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“What are you thinking about now?” Callie asks, reading that familiar crease between my brows.
“Nathan texted after the party.” I roll over. “Should I… maybe try going on a date with him?”
Callie sits up straighter, face careful. “Is that what you want, or what you think you should want?”
“I don’t know.” I bury my face in my pillow, words muffled. “Mom says I matter, that I deserve someone who chooses me. And Nathan’s nice. He’s…”
“Not Jaxon,” Callie finishes.
“Yeah.” That sick feeling rises, familiar as pregame nerves. “Every time I think about going out with someone else, I feel like I’m gonna puke. Like I’m betraying Jaxon. Which is stupid, because there’s nothing to betray. We’re not dating. And he talked to Inez, so I don’t know.”
“He’s not talking to her anymore, though. But what if…”
I sit up. “What if I keep it casual? Just one date? Maybe if Jax sees me moving on…”
“I mean, it might work.”
Maybe. But the thought of sitting across from Nathan, pretending to be into it while my heart sits in the dugout with someone else, just makes me feel worse.
“I think,” Callie says, “there comes a point where you have to do something or walk away. But ‘doing something’ doesn’t mean dating someone else to prove a point.”
She’s smarter than she looks sometimes. I stare out at the rain. “What if he does want more?” The words come out small, like a rookie asking for signs. “What if I go out with Nathan and ruin everything?”
“Cam.” Callie’s voice softens. “If Jax wants more, he needs to step up to the plate. You can’t keep warming up in the bullpen forever, waiting for a game that might never start.”
Not gonna lie, I’m impressed she came up with that one. The baseball metaphor hits hard. She’s right. I’ve been sitting in the bullpen of Jaxon’s life for a year, always ready, never actually in the game. Maybe that’s the problem.
It feels like I’m watching a slow roller in softball—one of those ground balls that drags along the infield, taking forever. Jaxon and I keep inching forward, nobody making the big move, everything dragging out. I’m stuck in limbo, not sure if I’m supposed to run or hold back, hoping someone finally picks up the ball and decides where this play goes.
CHAPTER 18
OPPOSITE FIELD
CAMDYN
The side of the outfield that is the opposite of the direction of the hitter’s natural swing (i.e., for a right-handed hitter, the opposite field is right field, because the swing is naturally directed to left).
“What am I doing? Why did I agree to this?”
I’m standing in front of our full-length mirror. Our $19.99 Target mirror, duct-taped to the back of the door since we aren’t allowed to use nails per campus code. Duct tape—classy as hell. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.
Hanging next to it: the dress for tonight. It belongs in a Vegas club, not on a first date with UW’s most notorious soccer player.
It’s hot pink, friends.
Hot.
Freaking.
Pink.
I’m about to kill Callie for this. She picked it out. I didn’t.
“Girl, have you ever wondered who lived in these rooms before us?” Callie asks from her bed, rolling onto her stomach.
“Uh, not really.” I massacre my last bag of Swedish Fish—stress eating is basically an Olympic sport, and I’m going for gold—while scrolling through my phone for the hundredth time, checking if Jaxon read my last message from two days ago. He has. No response. I get it, he’s busy. But so am I. It takes two seconds to reply. He manages it when he wants sex, but any other time? He’s a brat.
“I wonder what they did in here.”