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I motion toward the ump with my helmet. “He’s calling balls because he says I’m setting up outside the box.”
Coach Allen looks at him and the ump on the line, pushing his purple Huskies cap back. “As long as his glove’s there, it shouldn’t matter.”
They exchange words, but Jameson throws three knuckleballs that are untouchable to strike out the next batter. Those pitches move so much the Duck at the plate looks like he’s swatting a drunk butterfly. He has no chance—swings like a screen door in a hurricane—to end the inning. A handful of Husky fans try to get a “Go Dawgs” chant going, but it drowns in the sea of green and yellow.
The visitor’s dugout at PK Park smells like pine tar, Big League Chew, and sweaty desperation. Ollie’s working on his third Gatorade tower of empty cups, and our right fielder is doing his usual ritual of lining up his gear like he’s prepping for a satanic baseball ceremony.
The Oregon mascot keeps waddling past our dugout, doing this stupid dance that’s getting old real quick. Even the damn fir trees beyond center field seem to be mocking us.
Jameson, completely unbothered by the calls at the plate, shrugs. “I’d give my left nut to have a dumpy like that.”
I have no clue if he’s talking about the ump, the mascot, or maybe even Ollie. Sometimes I wonder if Jameson’s actually in the same game as us, or if he just blocks out everything but pitching. I’ve known a lot of pitchers—they’re a different breed: quiet, calculating, obsessive, perfectionist. Jameson? He’s watching the crowd like he’s scouting for his next ex-girlfriend while we’re trying to steal a win in enemy territory.
He nods to a girl in the stands. “She’s smugglin’ coins in her cooch.”
I stare at him. He’s random, sure, but this is another level. We’re in the middle of a tied game, surrounded by drunk Oregon fans heckling us since warmups, and my man’s out here doing reconnaissance on their student section’s anatomy. “The fuck, man?”
“Never mind.” He waves his hand at me and points to Kingston, who’s up. Kingston’s doing that thing where he adjusts his cup every three seconds like his dick’s trying to escape, and some Oregon kid keeps yelling, “Daddy’s money!” like UW doesn’t have better academic standards than this place. “Pay attention. What’s King’s count? And why the hell’s he grabbing himself like that?”
“I don’t know.” I spit seeds to the side and they hit Coach Lou, who’s standing like a statue with his arms crossed,clipboard tucked under his arm like it’s part of his DNA. The sunflower seed shells scatter across the dugout floor, joining the mess of tape, dirt, and gum wrappers.
Coach Lou stares, that vein in his forehead doing its usual dance. He’s got this way of looking at you like he’s planning your murder and the funeral at the same time. I hold up my hands. “My bad, Louy.”
Again, nothing. Just that dead-eyed stare that makes me wonder if he practiced in the mirror.
There’s a conversation behind me that saves me from Lou’s death glare.
“Yo, ain’t Camdyn dating that soccer player?” Ollie asks, and despite him getting on my nerves today over a missed tag, he has my full attention.
My stomach drops like I missed a step downstairs. I stare at him and our eyes meet. “Who?”
“Camdyn, you know.”
I know why he says that. All the guys know my history with Camdyn and probably filled Ollie in. I don’t know how much he knows about us still sleeping together. The fact that he’s bringing it up has me thinking he doesn’t know shit.
I clear my throat and try to look relaxed, but my grip on the dugout bench tightens until my knuckles go white. “No? What soccer player?” I don’t want to lead on but I’m sure by the flush in my cheeks I’m showing my annoyance. Camdyn hasn’t said anything about talking to him or going on a date.
Ollie’s eyes widen. He knows I’m pissed. “Nathan Rozo?”
My heart sinks. The crowd noise fades to a dull roar in my ears. “They’re dating?” I ask without looking his way. My face stays impassive, but they’d know if they saw my eyes. “Since when?”
“Well, I don’t know if they’re dating. They’ve been talking, though.”
Jealousy hits like ice water injected into my veins. I hate it. Had she been seeing someone and didn’t tell me? Scenarios flash through my head. Maybe she’s been talking to other guys this whole time. Maybe she didn’t tell me because of the Inez thing. Or maybe she likes this Nathan dude and doesn’t want me to know. The thought of her hiding this from me, after everything we’ve shared, makes me want to punch something.
Ollie runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, man. They went out the other day. I know they’re talking.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat, tasting bile.
Talking? Cute. My DNA’s running down her legs most days. We ain’t the same.
Of course I don’t say that. I want to. The words sit bitter on my tongue.
I don’t want to admit it, but it pisses me off she went on a date. And it makes me really fucking angry she’s been talking to someone. I’m jealous in ways I can’t explain. What if she feels for him like she did for me? What if she’s been quiet because of him? What if… she doesn’t want us again? The thought of her smiling at him like she does at me makes my chest tight.
I’ll be honest. When I ended things with Camdyn, I still saw a future with her. I always have. I needed time to be myself and focus on school and baseball. But now that she’s talking to someone else, I don’t know what the future looks like and it scares me. The worst part? She didn’t even tell me. I told her about Inez, so why couldn’t she give me a heads-up?
We endup winning the game to take the series 2-1. The six-hour bus ride back to Seattle stretches ahead of us like a prison sentence. It’s past midnight, and most guys are passed out, headphones in, heads bobbing against windows. The rain started somewhere past Portland, tapping out a rhythm that matches the dull throb in my broken nose. Every bump we hit, pain shoots sharp through my face, reminding me it’s far from healed.