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Coach Drew blinks, eyebrows shooting up. He’s super religious, and I just said dick in front of him. “Uh, okay.” He pats my back, awkward. “Don’t puke. I don’t want to clean that up.”
“I’ll try not to.” I wrap my arms around my stomach, swallowing hard, trying to convince my body it doesn’t want to turn inside out on national TV.
Don’t puke on ESPN. Please, for the love of God, don’t puke.
Nothing says pressure like the College World Series. Music blares—something with a bassline that rattles my teeth. The crowd is a wall of noise and color. My heart hammers so loud, I swear the ump can hear it echoing off the dugout.
Each step toward the circle feels heavier, but also lighter, if that makes sense. I know the game plan Coach Drew and I mapped out—pitch sequences looping in my head like a song I can’t turn off. Fastball up and in, changeup away, rise to finish. I run it over and over like a prayer.
In front of me, a sellout crowd of three thousand, every one of them staring at the girl in the circle. The one told she’d never play college softball—not tall enough, not fast enough, not enough spin, couldn’t take criticism. But here I am, standing in the same dirt as hundreds of girls before me at Devon Park, all of us hoping our best is good enough.
As I step into the circle, there’s a breeze, but the humidity is as clingy as a bad ex. I draw in a deep breath, scrape my cleat into the dirt, covering the trench Oklahoma’s pitcher left from her drag foot. I press my glove to my chest, feeling my heartbeat, and let everything else—expectations, predictions, doubts—fade into the background.
This is my wheelhouse. Right here, with the game on the line, the world watching, the pressure thick enough to choke on. Some hitters wait for their pitch—wait for their perfect moment,right in their sweet spot. I don’t wait. I step up and claim it. This circle, this dirt, this sky—all of it is mine. I know what I want, and I’m ready to swing.
Game time.
CHAPTER 38
ACE
JAXON
A starting pitcher, also known as the “ace,” is the team’s best pitcher.
It’s weird being on this side of the fence. I’m used to dugouts, cleats, the smell of fresh dirt and bubblegum—not stadium seats, not being just another face in the crowd. Definitely not sitting between King, who’s shouting stats at anyone who’ll listen, and Fork Guy, who’s already eaten two hot dogs and is eyeing the nacho stand like it owes him money.
I haven’t been to one of Camdyn’s games all year. Not since everything went to hell last season. Watching her from the stands at a World Series game is a whole different kind of nerves. Out here, I can’t do anything but watch. Out here, I have to let her be great on her own.
King elbows me, nearly knocking my foam finger into a grandma’s lap. “You see her warm-up? She’s locked in.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “She is.” He’s right. There’s a different kind of confidence about her today—one I haven’t seen in years.
Fork Guy returns with a tray holding something that looks radioactive. “Jaxon! Bro! They have funnel cake tacos. It’s like someone deep-fried my childhood trauma and put it on a plate.” He takes a massive bite and immediately coughs powdered sugar onto King’s Husky shirt.
“Dude,” King groans, brushing off his shirt, “you’re a hazard.”
Fork Guy shrugs, mouth full. “I’m a pioneer. Also, did you know the Dippin’ Dots lady used to do roller derby? Her name was Pain Freeze. We’re tight now.”
He’s not kidding. Three rows around us, Fork Guy’s already made friends with a retired couple from Tulsa, a pack of middle schoolers in matching visors, and a guy named Steve who sells kettle corn and has opinions about the designated hitter rule. Brody, the kid from the hotel, is back too—now dual-wielding a foam bat and a churro, living his best life.
“Fork Guy!” a voice shouts from two sections over. “You want my extra nachos?”
Fork Guy stands, bows, and sprints down the row, leaving a trail of crumpled napkins and pure admiration in his wake.
King shakes his head, grinning. “He’s a menace. How do you know people like that?”
“I have no idea,” I admit, but I’m glad he’s here. Glad they both are. If it weren’t for King’s running commentary (“That’s her third straight strike in warmups—she’s dialed, bro!”) and Fork Guy’s never-ending quest to try every food in the park, I’d probably be pacing the concourse, having an anxiety attack.
I look down at the field and spot Camdyn in the bullpen. She looks so calm, so focused, like nothing could touch her. I know better. I know how hard she’s worked to get here, how much she’s carried. I want to yell something supportive, something clever, but I stay quiet.
I’ve never been this nervous for someone else. I know I can’t help her out there, but at least I can be here. At least she knows she has people in her corner, even if one of them is currently leading a conga line with the Dippin’ Dots lady and a swarm of ten-year-olds.
Fork Guy returns, now wielding a turkey leg like a medieval warlord. “Game on, boys. I’m fueled up and emotionally prepared.”
I’m not sure I am, but I nod anyway. “Mhm.”
The anthem starts. The crowd rises. And for the first time all season, I’m exactly where I should be—cheering forher, watchingherbe the star, hoping today’s the day everything finally comes together for her. Whatever happens, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.