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A pop fly heads to second and every kid sprints after it, including the batter, who drops the bat and starts whooping.
King’s doubled over laughing. “That’s hustle! Can we get that in our infield next game?”
A chorus of “I got it! I got it!” turns into a dog pile.
Ollie finally gets them in a semi-line. “Let’s try again, yeah?” A girl tugs his sleeve. “Coach, my shoe’s untied.” He drops to one knee. “No problem, kiddo.” She steps on his hand. “Ow—yep, that’s one way to do it.”
I’m on first base, where a kid named Mason is more interested in his pet turtle than the batter. “He’s really fast,” Mason assures me. “Sometimes he moves across the tank in, like, an hour.”
“That’s wild,” I say, trying to keep him from building a dirt castle at his feet.
At the plate, the batter finally makes contact—sort of—sending a slow roller to third, where King and Jameson dodge a stampede. Third baseman scoops it up, holds it over his head like a trophy, and yells, “I FOUND THE BALL!”
By inning’s end, Ollie’s sunglasses are crooked, King’s covered in Gatorade, and Jameson’s notebook is full of tally marks labeled “Chaos.”
Still, when the kids group up on the mound for a huddle, faces shiny with sweat and dirt, it’s impossible not to smile. Even Jameson, who pretends to be all business, has a soft spot for the kid who runs the wrong way around the bases, arms out like an airplane.
As we walk off, sweat prickling under our shirts, King wipes his brow and groans, “I think we lost to the under-six T-ball team.”
Ollie grins, cheeks streaked with dirt and sunscreen. “Maybe next week we teach them not to eat the bases.” He pops another fruit snack, wrapper crinkling.
Jameson sighs, but he’s almost smiling. “That’s your job, Coach Ollie,” he says, fanning himself with his cap. The late sun bounces off the bleachers, turning the air into rippling waves. My shirt sticks to my back, and the grass stains itch.
A swarm of kids trails after us, sticky-fingered and sunburned, begging for high-fives and more turtle stories. Their laughter echoes off the fence as King does his “signature high five”—basically a missed slap and a goofy dance, earning a chorus of giggles.
When we finally break away and head to Ollie’s battered truck, Jameson finds me. He bumps my shoulder, squinting. “Where’d you disappear to last night?”
I realize I never told anyone. The heat and dust make it hard to look at him, so I shrug. “Went to see my dad.”
Jameson nods, runs a hand over his buzzed hair, sweat shining. “You mad?” he asks, low.
I try to play dumb, kicking at a clump of crabgrass. “About?”
He glances sideways, a smirk flickering. “Me having pizza with Camdyn.”
I force a laugh, too tight. “I’m not happy about it, but she’s allowed to have friends, and so are you.” I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling that familiar twist in my gut.
He nods, then tosses his bag in the truck bed. The metal’s already hot enough to fry an egg. Ollie and King catch up, munching fruit snacks I’m sure they stole from the kids. King offers me one, but I wave it off.
Jameson leans in, lowers his voice. “I think she just needed someone to talk to who wasn’t Callie, or you.”
I sigh, squint into the sun. “I know, man. It’s just—” My throat closes up.
“You miss her, and her friendship,” he says, not unkind, just honest.
I run a hand through my hair, feeling the sting of sunscreen. “I do. So much.”
He claps my shoulder, heavy and reassuring. “She asked about you,” Jameson says quietly. “She misses you too.”
I nod, not trusting myself to answer, letting the heat and laughter wash over me. For a second, it almost feels like forgiveness, like maybe I’ll figure out how to fix things. But my nerves buzz in my chest, restless, because missing her is one thing—finding my way back is something else entirely.
Later,as we’re loading gear onto the team bus, the late sun slants gold across the quad. Guys are shouting, laughing, tossing bags, but it all fades when I spot her. Camdyn, by the athletic hall, talking to Fork Guy and Brynn. She’s laughing—head tipped back, hair lit up like a halo in the sunlight.
I freeze, hands full of nothing, heart thudding stupidly in my chest. I can’t hear her, but I know that laugh. God, I know it. I remember when it belonged to me—when I was the reason her mouth curled, her eyes lit up, her entire body shook with joy.
Now I’m just another face in the crowd, some background extra in her life. I want to go over, to say something—anything—but my feet stay glued to the pavement. I don’t know if I’d make things better or just fuck it up all over again.
I stand there, watching her. The world tilts, and for a second, I feel everything I lost pressing down on me, heavy and sharp and impossibly real. I want to tell her I’m sorry, that I’d do anything to make it right. That I’d burn every bridge, tear down every fence, start over a thousand times if it means I get one more shot.