me to rush over.
I pick up my glove and do as asked, noting that my cousin watches my every move while finishing his stretches.
“I’m gonna have you throw to Hollis today,” he says the moment I step up to him.
My mouth goes dry. My uncle is pacing around the dugout just beyond his shoulder.
I squint from the sun as I look at him. It’s bright as fuck out today, the sky filled with puffy white clouds. I never wear glasses, though. I don’t like the feeling of anything on me when I’m throwing. Extra swag is always a distraction. If I could get away with ditching the cap, I would.
“You sure about that, Coach?” I question. I know immediately that he’s sure, and that I should shut my damn mouth, but that sick feeling taking over my insides made me ask.
He doesn’t respond with words, only a look, one I have to read through the sheen of his Oakleys.
“Right, okay.” I nod and head toward the bullpen. I get about ten steps into my jog when Coach stops me.
“We’re on the mound today.”
I pause mid-step and spin on my right foot, coming back toward him. He’s making a point, and I’m part of the performance. There are seven of us out here who can throw, and at least three who are going somewhere after this year. He could have led with any duo, but he chose me and Hollis on purpose. I’m the best, but Roland or Jay would have been great choices for this exhibition. Jay has a better curveball!
My inner-dialogue continues on a constant stream while Coach calls Hollis out and points to the plate. She rushes into the dugout to grab her mask and chest protector while I kick at the rubber and push the dirt exactly the way I like it. She has no
