It’s then that I realize exactly why Uncle Joel is out here. Someone said something.
I know it wasn’t Zack. He was hoping to just win the starting job and have this never be an issue. Too late for that, though. It’s the only issue in Joel’s sights. My uncle rubs his chin, looking on while Hollis rushes into place, shaking dirt from her mask before pulling it over her head and face. She pats her glove a few times to tell me she’s ready, and I circle the mound, stepping up a few feet behind the rubber to do some warm-up tosses while she stands.
I shoot a glance at my uncle before throwing. His arms are crossed firmly over his chest and he’s chewing at the inside of his mouth. It’s an old habit from his playing days when a wad of tobacco was always tucked inside his lip.
There’s no way out other than marching off this field in protest or quitting to go play tennis, a sport I absolutely suck at, so I shuffle step toward Hollis and throw the ball. It hits her glove and creates a poof of dust before she pulls it free and sends it back to me on a zipline. I sneak another look in my uncle’s direction while I set my feet again and note how sunk in his cheek is. He’s chewing on it harder. He was hoping the rumors weren’t true, but it’s hard not to see that Hollis is the real deal.
She’s not only good, she’s better.
She and I continue our warmups until the rest of the team moves into the dugout, displacing Uncle Joel. He moves behind the backstop, just over Hollis’s right shoulder, and takes a seat in the bleachers, his tie blowing across his body with the breeze. He has to be cold. Even with the sun and clouds reflecting the heat, it’s maybe fifty out here. I’m wearing thermal compression pants and a long sleeves, and I feel the slight wind cut through the threads.
“Jennings,” Coach shouts. This time I’m the only one who answers, Zack sitting on the bench with his water jug balanced on his knee. My cousin’s eyes reach mine when I respond to our coach and the look of betrayal absolutely slays me.
“Yes?” I swallow, thankful I’m out here on the mound alone so no one can read the subtleties in my expression.
“Think you can handle three live batters? I’m looking to give you all three apiece today.” He glances to his right where Jay and Roland stand waiting to go next.
I nod, choking down the bile.
“Sure,” I say, dipping my chin and kicking the dirt out a little more to find my perfect fit.
I signal to Hollis that I’m ready to throw a few warm-up pitches for real, and she crouches down, ready to take them. We start with a few straight fastballs, and I easily hit her location. I shut out the sounds of players taking position behind me, ignoring my infielders throwing the ball a few feet away. I throw a change up and a curve next, one a little off target, forcing Hollis to drop to a knee to block it. The ball kicks away from her when she does, and she stands, jogging over to get it. I catch the pleased smirk on my uncle’s face behind her, his shoulders shaking with laughter at the “silly girl trying to play a man’s game.”
Suddenly, I’m at another crossroads, not sure whether I want Hollis to shine or fail miserably. Maybe she’ll be mediocre, and Zack will be a little less mediocre. There’s no win in this situation.
“Johnson,” Coach calls out. One of the guys I don’t know well grabs a helmet and rushes out to the batter’s box, the first unlucky supporting cast member in this play called Get This Nosey-Ass Board Member Parent Off My Field.
My guess is Johnson is a freshman, maybe a sophomore. His knees are quaking, and it’s not only his pants blowing in the wind. Those suckers are skin tight. Hollis glances up at him then back to me, pounding her mitt before reaching down and giving me the sign for a two-seam right down the center.
I nod before winding up and rocketing the ball to her without as much as a blink from Johnson in the box. Hollis throws the ball right back to me while Johnson steps out and adjusts the Velcro on his gloves, as if that’s what made him freeze and forget to swing.
I let myself be amused for a moment, also glad that this first batter is nothing special. Hollis handling my straight fastballs is meaningless. Hell, I could affix a glove to a folding chair for this, no catcher necessary. Nothing about this impresses my uncle, which means so far, my cousin is off the hook for having to prove anything in front of his dad.
It takes three pitches to strike Johnson out, and Coach forces the poor guy to stay up there and try to bunt for three more throws. He can’t get a single one fair, though, so before my pitch count gets needlessly high, Coach lets him off the hook.
“Madden, you’re up,” he shouts, patting Johnson on the back as he runs by. If anyone is quitting to join the tennis team today, it might be him. Dude looks shell shocked.
Marcus Madden is another story. I know it, and so does Hollis. Marcus and I played fall ball out here together, along with Zack, which means Uncle Joel knows a thing or two about Marcus’s swing. There are two guys who can put the ball over the fence if you’re not careful, and Marcus is one of them.
As
