I grumble to myself, my voice a hum only I can hear, then step up on the rubber with my glove shadowing my chin while I look in for Hollis’s signs. She asks for another straight fast ball, and I shake her off on instinct because I know better. Maybe I should let it go and get this over with, let Marcus round the bases and gloat. Hollis gives me the sign again and I suck in a hard breath, this time giving in.
“Fine,” I mutter.
She moves her glove a few inches inside, crowding Marcus, which is smart, but maybe not pushing him tight enough. I wind up and let loose, both hoping it’s enough and just enough at the same time. His swing is awkward, and the ball clips off the bat near his hands.
Coach whistles at me, and I turn as he tosses me a new ball. Hollis stands and kicks the other ball behind her before getting set for me to throw again. Her sign is exactly the same, and she sets up in the same spot. I’m tempted to shake her off, but after staring at her for a solid five seconds I decide, “What the hell.”
I wind up again and throw the exact same pitch, getting the exact same result. This time Hollis scoops the foul tip and tosses the ball back to me in one smooth move. If this were a real game, I’d be gloating right about now. Ahead in the count, the clutch hitter one strike away. But it’s not a game, and my uncle is now standing. So is my cousin.
My eyes shift to Coach but he keeps his gaze firmly affixed to the clipboard he’s balancing on the dugout fence. This is his daughter’s call, and he trusts her to make the right one.
“Give him hell, Madden,” my uncle taunts from behind the plate. A few of the guys in the dugout lean forward to see who the obnoxious parent is. Coach glares in Joel’s direction, the sun glinting off of his sunglasses as the tendons in his neck flex. I’d laugh my uncle off if he were actually doing this in jest, but he’s not. The same ugly side his son has when he’s challenged is coming out right now.
Hollis flashes me the sign for my slider while everyone else is occupied with Zack’s dad. It’s a smart call, and if I were on my own, it’s what I’d want to throw. Marcus digs in with his palm out to me to give him time. While he’s a good hitter, his ego is a bit much. During games, he can drag his at bat out with annoying rituals and time-outs. He’s been warned by umps for being excessive, but knows there’s nothing anyone can do about it. You hit the ball like he does, you can call time-out to paint your nails with glitter if you want and coaches won’t care.
Once he’s ready, I waste a few extra seconds staring from behind my glove just to eat at his nerves. He’s lined up as if he’s anticipating me going back inside. It’s a gamble, but one he had to take. If I do, he’ll be ready to punish me for it. But I’m not. My only task now will be not to miss.
I wind up and throw, my world switching into slow motion as my back leg swings around with my follow-through, my eyes up while my hand cuts through the air and skims along my shin. I get my glove up and ready, because I know better than to stand there defenseless. But there’s no need; the ball cuts exactly where I want it to go, trailing away from Marcus as he swings through hard enough to lose his balance and land on one knee.
Hollis stands and pushes the mask up on her head, flashing me a proud grin that I can’t help but mimic. My uncle catches it, too, so I let it drop as soon as she throws me the ball and shouts toward the dugout.
“Next!”
She stands there with her gloved hand on her hip, mask pulled up while wild strands of hair blow in the strengthening wind. They’ve come loose from what is probably an actual knot she tied with her hair under her helmet. Dirt lines her cheeks, darkened by sweat. And through it all, her blue eyes glitter like sapphires, the one beautiful thing she cannot cover up and hide no matter how hard she tries.
There’s something exceptional about her, and I admit that to myself right now. She’s not just beautiful, though goddamn is she. It’s something more than that—this vibe she has that seems so invincible. While Marcus wears his confidence like an arrogant bastard, Hollis wears it like a queen, every jewel in her crown owned. All of the compliments in the world would be meaningless to her, though. All she cares about is her own expectations for herself. I wonder if she ever falls short like I do.
“Jennings.”
The sound of my name shakes me from my trance and I shout, “Huh?” to my coach, only to realize that for once he means the other Jennings.
“Grab a helmet,” Coach orders.
Zack stands dumbfounded for a beat, his body rigid like a deer’s at the sound of a predator.
I blink.
“Well, go on,” Coach barks, his East Coast accent suddenly thick over so few words.
I gulp as Zack rushes to grab his helmet, stuffing it on his head and slipping his bat from his bag. He rushes out toward the plate, forgetting that he still wears his leg guards, and Coach has to remind
