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“These umps are fucking blind,” Nash mutters as we trudge toward the bus. “That was a strike all day in the fourth.”
“Yeah, and what about the check swing call?” King adds, kicking at the pavement. “Complete bullshit.”
But Jameson’s ahead of us, shoulders tight, walking like he’s trying to put out fires with each step. His equipment bag swings violently in his hand.
“Hey, James—” Coach starts, but Jameson’s already at the bus.
BANG. His bag hits the storage compartment so hard the whole bus seems to shake. He storms up the steps, shouldering past King without a word, and throws himself into a seat near the back. When Thompson tries to sit next to him, Jameson jams his AirPods in and turns to the window.
The rest of us file in quietly. Nobody wants to poke the bear.
The walk to the bus feels like a funeral procession. Cleats scrape concrete, equipment bags drag. Nobody talks. Nobody needs to. Conference losses always hurt, but this one—this one feels personal. Maybe my pitch calling was off. Maybe… I don’t know, but it feels personal, like I’m part of the reason we can’t get it done today.
On the bus to Sky Harbor, I dig out my phone. I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. I pull up the softball scores from today’s games. There it is: Washington vs. Oregon. My thumb hovers over the link for a second before I tap it.
Final Score: Washington 2, Oregon 0
O’Hara (W, 18-3): 7.0 IP, 0 H, 0 R, 11 K
HR: O'Hara (9)
A no-hitter. Of course she throws a no-hitter. And goes yard. My chest aches with a weird mix of pride and loss. I start typing out a text:
Congratulations on the no-no
Delete.
Type it again.
Delete it again.
She doesn’t need me texting her and messing with her head again.
The desert darkness rushes past our bus windows. Most of the guys are sleeping or have their AirPods in, trying to forget this afternoon. I’m still staring at my phone, at the blinking cursor in an empty text message to Camdyn.
She doesn’t want to hear from me. Not after everything. Maybe she’s better off focusing on her season, breaking records and throwing no-hitters. Being the star she was always meant to be, before I complicated everything.
I close the messaging app and lean my head against the window. The glass is cool against my forehead, a small mercy after the brutal Arizona heat. Somewhere out there, Camdyn’s probably celebrating with her teammates, that smile lighting up her whole face the way it used to when we’d?—
No. Don’t go there.
The bus hits a bump, and Kingston drops into the seat next to me. He’s quiet for a minute, watching the desert darkness rush by.
“Ya know why Jameson’s off his game?” he finally asks, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“No idea.” I turn from the window. “But his slider was trash today.”
“I’d agree.” He nods. “But Callie’s back with that soccer player. Sawyer.” King shakes his head. “Found out this morning. Guess they’ve been hooking up again for a couple weeks and she’s been double dipping with our man here.”
“Fuck, man, that’s dumb.”
The pieces click into place—Jameson’s wild pitches, the anger, the way he can’t focus. Suddenly I see my own reflection in his mess of a game.
No wonder Coach is always preaching about keeping relationships out of baseball.
When King leaves, I stare at my phone again. I usually text Camdyn after games and talk about how they went, both of us confiding in one another. I can’t do that anymore, and in a lot of ways, I feel like I lost my best friend in all this and it sucks. I miss her and our friendship.
When King leaves, I stare at my phone again, the empty message to Camdyn still open. The ache in my chest twists, but this time it’s not just for her—it’s for Jameson too. I get it now. He’s not the only one spiraling. We’re both carrying shit that’s bleeding into everything we do.