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“Not gonna lie, I room with him for the food. His teriyaki is top-tier. No shame.”
We both laugh, but every time Jaxon comes up, my heart hammers. It’s like ignoring a sunburn—every move, it stings.
The longer we go without talking, the worse I feel about us ever working out. I obviously still want him, but holding out hope is starting to feel less like optimism and more like self-sabotage. There are so many times I want to text him, check in, or send a meme only he’d get. When I see his name topping the NCAA Pac-12 home run leaderboard, I want to send a “damn, slugger” and hear him call me a nerd.
But I don’t. And this distance kills me.
Our lives used to be tangled in a way I thought couldn’t be undone, like headphone cords at the bottom of a bag. Not talking now feels like losing a limb I thought I needed.
And the longer the silence drags on, the heavier it gets. I never thought Jaxon would go this long without texting me. He always caved after a few days, sending something dumb—like a picture of Mookie in a hat, or a TikTok reminding him of the time I face-planted in warm-ups.
Now… nothing. No random texts. No stupid memes. No “u up?” at 1 a.m.
I don’t even bump into him on campus or in the dining hall, and if I hadn’t seen him on TV at the games, I’d think he’d fallen off the planet.
Although… guess who still has his location on my phone? Me. And I know he still has mine. Maybe that’s our secret wayof staying in each other’s lives. Or maybe I’m just looking for some sign to make it hurt less. Like if I know he’s still out there, somewhere close, it’ll sting a little less.
Jameson watches me, quiet for once, then slides the last pepperoni knot across the table. “You look like you need this more than I do.”
I take it, and for the first time all day, I actually taste the food in my mouth.
He leans back, chewing on his straw, eyes fixed on the wobbly table like he’s weighing his words. “You know, Cam? I’ve known Jax a long time. He’s stubborn as hell, but he’s not stupid. He’s just scared—scared of screwing things up with you, or losing you for good. But he’s not gonna let you go. Not really.”
I snort, but it’s weak. “Yeah.”
Jameson grins, soft and real. “He cares about you more than he knows how to say. Always has. You two? It’s not over. Not even close. He’ll come around. Trust me.”
I want to believe him. And maybe, for the first time in a while, I do.
Maybe I’m not okay yet. But at least I’m not alone. And maybe hope isn’t as far away as I thought.
CHAPTER 29
RUNNERS IN SCORING POSITION
JAXON
When there’s a runner at second and/or third, able to score on a single.
We have a day off midweek thanks to two straight weeks of travel coming up. I skip class—not that anyone’s shocked—and spend the day holed up in my room, curtains yanked tight against the glare of a rare sunny Seattle afternoon. Outside, it’s all blue sky and cheery as fuck.
In my dorm, it’s gray and depressing as shit. The only light’s from my monitor, casting blocky shadows as I lose myself in Minecraft.
I start building a baseball field. It’s not perfect—nothing ever is in Minecraft—but I lay down dirt for the base paths, carve out a diamond, try to nail the pitcher’s mound. I build out the stands, even add a dugout, stacking blocks like it’ll fill something inside my head. I keep switching between grass and clay, never satisfied, deleting and rebuilding the outfield fence while the pixel sun rises and sets.
But my mind keeps drifting. She texted me the other day, but I chalked it up to her being high on Benadryl. It made mesmile, but would she have texted me at all if she wasn’t having an allergic reaction?
I don’t know. Neither does my avatar. “You think she wants to talk to me?” I mutter at my Minecraft guy. Nothing. “Well, you’re a lot of help.” I steer him into what’s supposed to be left field. “Let’s see if you can make this infield look less like a potato patch.” My blocky avatar looks up at me with dead pixel eyes, shovel in hand, waiting for instructions. “You ever get tired of starting over?” I ask, sighing. “Yeah, me too.”
I saw her this morning, which explains why I’m hiding in my room now. We passed near the quad, not close enough to talk. She didn’t see me, or pretended not to. That’s somehow worse. Her absence presses in, thick as the stale air in my dark room.
I hate admitting when I’m wrong. Who doesn’t? But I was wrong with Camdyn—spectacularly, irreversibly wrong. I’m risky on the field. If I spot a chance to gun down a runner, I’ll take it, even if Coach is screaming not to. But with her, I played it safe. Always careful, never making a move unless I could see the ending.
Look how that worked out.
I build the dugouts, make the fences taller, then tear them down again. Try to fill the stands with NPCs, but they all look blank and empty. I rebuild the stands, stacking blocks like it’ll fix something in my brain. “Don’t mess up the third base line,” I grumble, but of course I do, and have to start over. I try to hang a scoreboard in right field, but it reminds me of those games Camdyn and I watched together, late nights, early mornings, inside jokes that don’t land anymore.
When the world fades out, my mind snaps back to her. I feel like I destroyed her—like I blew up the only bridge back to her without even noticing. I keep replaying all the things I should’ve said, the way I should’ve fought for her, not against her. I feellike a monster—too big, too loud, too much for her to ever want back.