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“You’re shaking off everything but your curve’s staying up,” I start. “If we can?—”
“Get your ass behind the plate.” His voice is ice cold, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
“Jameson, listen?—”
“I said get back there.”
Fine. I whip the ball at his face, hard enough to make a point. He snags it with his bare hand, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
Two pitches later, their cleanup hitter sends one screaming into the gap. Another run scores. Then another. The crowd’s going nuts, and Jameson is unraveling with each pitch. His slider hangs like laundry, and his fastball is all over the place.
“Time!” I call again, heading to the mound.
“I swear to God?—”
“Swear all you want, bitch. Shut up and listen,” I snap, getting in his face. The heat makes everything worse, tempers included. "Your front side’s flying open. Stay closed, trust the movement."
Even as I’m talking mechanics, flashes of Camdyn keep cutting in, uninvited. I see her hunched in that soaked field, mascara running, eyes wide and full of betrayal. Every time I blink, it’s like she’s there behind the pitcher’s mound, staring through me. I’m saying the right words to Jameson, but my mind is somewhere else—back in that parking lot, back in her arms, back in the mess I made. The way she looked at me, like I’m a stranger. Like every secret we shared has been violated.
I try to snap back to the game, but her voice drifts through the static of the crowd, quieter than all the noise, but so much sharper. My mind races, caught between wanting to escape reality and running to her. The weight of my decisions and actions looms over me like a heavy fog.
I only have myself to blame.
Crouched behind the plate, I give the signal. Jameson shakes me off and touches his glove to his cheek. All right, I shift my stance for the changeup I know is coming. Jameson nods, but he’s not listening either. His next pitch sails wide, ball four. Coach signals to the bullpen, but they don’t make a change. Jameson’s turned it around before so you never know.
I think about the article. Camdyn. Her parents if they read it. Mine. My coaches. I’ve let them all down and, worst of all, I hurt Camdyn in the process.
The Sun Devils’ cleanup hitter steps in, tapping his bat on the plate. Not the guy you want to throw a changeup to, but whatever. Nothing I say here will change Jameson’s mind.
The crowd’s on their feet. Everything’s too bright, too loud, too hot. My mind wanders again. Back to Camdyn and what she’s doing right now. I think about what pitch she’d want in this situation. She’d never throw a four-hitter and a change. If you let it hang too high, or anywhere in the zone, they’ll sit on it and hammer it.
But Jameson’s not thinking straight. He’s overcompensating and the adrenaline and heat are getting to him.
I breathe in and think of her again. Regretting the last month. Not the time spent with her, but the time I took for granted. For so long I tell myself I don't want or need a relationship because I need to focus on baseball.
I am better off on my own.
Relationships only complicate my life.
Another passed ball. Another run scores. Coach calls time, heading to the mound. I can barely focus on his words over the pounding in my head.
All things I tell myself, and look where I am now. Alone after destroying the only real relationship I’ve ever had.
I don’t know what Coach says to Jameson. I keep my ass behind the plate like he told me to. Whatever he says, we finish the inning with a strikeout and two popups to short.
Between innings, I sit in the dugout, staring at nothing, when Jameson kicks my foot as he passes, wiping Gatorade from his lips with his sweatshirt sleeve. “Get off your ass and do something.”
I stare at him, wondering what the fuck his problem is today. If anyone should be in a bad mood, it’s me.
The words hit differently than he probably means them to. Maybe he’s talking about my head not being in the game, aboutneeding to step up as a leader—and the same can be said about him. But all I can think about is Camdyn, and how I let everything that mattered slip through my fingers without a fight.
Do something.
Maybe it’s not too late.
“Trust your stuff,” I tell Jameson when we take the field, trying to sound more confident than I feel. The late afternoon sun turns everything golden, casting long shadows across the infield. “We got this.”
But we don’t have this. Not even close. By the eighth inning, it’s 8-2 Sun Devils, and the only sound in our dugout is the hollow thunk of empty paper cups hitting the trash can.