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“Well, I mean, who’s gonna know though?”
“Brynn. Be realistic here. People would know.”
“Nah, cuz like, think about it. I could do it under a different name.”
Look at her face. She believes in her plan. “Or just call myself Baddie Brynn and sell that shit.”
“Okay but your name would literally be in your profile if you did that. People would definitely know.”
She pays no mind to the logic I’m giving her. “Imagine what they’d pay for my sliding shorts after a game. She mails them in ziplock bags to seal them babies up.”
“Stop talking.” I slap my hand over her mouth, thoroughly grossed out now. “That’s disgusting.”
She pulls my hand away. “Is it though?”
“Yes. It is!”
Coach Drew returns and sighs, pointing at Brynn. “No, I don’t want to know what you’re talking about. Time for interviews.”
Honestly, I think I’d rather talk about selling panties than do this next part.
From across the room, I catch Inez hunched over her notebook, occasionally glancing up at us through those thick glasses. She’s got this way of making herself almost invisible until you realize she’s been there the whole time, catching every word.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my heart does that stupid little jump it always does when I think it might be Jaxon.
It’s not. Unfortunately.
The first portionof our media day after pictures is student-led. Which, unfortunately, leaves Inez interviewing me.
So thrilled, and incredibly nervous. I’m standing near the tables, one AirPod in, listening to music as she approaches—her phone in one hand, her notebook in the other. My palms are already sweating and I haven’t even sat down yet. She looks just as nervous, if not more, which somehow makes this worse.
Taking my AirPod out, I shove it back in the case and glance at Brynn, who is still next to me. “Wait, has she said anything about Jaxon lately?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. Real smooth, Cam.
Brynn leans in, wraps an arm around my shoulders, her lips close to my ear. “He hasn’t texted her since before the hockey game, as far as I know.”
I can feel the corners of my lips fighting off a smile. I don’t know why, but I suddenly want to jump up and down. Like, actually bounce around this room like a complete idiot. I smile, trying not to be too happy about this newfound information, but I can’t help it.
As Brynn walks away, there’s a fluttering, warm feeling in my stomach. He hasn’t talked to her since he texted me. That could mean something, right?
Girl, chill. Don't get your hopes up. You know him lately.
Drawing a deep breath, I sit down at the conference table as Inez does the same. She’s meticulous about how she organizes everything. There’s something she and Jaxon have in common. While my bat bag usually looks like someone packed it fugitive-style, Jaxon’s looks like a brain surgeon preparing for surgery. Everything has a place and if it’s not perfect, he won’t step on the field. He packs everything the night before and always knows where his stuff is between innings. I’m lucky if I can find both batting gloves at the same time.
“Hello, Camdyn.”
Her formality evokes a smirk from me. My anxiety eases slightly at how proper she’s trying to be. “Hey.” I slouch in the metal chair. I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but I already know what questions she’s going to ask me. Not only can I see her list, but anyone interviewing me asks the same questions. They want to know about the World Series breakdown and my relationship with Jaxon Ryan.
The idea that she’s going to ask about any of that makes my uniform feel tighter and itchier. My heart’s already racing and we haven’t even started. If I saw myself in a mirror right now, I know my cheeks would be red from anxiety and my neck would be scattered with blotchy marks. Fun fact about me: I get these lovely red splotches when I’m nervous. Super attractive.
Staring at her, now directly across from me, I realize Inez is nothing like I thought she’d be. Though I imagined she’d be perfect, I can tell she just tries to be. Everything is organized in front of her—from her pens equidistant from each other and the notebook, to her hair slicked back into a ponytail. Not a single hair is out of place. Her clothing, however, is another story. She’s wearing a zip-up black hoodie with lint pilling, her Star Wars T-shirt underneath is wrinkled, and she’s still sporting those black Converse with duct tape on them. She keeps fidgeting with her glasses, pushing them up even though they haven’t slid down.
I observe her movements as an upperclassman leading the interviews hands her a list of questions that appear to be different from the ones she intended to ask me. My stomach drops. New questions are never good questions.
“Oh.” She fidgets with her glasses and then looks up at the guy. “I have questions Mr. Bennett gave me.” Her voice is quiet, hesitant.
The guy shrugs, uninterested, and begins to walk away. “Now you have new ones.”
“Excuse me.” Inez shifts in her seat and clears her throat, adjusting her glasses as her dark eyes land on the sheet in front of her. “I need a moment to read through these.”