Varsity Rulebreaker Read online

  Varsity Rulebreaker

  Varsity Series Book 3

  Ginger Scott

  Contents

  1. Cannon Jennings

  2. Hollis Taylor

  3. Cannon

  4. Hollis

  5. Cannon

  6. Hollis

  7. Cannon

  8. Hollis

  9. Cannon

  10. Hollis

  11. Cannon

  12. Hollis

  13. Cannon

  14. Hollis

  15. Cannon

  16. Hollis

  17. Cannon

  18. Hollis

  19. Cannon

  20. Hollis

  21. Cannon

  22. Hollis

  Epilogue

  Series Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also By Ginger Scott

  About the Author

  Copyright 2020

  Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC

  Cover photo by Michelle Lancaster

  Cover model Andy Murray

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-952778-02-5

  Print ISBN: 978-1-952778-05-6

  For Ruthie.

  I could not have done this without you.

  1

  Cannon Jennings

  I’m perfectly content ringing in the new year with a sparkler and leftover pizza. Unfortunately, my cousin Zack is an extrovert. He needs to feed off the energy of others. I prefer to eliminate distractions.

  “It’s one party, Can. You need to pull the stick out of your ass and enjoy one night. One party will not derail your future.”

  Zack has been on me about loosening up for weeks. Deep down, he’s probably right . . . to an extent. If I keep grinding like this through my entire senior year, I’ll burn out before I even land at summer camp wherever I get signed. But when you’ve dreamed of pitching for Vandy since you were six years old and it’s legit within your reach, it’s hard to let up off the gas, even just a little.

  “Come on, man. It’s New Year’s Eve.” Zack’s head falls to one side and his lip juts out.

  “Are you gonna fuckin’ cry?” I toss my glove to the corner of the sofa and get to my feet. Zack rubs his hands together while shuffling his feet in this weird-ass jig.

  “I’m not going if you’re going to do that,” I say, pointing at his lower half. He freezes and instantly stands tall, rolling his shoulders and clearing his throat.

  “Sorry. Must have been overcome with shock that Cannon Jennings is actually going to do something social,” he says.

  “Pfft,” I huff at him. I grab my keys and my lucky hat and we both head out to my car.

  Zack is overexaggerating. I’ve been social. I went to a party a week ago, and I’ve made some decent friends. I’ve done pretty well for being the new guy at school. I moved in with my cousin over the summer as part of the grand plan my dad and my uncle, Zack’s dad, devised to maximize the attention we both could get for offers to play college ball. Zack has caught for as long as I have pitched, and we used to play together when we were younger. But Zack’s family moved to Indiana for work right after junior high, and it broke up our dream duo. We’ve both done all right without the other, but we’ve got one more year to really show our stuff, and Allensville Public High just hired a new coach—with Division One coaching experience. It means I’m sleeping on the futon in the spare room at Zack’s while my parents sell our place in New Mexico. Once they do, we’ll move into a rental together—and I’ll have a bed that doesn’t fold up during the day.

  “I don’t know June very well,” I mention as we pull up to the Mabee house. We only live two blocks from them, so the drive was easy.

  “Yeah, but you know Lucas, so it’s all good,” Zack reassures me.

  He gets out of the car with an actual skip in his step, still cradling the six-pack of micro brew he snuck from his dad.

  I let myself enjoy the quiet of the car for one more breath. He’s right. I’ve gotten to know Lucas pretty well, and the D’Angelo twins. They’re all pretty decent athletes, and it’s nice to mess around and do things with a group of guys who aren’t all about baseball. I gel with Tory D’Angelo the most. He’s got plans to play basketball in college, so he gets my constant focus. I swear, as much as my cousin Zack says he wants to play college ball, he doesn’t seem to have the obsessive passion that I think it takes.

  My cousin raps on the window, tired of waiting on me, so I get out and put on my best happy-to-be-here face.

  It’s a strange collection of people inside. Someone who clearly is someone’s father opens the door for us, and he eyes the beer in Zack’s hand as we enter.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have brought beer,” I whisper to my cousin, but he ignores me, weaving through the house and into the garage, where an extra refrigerator is stuffed with drinks. He pulls a beer out and hands it to me, taking one for himself, too. I arch a brow, not sure this is allowed.

  “It’s fine. June said as long as we don’t make it obvious around the adults, we’re good to go.” Zack pops the cap off and takes a swig, gesturing for me to do the same. I do, but only because drinking half this beer might settle the knots in my chest. I’m not so great at social things.

