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Look at me, lying here in my Huskies baseball T-shirt I stole from Jaxon last year. It’s worn thin in places, smells like a mix of Tide and his cologne—even after countless washes. The purple W is starting to crack, but I refuse to throw it out or give it back. Mine now, bitch.
Sometimes in my imaginary bliss, I pretend Jaxon and I are married, he’s playing in the MLB and I’m lying in bed waiting for him. The fantasy usually involves him being drafted by the Mariners so we can stay in Seattle, because apparently, even in my dreams, I’m practical.
A girl can dream in delulu land.
Today I imagine I was born a princess and my servant will be here soon with my coffee and a toasted cheese bagel with creamcheese, a slice of prosciutto, and a sprinkle of Everything But the Bagel seasoning. Chef's kiss.
If you haven’t tried it, do it. You won’t regret it. It’s a game changer. The cafeteria ladies at the athletes’ dining hall actually started making it for me after I brought in my own prosciutto one too many times. Now it’s called “The Pitcher's Special” on their secret menu.
Blinking slowly, I look around my dorm room and focus on the pink and purple lava lamp on my nightstand between mine and Callie’s beds. She’s already left for the morning, or didn’t come back last night. Her side of the room is a shrine to basketball glory—medals hanging from the bed frame, her All-Star certificate proudly displayed, and about fifteen pairs of Nikes lined up perfectly under her desk. My side looks like I’m homeless and hoarding my shit in piles, ready to move at any moment.
The morning light streams through our third-floor window, catching the dust particles dancing in the air. From here, I can see the baseball stadium where the guys practice, and I definitely don’t crane my neck trying to spot a certain number 99 during their morning workouts. Okay, maybe I do, but like, casually. Shhhh.
Sigh. It’s apparent I'm not a princess. No one is bringing me a bagel and if I don’t get my ass out of bed, I’m going to be late for media day. The thought makes my stomach twist. Nothing like having cameras shoved in your face while you try not to say anything stupid that ends up as a viral TikTok clip.
I reach for my notebook beside my bed and do my morning journaling and manifesting. It’s something my pitching coach-slash-therapist told me to do last year. It’s helped a lot with cultivating a positive mindset going into a game.
Today’s entry is pretty standard: “Lead the Pac-12 in strikeouts,” “Get drafted to pro softball,” and definitely not“Make Jaxon realize I’m the love of his life.” Okay, maybe that last one’s in there too, but I wrote it small so it doesn’t count if you can’t read it.
Once I’m finished journaling and meditating I throw on my team-issued Nike leggings and one of our twelve million purple workout tops.
The dorm hallway is already buzzing with activity. Music thumps from behind closed doors, the smell of burnt coffee and dry shampoo fills the air, and someone’s definitely burning microwave oatmeal again.
I head to the Starbucks coffee cart and meet up with Brynn and a few other teammates. The early morning fog is still lifting off the quad. The students shuffling to their 8 AM classes look like extras from The Walking Dead. The coffee cart guy, Theo, already has my order started when he sees me coming. If that’s not the definition of making it in college, I don’t know what is. I actually don’t know if his name is Theo either. I named him that. He looks like a Theo to me.
I check my phone hoping Jaxon texted me but nothing. I refuse to message him first.
I won’t do it.
I can’t.
I have rules now, remember?
Rules that mean under no circumstance will I text first. I think any girl will relate when we say the guy texting first is right up there with him saying I love you. Maybe it’s not that deep, but if you've been in a situationship, you know what I’m saying. It’s like the unwritten rule of college dating.
So yeah, I check it once more while I’m drinking my coffee. The screen mocks me with its notification-less existence.
I even check his location—yes I have it—and it looks like he’s at the stadium, probably doing their early morning batting practice. That makes me feel a little better because if he had beenin his dorm still, I would have been sad that he hadn’t texted me yet. Plus, knowing he’s at practice and not, say, getting coffee with Inez, helps quiet the anxious voice in my head.
After coffeethe girls and I walk through campus together, past the field and into the media center. The morning sun beats down on us and I smile remembering all those early morning games during high school when I’d walk into the park for bracket play Sundays. Now here I am, at a Division I school, walking to media day to start off the series against Arizona.
From the time I picked up a ball at ten years old, I knew I wanted to be a pitcher. I never imagined one day I’d be the starting pitcher at a D1 school. I doubt myself constantly at times, but I’m the reason I’m here. I took my talent to the next level. Only a small percentage of high school athletes do that.
“Do your leggings fit you weird?” Brynn asks, pulling at hers as they ride up a little too far in the front. “I want last year’s back.”
“Oh, uh, no?” I glance down at them and realize we’re wearing the same ones. “They actually fit pretty good. Maybe it’s because they switched brands?”
“I think I have an awkwardly long torso.” Brynn brings her leg up and practically kicks me in the face. “I’m loving all the shoes though.”
I laugh and push her away from me. Brynn’s dorm room has more shoes than it does clothes. I’m not sure I’ve seen her wear the same pair twice and it doesn’t help the school gives us at least four pairs a year.
The fall gear handout is like Christmas morning for college athletes. We get everything from bags, leggings, sweatpants, shorts, hoodies, and enough shoes to fill Brynn’s closet twice over. Then there’s all the softball stuff: practice jerseys, custom-designed gloves in team colors, batting gloves, visors, and more hoodies than any human needs. By the time we’re done, our dorm rooms look like a University of Washington merch store exploded inside them.
Brynn jets out her hand to one of our infielders, Zoey, and stops her. “Wait.” Zoey, who had been in a “talking stage” with Kingston, will forever be Brynn’s enemy. “Girl, did you see that play King made yesterday? Like everyone is talking about it.”
“Nah.” Zoey shrugs, rolling her eyes. “Didn’t see it.”
I can tell by the way Zoey walks faster she doesn’t want to talk to Brynn.