again and it doesn’t go away for the rest of the night.
***
I’ve never had a coach want to hold a meeting with his potential players on January second, but that’s what makes coming here an even better decision. Coach Taylor has a reputation for being stern, and he sent us all texts on New Year’s Day telling us he wanted to get started with workouts before tryouts come up. There was a subtle overtone that the serious players would be here, so Zack and I got here before anyone else just to prove we’re a cut above dedicated.
It’s cold as hell outside, so Coach invited us all in to the small clubhouse behind the dugout. This might be a great program I’m walking into, but the facility is shit. Back home, we had brand new everything. My school was barely eight years old, which in terms of a high school lifespan is infant-like. This place was built in fifty-seven. This clubhouse has a plate on the door that says DEDICATED IN 1965. I’m not sure we aren’t breathing in lead and asbestos.
“Gentlemen,” Coach says, clearing his throat and getting our attention. There’s another cough from the back, but I can’t quite see who it’s from. From the way it sounded, it came off a little bit snarky, like someone making fun of the new coach’s style. Coach seems to have picked up on the same nuance I did because he’s staring back there with a scowl on his face.
Bad idea, dude, whoever you are.
“First, thank you all for coming in today. The bad news is this isn’t just a meeting. We’ll be running two miles, too. I’d like to see you all come in under ten minutes by the time season starts.”
The collective groan is comical. Me and Zack, though . . . we keep our mouths shut. Some of the guys showed up in slip-ons, and I have a sneaking suspicion Coach is not going to care. They’ll be running in those or barefoot. Zack and I always dress. In fact, we have our gear and cleats in the car just in case.
Coach spends the next few minutes going over basics, like I had to do at my old school. I’ve already taken care of the things on the list like my physical and the waiver forms. I zone out through most of his talk, but perk up when he mentions competing for roster spots. Zack doesn’t flinch, probably because he’s been the starting catcher since freshman year. He’s solid. I am too. Hell, from what Zack told me, I will probably be the ace this year; but still, it’s never good to assume. There’s always someone working hard out there. I just have to work harder.
“I’ll be pairing you guys for head-to-heads and training. Competition fosters greatness, and I don’t believe positions are guaranteed. They are earned. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” we all say. Funny how we know we’re supposed to.
“Okay, so listen for your names to be called. This will be your group until we move into official tryouts in a month and I have our final roster. I’m keeping fifteen, and other than pitchers, some of you might not get to play. If you’re okay with that, stick around. If not, well . . . thanks for coming in today.”
Nobody leaves, but I can tell a few of the guys sitting in front of Zack and me want to. I glance sideways at Zack and he just lifts his brows.
“This guy isn’t fucking around,” he says.
I breathe out a laugh and shake my head.
“Jennings,” Coach says.
Zack and I both answer.
“Oh, right. I meant Cannon first. Pitcher only, right?” Coach peers at me, his finger pushing up the brim of his hat just enough to bring his eyes out of the shadow. They’re crystal blue and a bit like lasers, wrinkled at the corners from squinting in the sun for years, I imagine.
“Yes, sir,” I respond.
He nods and makes a note on his clipboard.
“Jennings, Zack,” he says, reading my cousin’s name as it’s probably written. “You’ll be working with Hollis.”
Hollis? I casually glance around the room, not seeing the girl of my dreams. Maybe I didn’t hear it right.
The first thing I notice on Zack is the way his forehead creases, a dent between his brows like it’s been hit with a marble. His mouth is parked in an O shape, so I slide my right foot into his to jostle him from this sudden state.