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“Fuck.” I rake my hands through my hair, panic rising. I set my helmet down. “How long’s their bus ride?”
“Brynn said four hours. They swept Utah, though. Cam threw a no-hitter.”
Any other day, I’d be proud. Now I just think about how that high is about to crash. Four hours. Four hours before Camdyn’s back in cell range, before someone shows her the article, before her most private pain is out there. And I’m stuck at fucking practice.
“Hey.” King grabs my arm as I start toward the field. “Want me to have Brynn keep her off her phone?”
I nod, sick. “Yeah. Please. And tell her…” I swallow hard. “Tell Brynn I didn’t do this. I’d never do this to Camdyn.”
“I know, man.” King’s already typing. “We all know.”
Some mistakes you fix. Some you can’t. But this one’s not even mine. Someone sold Camdyn out. Someone who knew everything. And when she finds out...
“Ryan, get over here!” Coach Lou’s voice rings out. He spots King still on his phone and stomps over, snatching it. “What did I say about phones at practice?”
“Sorry, Coach,” King tries to grin. “I’d advise you not to check my search history. Trying to keep it PG-13 around here.”
His joke falls flat. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe. The mist settles deep in my lungs, and it’s not the weather making me feel like I’m drowning. Four hours. Four fucking hours before Camdyn sees that article.
The mist turns to rain. Coach Lou runs infield drills, but I’m useless. Every throw to second is short or sails into center. My hands shake so badly I can barely grip the ball.
“Ryan!” Coach yells. "What the hell are you doing out there? Third overthrow!”
I try to focus, but all I can see is Camdyn. Three and a half hours left. Rain drips off my cap, blurring everything. Or maybe that’s just me.
King keeps glancing my way from short, checking his pocket where Coach confiscated his phone. He’s usually cracking jokes. Now he’s quiet, probably thinking about Brynn trying to keep Camdyn distracted.
“Third!” Coach barks. I try to throw. My chest tightens. The ball sails, nearly nailing our left fielder.
“That's it!” Coach Lou storms over. “Ryan, get your head out of your ass or?—”
“Or what?” The words snap out before I can stop them, sharp and hot. “You’ll bench me? Go ahead.”
The field goes dead silent. Even the Seattle traffic seems to pause. Coach’s face turns dangerously red. But I don’t care. Let him bench me. None of it matters compared to what’s about to happen to Camdyn.
“Everyone else, weight room,” Coach says quietly, eyes locked on me. “Ryan, poles.”
The team jogs off. King lingers, mouthing “You good?” I nod, but we both know that’s a lie. Nothing is good. It’s only getting worse.
Three hours, twenty minutes until Camdyn’s phone explodes with notifications. Until her world crashes down.
I spendtwo hours running foul poles, every step fueled by rage. As soon as Coach releases us, I’m gone. King calls after me.I don’t stop. I don’t even change out of my practice uniform and I still have my cleats on.
I don’t remember walking to McCarty Hall, or taking the stairs two at a time. Just the roar in my ears and my hands shaking so bad I can barely grip the rail.
Her door is cracked, study group signs taped to the whiteboard. I don’t knock. I just walk in.
Inez is at her desk, typing. She turns. “Oh. Hey.”
I slam the door, rattling the windows. “What the fuck did you do?”
She jumps, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you're talking about.”
I grab her laptop. “The fuck you don’t!”
She reaches for it. “Don't?—”
The laptop hits the wall with a hard crack, pieces skittering across the floor.