“This is a cool place,” I say, swinging the rope out to untangle it as I hold on to either end.
“I guess,” Cannon laughs out, a bit abruptly for someone whose tongue was in my mouth a couple of days ago. My gaze ices over as he turns away.
“Oh, I get it,” I say, lining the rope up with the front of my feet. I glance up to briefly catch his eyes on mine.
“What?” he grunts, grabbing a water bottle from the floor near my things. He twists the top and guzzles down every last drop.
“Nothing. Just that you’re one of those,” I say with a shrug. Swinging the rope out, I wait for it to come back at my feet and I jump, a methodical double bounce to my feet as I whirl the heavy rubber rope in circles around my body to get my heart rate up.
“One of what?” He doesn’t make the pfft sound after his words, but it’s implied in the sour look he wears. Standing, he grabs a rope and moves about ten feet away, turning to face me as he jumps rope a little faster than me.
I wobble my head side-to-side and glance up, catching sight of the loose blonde hairs that have crept out from my head band and hair tie. I blow at them, maintaining my jumping speed. I’m not winded in the least. Back home, we lived on a hill. Dad made me sprint up it ten times in a row before I was allowed to sit at the dinner table. This rope, it’s nothing.
“One of those guys who kisses girls for fun, then acts like a total prick the next time he sees them.” The thwap of my rope against the concrete floor picks up its pace as I take away the double bounce and jump fast enough to hear the wind caused by my rope whirling through the air.
Cannon’s rope stops completely.
“Okay, now, hey,” he says, a defensive shake to his head. “That’s not fair.”
He runs the side of his fist over his brow to blot away sweat, his rope clutched against his hip in his other hand.
“Okay, how?” I continue to swing and jump, my heart rate picking up. Like hell am I gonna let my breathing pattern reflect that, though. I’ll pass out first.
“How? Pfft!” Aannd there it is. His forehead dents and he puffs out a heavy laugh. I can’t wait for the excuse he’s trying to form. I see his brain working in overdrive behind his scrunched-up eyes. He’s still pretty, just a little less so because I don’t like boys who act like assholes to make themselves feel cool or whatever.
“You didn’t tell me you were Coach’s daughter!” He points at me with the same hand that holds the rope, and it swings harshly as he gesticulates. I can’t help but laugh, which only pushes more of his buttons. Irritated, he grabs my rope mid-air and tangles it around his palm, ripping the ends from my grasp.
“I’m sorry, was I supposed to offer up my resume?” I giggle at the thought and imagine that scenario playing out.
Hi, I’m Hollis Taylor. I’m almost eighteen, and my favorite foods are fried zucchini and every kind of cheese. My parents are Dina and Travis Taylor, and they’re forty-two and forty-three, respectively. Oh, and my father, he’s a coach. Oh, you play baseball? Me, too! No, not for fun. Like you! No, I don’t think I should play softball. Why? Because I like baseball. Oh, but it’s for boys? Huh, I didn’t know that. Is there a sign somewhere that says NO GIRLS ALLOWED?
“You don’t understand,” he grunts out, interrupting the argument going down in my head. Cannon continues to pace with both of our ropes tangled in one hand.
“Spot me?” I say, moving on to the squat rack. I shuffle the plates around, pulling out the forty-fives while he fusses with the mess he made with the ropes.
I’ve got my bar ready to lift by the time he’s done, but he stops about ten feet short of the rack, his hands on his hips, shirt soaked with sweat and his black joggers pushed up on his calves in that super cute way.
“No, I’m not going to spot you. I can’t . . . I mean, you’re—”
“Coach’s daughter,” I say with a roll of the eyes. I step under the bar and find the right fit along my shoulders. I wait a beat to see if he gives in, and when he doesn’t budge I step forward with the bar balanced along my back and shoulders and steady my feet. I get through two whole squats before he mutters, “Fuck” to himself and steps in to assist me.
We don’t talk through my first set, and he shakes his head when I offer to trade off and on with him. I tend to step side to side when my muscles recover, keeping the burn at bay and making the most of the tingles as blood rushes to the skin. I catch Cannon’s eyes on my feet, though, so I abruptly stop to get his attention. I tap a toe until he looks me in the eyes. God, his face is beautiful. His eyes are this deep ocean blue, and his hair is the kind that I’m sure looks good right out of bed. I smile at him with tight lips, silently urging him to spill it, whatever his unexplainable issue seems to be. His expression tightens, his eyes pinch, and his gaze dips to my neck for a full breath.
“My cousin Zack, he’s
