At least I get to be part of a better team during my senior year. Xavier Prep back home was competitive, but only against other small schools. We won state in a tiny division that means nothing to colleges because our school was more about academics. We didn’t exactly have the largest pool of ball players to choose from, either. And the parents on the board were not keen on the idea of me playing on a team with boys. It didn’t seem to bother them enough to fund a softball team—not that I wanted to switch sports—but the topic sure dominated the conversation at parent meetings.
“What’s she gonna do, play football next?”
“I suppose Coach Grady will bring his daughter in to QB?”
“She’s going to get hurt.”
My dad and I heard that last argument time and time again, and it irks me the most. Nobody knows how much I can endure, not even my father. Some trials in life are survived and meant to be kept close to the chest, used to build armor and grow strength. I’m strong on my own, but the battles I’ve come through on my journey to do something I love have definitely shaped my fortitude. They’re my stories to either tell or keep tucked inside, and I see no reason to share them with anyone.
After ten minutes of weaving through streets and stop-sign intersections, I spot A&P Fitness. It’s promising, especially because the building doesn’t look like some slick treadmill factory. Rick’s was a boxing gym, so I’m used to working with free weights and jump ropes. The occasional speed bag is fun too. I pull into a spot near the door, between two sedans. I should probably back out and move somewhere else; the fit is tight. But before I shift into reverse, a jacked-up pickup slides into the spot behind me. I won’t be here long; this is only an exploratory visit.
I grab my dad’s ear pods from the center console and head inside. I’m greeted by a heavy boom that echoes around the brick walls, and I flinch a little.
“It’s just the tire,” says an older man from behind a desk. I’d guess he’s in his late sixties, but maybe he’s just a smoker. His skin is pretty tan and wrinkled. Straw-like blond hair pokes through the sides and back of his trucker cap, and his arms fill the sleeves of his Notre Dame T-shirt. He’s fit for a senior. I have a good idea this place belongs to him.
“Ah,” I say, glancing around the gym again until I find a familiar body squatting to lift the side of a monster tire. His body was the first thing I noticed about Cannon at the New Year’s party. Tacky and predictable, maybe, but he’s not built like the guys back home. He’s taller. And pretty stacked for a pitcher. I see why now that I watch him pushing up what must weigh 400 pounds with ease. His gaze hits mine briefly across the tire’s tread.
“Hi,” I mouth, holding up a hand. His cheeks sink in, his jaw clenching as he grunts and hoists the tire over again. The boom doesn’t startle me this time. Cannon looks away, tearing tape from his hands with his teeth.
“You know the Jennings boys?”
“Huh?” I jerk back to the muscle-man behind the counter. “Oh. A little. I’m new here, like Cannon. From Indiana.”
I giggle lightly to myself, but he just looks at me like I’m nuts.
“You’re from Indiana?” The man quirks a brow, and I realize how stupid that sounded.
“No, it’s just a nickname. Sorry, inside joke,” I mumble.
“Ah,” he grunts. He centers himself at his register and I spot the half-empty pack of cigarettes left on the chair he was sitting in. My assessment is spot on so far.
“You wanna a day pass, sugar?”
I roll my shoulders from habit. Some men have always talked to women that way, but it still makes me want to vomit and punch them when they do it to me. That’s what you get when your mom teaches women’s studies for an online university. I hear the same lessons every semester, and the one about the cycle of labeling hits home.
“Sure, pumpkin,” I shoot back. His eyes dart up, away from his register drawer, probably not sure he heard me right. I wink to let him know he did, and he laughs through one side of his mouth—the one with a well-chewed toothpick hanging out.
“Alright, then,” he says. I hand over my card and he rings me up for a five-dollar pass while I scan the board behind him for the monthly rates. There’s an old black-and-white photo tacked on a corkboard, and even though I don’t quite see the similarities, I take a gamble.
“That you?” I motion to it.
He glances behind him and pulls the pin from the board, bringing the photo closer.
“In my prime,” he says, fond memories tugging up the corners of his mouth, toothpick and all. He leans forward on both elbows, studying the photo closely.
“You know, I could have put those Jennings punks in their place back in my day. Joker flips that tire like he’s something, but I’d like to see him move the whole goddamn tractor!” His joke echoes loud enough that Cannon turns his head and grimaces. I can tell this banter must be normal between them.
“Well, I’ll try and put him in his place for ya. What do you say?” I expect more of a laugh than I get, but there’s a slight smirk and hint of a nod. He’s daring me to try, or at least, I decide that’s what that gesture means.
I move over to the area near Cannon, dropping my things on the metal chair in the corner and pulling one of the jump ropes from a hook on the concrete wall. He paces around the tire with his hands threaded behind his neck, a good deal of sweat discoloring his gray T-shirt,