  We weave through the house to the back yard where I recognize more faces. My shoulders relax when I spot Lucas sitting near the fire pit with space next to him. I nod in his direction, letting Zack know where he can find me, and head toward the flames. Lucas’s girlfriend, June, beats me to the open seat by two seconds, and I’m about to bail when an absolute goddess steps in behind them.

  I don’t know a lot of people in town or at school, but how I’ve missed this face, I have no idea. She’s tall, maybe only an inch or two shorter than my six-foot-three, and her long blonde hair looks like molten gold as she stands near the fire. I can’t tell if her eyes are gray or blue, but I need to get closer to settle the debate in my head. She’s supermodel hot, but playing it down in a pair of baggy jeans and an old baseball jersey worn over a hoodie to keep her warm. I bet her dressed-down look keeps her under the radar. Most of the fucking douchebags at this school only want to keep score and see who can date the hot girl first. Lucky for me, she showed up tonight dressed for the part of exactly my type.

  “Jeter fan, huh?” I say, stepping up next to her and tugging on her jersey sleeve.

  A short laugh puffs from her naturally pink lips while she takes a small sip from her cup. I suspect she’s actually drinking soda, so I casually set my beer on a small patio table behind me.

  “Yankee fan. Jeter’s all right,” she says, a wry smile on her mouth. I hold her stare for a full breath, partly to challenge her and also to get a good handle on the color of her eyes. Blue, and maybe a little green too.

  I match her smirk with one of my own, letting it crawl up into my cheeks before glancing down at the small patch emblazoned on the right sleeve of the jersey. This thing came from a game.

  “Bullshit,” I say, nodding toward it.

  She twists her head to the side and tucks her chin, noting the authentication patch with a slight breath and a smile.

  “You got me,” she says, her eyes flitting up to mine. I again hold them for a long second, this time
because I like the way it feels when I challenge her to return my stare. She’s a worthy opponent, and I’m the first to break.

  “You a fan?” she asks.

  “Of the Yankees? Fuck no. But Jeter’s special; he’s like a level above the Yankees. He’s folklore,” I say.

  Our baseball banter must annoy Lucas and June because they make a lame excuse to leave us alone. We take over their seats, propping our feet on the lip of the firepit and settling in so we can glance at one another.

  “I have another one of these . . . signed,” she says, pulling down the front of the jersey to even out the Yankees logo.

  I lift my brows, impressed. Also, I catch a hint of her accent, which I’m pretty sure is from the heart of New York, possibly one of the boroughs.

  “Super fan, I take it?”

  She wobbles her head side to side, playfully, and her eyes dance with this proud kind of joy you only get when you have a childhood full of memories at the ballpark. I know because I’ve got them, too. Between spring nights at New Mexico State and spring breaks spent in Arizona hunting autographs from my favorite MLB stars at training camps, I’ve got a pretty full childhood of baseball fairy tales of my own. I can’t wait to write my name into those stories.

  “I’m Cannon. I’m new here,” I say, holding out my hand.

  She blinks at it, her lips parted for a few seconds before speaking. She finally takes my palm in hers, her grip impressive.

  “I’m Hollis, and I’m new here too.”

  Definitely from New York.

  “Long Island?” I question.

  She quirks a brow and blows out from her lips.

  “Heck no. Staten Island, baby.” She’s teasing me, and it’s cute as hell. I should have known; Long Islanders are Mets fans.

  “Ah, right. Well, nice to meet you, Hollis. I’m from New Mexico. Not nearly as exciting as your big city,” I say with a shrug.

  “I don’t know,” she says, leaning her head back and looking up at the sky. I follow her gaze to the stars and the embers popping in the air above us. “You probably have some pretty epic views where you’re from.”

  She’s right. We do. Or, at least, we did. I guess these are my views now. Lots of . . . trees.

  “We’re both from Allensville now, don’t you think?” I put that idea out there while we stare up at the black sky, speckled with salt diamonds and masked by smoke.

  She sighs.

  “Yeah, I guess we are.” She drops her chin to her chest and I do the same. “We came from both ends and met in the middle.”

  She has a way of letting this faint smile linger on her lips after she finishes talking, and I’m having a hard time looking away. Normally, I’d be embarrassed by my overt infatuation with a girl. I’m shitty at flirting. But Hollis, she makes this pretty easy.

  “So, what brought you here? To the middle?” I ask.

  Her brow pulls in with thought, but that faint smile is still there. She’s calculating something. Maybe it’s how much to tell a guy she just met.

