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Dad shakes his head, opening the pizza box and tossing me a slice. “You’re both nuts, you know that? I run into burning buildings for a living and I still wouldn’t set foot in that garage after dark.”
I lean back, chewing my pizza, and for the first time in a while, I feel something close to okay. Maybe even happy, sitting in this questionable-smelling house. Sometimes, all you need is your family, a box of pizza, and the shared knowledge that—yeah, your mother’s house might be a biohazard, but at least you’re all in it together.
We settle in together, eating pizza off mismatched plates, trading jokes about Mom’s “shithole investment” and the possible Breaking Bad situation in the backyard. For a while, it’s just laughter and the warmth you only get from being with people who know exactly how messy you are—and love you for it anyway.
I lean back, chewing my pizza, and for the first time in a long time, I feel something loosen inside me. Maybe even a shot of real happiness, right here in a house that smells like mold and ambition and new beginnings. Maybe that’s all healing is—a little light through cracked windows, a family that keeps showing up, and the guts to rip up the parts of your life that aren’t working, no matter how ugly it gets.
My mom nudges me, grinning. “Tomorrow we tackle the kitchen. There’s a reason the fridge is chained shut.”
I laugh, and this time it’s real. The ache in my chest has dulled just enough to let hope in.
Maybe the world keeps throwing fastballs, but tonight, I’m ready to swing again.
CHAPTER 32
BLOCKING
CAMDYN
When the catcher stops a pitch in the dirt with their body or mitt, they’re said to be blocking pitches.
There’s something about walking onto the field on game day that always settles my nerves, even when everything else is a mess. The air is brisk, the sky that perfect Pacific Northwest blue-grey, and the chain-link fences are already humming with the early energy of cleats on concrete and teammates yelling jokes across the grass. I can smell fresh-cut turf and damp dirt—the kind of scent that means spring, sweat, and the possibility of making something right.
I sling my bat bag over my shoulder and head for the dugout. The bleachers are empty—a few parents clutching travel mugs, our head coach talking to his clipboard like it might talk back. A group of freshmen are stretching in left field, their laughter floating on the wind, and for a second, I actually feel okay. The chaos of my life fades into the background, drowned out by the steady, familiar rhythm of team rituals and the thud of softballs in leather gloves.
Sitting in the bullpen, I stare at my phone in my lap as I wait for Brynn to wander over for warmups. I want to text Jaxon. I open our message thread and the last one sits there. The one he sent days ago saying he missed me.
I type a message out.
wyd???
Delete.
Too soon. I can’t send it because if he replies, I know me and I’m going to fall right back into wanting to text him every minute of the day.
I open Instagram and go straight to Jaxon’s feed, checking if he’s posted anything.
Jaxon and I both got Instagram our freshman year of high school, but we treat it like a stat sheet, not a scrapbook. No cutesy couple selfies, no inside jokes, just pure sports. He posts his catching stats and nukes he sends 400-plus feet; I throw up a photo after I hit a bomb or pitch a shutout. Our feeds are basically running highlight reels. I’ve liked every post he’s ever made—out of loyalty, superstition, or both—and I’ll keep doing it even when he’s playing in the MLB, because I believe with 100 percent certainty he’ll get there.
Like the shameless stalker I am, I check his feed again and refresh it. Jaxon’s last post was a week ago: highlights from the California series. I already liked it, obviously. But what catches my eye are the stats from the Nebraska game. The guy went full JT Realmuto—caught all nine innings, threw out two runners stealing, and, oh yeah, homered twice. Jaxon went 3-for-4 at the plate, drove in four runs, and basically carried his team on his back like it was just another day at the office.
I haven’t posted since the Penn State game, so I scroll through my camera roll and pick a shot where I look fierce andnot like I’m about to collapse from nerves. I post it before we head out for warm-ups, captioning it with something generic but intense (“Eyes up. Next game. Next win.”).
Brynn shuffles into the bullpen with her catcher’s gear and mitt. She looks at my phone, then at me. “Girl, what are you doing?”
I haven’t forgiven her. Not really. But I can’t bring myself to hate her, either. That’s the thing about teammates—even when they fuck up, you still want to believe the best. Maybe it’s a flaw. Maybe it’s just who I am. It’s definitely who I am.
I tilt my phone away, acting casual. “Sending Olivia Rodrigo a message on Instagram.”
She snorts. “What? Again? That’s weird.” She lunges for my phone, but I whip it away. “Don’t do that.”
“I will do that,” I say, typing, glancing at her for dramatic effect before I hit send. “I’m a bad bish.”
She cracks up. “You cried when the flight attendant asked if you wanted nuts.”
“That was a lapse in mindset,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.
She arches an eyebrow. “You mean judgment?”