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I sigh, barely audible. “Honestly? Yeah. I spent so much time worrying if Jaxon would text, or if he’d decide to date me again, I forgot about my own happiness.”
She laughs softly. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t a fan of... whatever you and Jaxon had. Do I think it could have worked? Maybe. But the way you both went about it, it was going to end like this.” Her gaze pins me. “Heartbreak from a situationship can be just as intense as a real breakup. Sometimes worse, because of all the uncertainty. Give yourself permission to feel it, Camdyn. And maybe block Jaxon’s number for a while.”
I smile, knowing I’ll never block him. “You’re the first person who’s told me to do that.”
She grins. “I know you won’t.” She glances at my UW Huskies sweatshirt. “Can I ask—how are you feeling about super regionals?”
My stomach twists. There it is—the other thing. “Nervous,” I admit. “Obviously. It’s super regionals. But also… last year was a lot. Like, a lot, a lot.”
She nods softly. “I remember. That was when your coach suggested you see me, after everything at the World Series.”
My throat tightens. I lost more than a game that day.
She lets the silence sit. “You went through something hard and isolating. And you did it in public, even if no one knew the details.”
I shrug. “My teammates know now. Sort of. I think they’re scared to ask. There was a blog post, you know? Coach keeps telling me to ‘be a leader’ and ‘focus on the game.’ Sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to be fine by now. Like I shouldn’t have anxiety about the playoffs.”
She leans in. “It’s only natural to be anxious, especially after everything you’ve lost—and everything with Jaxon. If you want,we can talk about what you need as playoffs get closer. What would make you feel safe and supported?”
I nod, biting my lip. “Honestly, I just want to forget it all and play ball. I don’t want to think about last season or Jaxon. I want to win. Maybe break my strikeout record.”
She smiles, genuine. “That’s a good goal.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I thought so.”
She glances at her notepad, then back at me. “When you think about stepping onto the field next week, what comes up? Fear? Excitement? Something else?”
I stare at my shoes. “Both? I love softball. Always have. But lately, every time I put on my cleats, it feels like armor. Like everyone’s watching, waiting to see if I’ll crack. Especially after the blog post. Or if I’ll be ‘normal’ again. I keep wondering… what if I’m not?”
She scribbles. “Do you ever miss when it was just a game?”
“All the time,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. I don’t think anyone but the ones who’ve played at this level understand the pressure on D1 athletes. “I used to play because it was fun. Now every pitch feels like it’s about my future, my past, whether I’m mentally tough enough. Like the softball gods are judging me, and I’m just trying not to fall apart.”
She smiles gently. “That’s a lot of pressure. Has anyone on the team checked in with you since the blog post?”
I think of Brynn and Coach Drew. “Yeah, Brynn—my catcher—and Coach Drew. My mom, though she doesn’t know most of it, keeps telling me to stay strong like it’s a magic spell. My dad sends inspirational quotes before games. I know they mean well, but sometimes I wish someone would say, ‘Hey, that sucked. Wanna get pancakes and not talk about it?’”
She laughs. “Pancakes are underrated therapy.”
I grin. “Seriously. Syrup fixes a lot.”
She shifts, thoughtful, crossing one leg over the other. The leather chair creaks, swallowed up by the hum of campus life outside. Fluorescent light glints off her framed diplomas and the stubborn little jade plant in the window.
“When’s the last time you did something for yourself? Not for the team, Coach, or Jaxon—just for you?” Dr. Melanie asks, gentle but direct.
I read people’s emotions on their faces and draw my own conclusions—about me, about the situation, about everything. I did it with Jaxon for years, always obsessed with making him happy because I thought if I did, he’d want me.
Well, no. And thinking like that got me here. The time I spent with him became my whole world, and that’s where the people-pleasing started.
Maybe it started even earlier. I remember telling my parents whenever I messed up, “Please don’t be mad at me.”
Punishment never mattered. Their opinions did. If they were mad or disappointed, I couldn’t handle it. Ground me for years, I didn’t care. Look at me with disappointment or sadness and it destroyed me.
I stare down at my hands, picking at a thread on my jeans. The silence feels padded, safe. “I… can’t remember.”
“That worries me.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees, gold bracelet catching the light. There’s a softness in her eyes that makes honesty easier. “You’re allowed to be a person before you’re an athlete, a teammate, or someone’s girlfriend.”
Her words settle over me—warm and scary at once. There’s a poster on the wall: BREATHE, blue block letters over a mountain sunrise. I can’t seem to take enough air. “It feels selfish. Like if I’m not holding everything together, I’m letting people down. I’m a people pleaser, afraid of disappointing anyone.”