  “Family . . . er, work. My dad moved here for work.” I sense that she’s conflicted by something, so I don’t pry. She probably misses a lot of things from home. I get that. I miss my parents, but at least they’ll be here eventually. Can’t really move New York to the middle of Indiana.

  “We moved here for family too, sorta. I came to play ball with my cousin. He’s here, somewhere.” I glance over my shoulder, only to find that everyone in the back yard has disappeared. We’re completely alone out here.

  “I’d introduce you, but . . .” I hold out open palms when I look back to her, and she giggles. The sound she makes pushes my half smile up high into my cheeks, and I quickly realize I’m grinning like a fool. I don’t stop, though. I let the ache remain on my foolish face because maybe I’ve just met my soulmate in pinstripes.

  “We must have missed the memo,” she says, looking beyond me and into the house.

  It was after eleven when Zack and I left the house, so the countdown is probably on for the new year.

  “You wanna go in?” I ask her, moving my gaze back to her eyes. This time, she dares me, studying my face intently as if waiting to call my bluff. I don’t have one. I’ll literally go wherever she tells me to. I’m hoping—

  “I don’t like crowds. You cool ringing in the new year out here with some girl from Staten Island?”

  Foolish grin makes its second appearance on my face, so I lick my lips to tame it just a little.

  “For sure,” I say, leaning forward with my feet on the ground and elbows on my knees. “Though, you’re an Allensville girl now, aren’t you?”

  She breathes out a laugh and stands, stretching her arms to the sky. It lifts her jersey and sweatshirt just enough that I get a glimpse of her cream-colored skin and the silver stud in her belly button. I never thought that would be my thing, but it’s totally my thing. Maybe it’s only my thing on beautiful blondes from Staten Island.

  “Let me get used to being an Indiana girl for a while, then we can move on to the local titles, yeah?” She sounds so tough when she talks, and the contrast with her angelic face would be almost comical if it weren’t so goddamn mesmerizing.

  I stand so I can match her height, and maybe get a better read on whether it’s okay to kiss a girl I just met at a party I didn’t want to go to. I kinda think maybe it is, but only because she didn’t want to be here either. And because she’s wearing a Jeter jersey. And because I’m pretty sure her eyes have put a spell on me.

  With a foot of space between us, I measure how close we come in height while she glances around me to the house filled with people who have started counting down from ten. I was right to guess we’re only two or three inches apart. She licks the corner of her lips and smiles, her cheeks suddenly red, and not from the heat of the fire.

  “Happy New Year, Hollis from Indiana,” I say, my lips in a closed-lip smile to stem off the hungry vibrations urging my body to lunge at her and taste her tongue.

  “Happy New Year, Cannon from Indiana,” she returns, biting her lower lip but only briefly. She’s trying to keep up the act that she’s tougher than I am. Maybe she is.

  I step toward her, my movement slow and cautious while I read her body language. She doesn’t move away, and her hands don’t nervously fidget at her sides. They’re tucked in the pocket of her hoodie, the front of the jersey lifted so she can slip them inside the warmth underneath. She’s so calm I’d almost think she’s sleeping with her eyes open, but I know she’s not. She’s staring at me with a dare—a welcoming dare.

  I take another small step, lifting my hand to her chin and touching the pad of my thumb to the soft skin just below her pouting lip. I brush away her hair and bring my other hand up to cup her face.

  “Happy New Year,” I whisper one last time, mostly to test the waters and see if she flinches. She merely breathes the words back and closes the remaining inches between our mouths until we’re locked in an electrifying kiss that feels like fucking home. I lift her chin, coaxing her mouth open just enough for me to slip my tongue inside to taste her sweet mouth. Her lips move with me, and her hands come up to grab at the front of my own hoodie, tugging on the strings as she slips away slowly with a giggle.

  My face is numb in the wake of our kiss. It was ten seconds of my life, but quickly rockets up on my top-five moments list.

  “Thanks for the New Year’s kiss, Cannon. I have to get home, but . . . maybe we can hang out sometime?” She lets go of the strings, her finger drawing a line down the center of my chest as she backs away.

  “Most definitely,” I say, a bit stupefied that I’ve been so quickly whipped by a girl I barely know. Maybe it’s the haze of New Year’s Eve, or maybe I really have been overworking myself and I’m exhausted. Whatever it is, I’m grinning like an idiot 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. His last job was at some private school in New York, and they took state twice, back-to-back. 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 arrived before anyone else just to prove we’re a cut above dedicated.

  It’s cold as hell outside, so Coach invited us all 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. The 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 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 either in those or barefoot. Zack and I always dress. In fact, we have our gear and cleats in the car just in case.