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“Do you ever regret it?” I ask. “The stuff you gave up for baseball?”
He turns to me, and for once he’s not squinting at me like I’m an idiot. “You mean relationships?”
I nod.
He scratches his jaw. “You know, I used to tell guys—hell, I told you—relationships don’t belong in college sports. Not at this level. Too many distractions, too many ways to mess up your head right when you need it clear. I believed it, too. Thought love was something you did in the off-season, if at all.”
I remember. He said it the first day of fall ball: “You want to be great? Don’t let anyone get close enough to mess with your swing.”
“But you were wrong?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
Coach laughs, dry and tired. “Yeah, I was wrong. Sometimes the stuff you think will distract you is actually what keeps you grounded.” He glances at me. “You were better with her, Jaxon. On and off the field.”
My heart does this weird skip-hop thing that would probably concern a cardiologist. “But you said?—”
He cuts me off, waving his hand like he’s brushing away his own advice. “Yeah, I know what I said. I was an ass. Sometimes it’s easier to believe you can just cut yourself off from the worldand be better for it. Truth is, you play better when you let people in. Even if it hurts sometimes.”
I think about Camdyn and all the games she waited after, in high school and last year, the texts before, the way she always brought me a cookie—celebration or consolation, didn’t matter. How she never tried to fix my bad days, just sat with me until they didn’t feel so heavy. She’s been there for me, season after season, and when was I ever there for her? I’ve missed so many of her games because I was playing myself, but honestly, sometimes I didn’t make her a priority and I should have.
I close my eyes, hating the images that surface. I can’t get her out of my mind. My thoughts are always on that day at the field in the rain and the pain I left in her eyes. I hurt her over and over again and for what? She didn’t deserve that. I know what I did to hurt her, and I carry that pain in my chest every day. Can she ever forgive me?
I’m bombarded by memories of a life I shared with her, and the reality that I might not get that back.
The truth is, I’m terrified to see her in person now. Scared of the look in her eyes. Scared of her disappointment.
I haven’t stopped thinking about her since that day at the field and it got worse after the night in my dorm when she showed up.
Fork Guy is now trying to organize the infielders for a “candid” shot. Coach eyes him like he’s inventing a new strength-and-conditioning drill called “Chase Fork Guy.”
“The game’s hard enough,” Coach says, his voice dropping. “Don’t make it harder by fighting yourself.”
I glance up at him, sheepish. “Is this your way of telling me to get my head out of my ass?”
He grins. “Among other things. Maybe pull your heart out of it, too. See where it leads you.”
I watch as Fork Guy tries to hand King his spork crown for a selfie. Jameson looks ready to tackle him. I kind of wish he would.
“So what now?” I ask, both to Coach and to myself.
Coach stretches like he’s about to sub himself in, looks at the team in the dugout, the emptying stands, the whole mess of it. “Now you figure out what matters most. And you stop letting other people—including me—tell you what that should be.” He gives Fork Guy a death glare. “Who the hell let him down here?”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a shaky breath. I know what I want. I knowwhomatters.
Two options: let her go, or tell her how I feel. Make a grand gesture? Both terrify me.
I close my eyes, draw in a breath that tastes like wet grass and stale hot dogs, and finally let it all out. I think about Camdyn and what she’s doing right now. They’re one game into the College World Series. They made it through Super Regionals, and now they’re in the final three games at Devon Park in Oklahoma City—best of three, so if they win tomorrow, they win the national championship.
This might be the stupidest, or the smartest, decision of my life, but I’m going to Oklahoma.
If you’d toldme a month ago I’d be sprinting through campus with a duffel bag slamming my hip, I would’ve laughed in your face. If you’d told me Fork Guy would be right behind me, waving what looked suspiciously like a laminated boarding passand a baggie of healing crystals, I would’ve called campus security.
But here the fuck we are.
By the time we reach the bus stop, I’m sweating through my shirt. Fork Guy’s jogging behind me, neck pillow covered in tiny plastic forks, looking like he got lost on his way to a Spirit Airlines promo shoot.
“Where ya going?” he pants, nearly tripping over his own feet and sprawling on the pavement. “You look like you failed a final and decided to join a cult.”
I lean against the shelter, catching my breath. There’s no way to say this out loud without feeling like I’m in the pilot episode of a show that gets canceled after one season, but here goes. “I’m going to see Camdyn. She’s playing in the World Series. I need to—” I hesitate, because saying it out loud makes it real. “Make a grand gesture.”