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“You know what you need?” He straightens up, apparently deciding Rebecca's gone. “A dramatic gesture. Something to help you move on. Like throwing the first pitch at our next game!”
“Our?”
“I’ve been manifesting my softball career. Emerald’s helping me cleanse my aura. Or maybe just telling me to shower. The vibes were unclear.”
“Fork Guy.”
He waves his hand, spilling more lavender rose nonsense. “Think about it! You, behind the plate, showing Baseball Boy what he’s missing. Me, first pitch, emotional support and possible interpretive dance?—”
“Absolutely not.”
“—while Emerald reads tarot between innings?—”
“Still no.”
“What if I promise to wear both eyes?”
I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. “You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s not a no!” He grins. “Also, move. I think I did see Rebecca. I need to hide. But think about the pitch! And remember—sometimes love is like a plastic fork to the eye. Unexpected, painful, but eventually you get a cool eye patch.”
He sprints away, almost taking out a mug display. I pull out my phone again. Open my messages with Jaxon.
I type:
Your friend just compared our relationship to his fork incident
Weirdly accurate
My thumb hovers.
Delete.
I know one thing: when a guy with a bedazzled eye patch offers to fix your love life in exchange for a crystal-infused first pitch, maybe just say yes. It can’t be worse than bush-diving, right?
Also, when you want to text the guy who broke your heart about his friend’s metaphors, maybe remember some forks are better left in the past.
Even if they still make you laugh.
The red dirtof the pitcher’s circle feels like home under my cleats. I dig my toe into my landing spot, testing the ground like always. Top of the sixth, we’re up 3-1 against Utah, and their lineup looks frustrated. Good. That’s where I want them.
I adjust my face mask, squinting into the late afternoon sun. Shadows stretch across the infield, and there’s this perfect stillness—you know, that breath before everything happens. Behind me, our shortstop calls out instructions.
Their cleanup hitter steps in, tapping her bat against her cleats. She’s been crowding the plate all game, trying to get in my head. Last at-bat, I painted the outside with my screwball, made her look silly. But she’s adjusted now; I see it in her stance. I consider a brushback, but I can’t risk hitting her, can’t ruin a perfect game.
I start my wind-up—the same motion I’ve done thousands of times. The ball feels perfect in my grip, seams just right for my riseball. My go-to when I need a strikeout, and I know she’ll chase high.
The pitch comes out smooth, spinning exactly how I want. The batter’s eyes go wide as it starts low, looks like a meatball, then jumps up at the last second. She swings way under.
“Strike three!” The ump’s call echoes as another Utah player trudges off. People say I’m throwing fire lately, my fastball up in the high sixties, low seventies, but honestly, I’m trying to focus on anything but Jaxon. Softball gets two hundred percent of me these days. Even though this is the kind of game he’d love—me in the zone, making batters look foolish.
Two outs to go. I’ve got eleven strikeouts, and my riseball is untouchable today. The crowd behind home plate does that low murmur when they know something special’s happening. Brynn, my catcher, flashes the sign for another rise, and I nod. I don’t usually throw it for a first pitch, but why mess with what’s working?
That’s when I feel it—a sharp sting on my pitching arm.
I look down and see a fat honeybee, probably drunk on clover, wobbling away. What a little bitch. I can’t believe it stung me.
“Time!” I call, motioning to the dugout, but my tongue feels weird, too big for my mouth. The team doc takes one look at my swelling arm and the hives on my neck. I think... I might be allergic to bees, because next thing I know, I’m getting jabbed with an EpiPen and downing Benadryl.