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I glance at the paper and notice at the top it says Jaxon Ryan, underlined, with a question mark next to it. Like I said, it’s what they all want to know. My heart rate picks up again, thudding so hard I swear Inez can hear it across the table.
I lean back in the chair with my water in hand. I unscrew the cap and toss it on the table, trying to appear casual while my insides are doing Olympic-level gymnastics. “No problem.”
The lid lands upside down on the table in front of me and Inez’s eyes drift to it. I’m not sure if she’s bothered by the cap on the table, or that it’s upside down, but she’s strangely focused on it.
Reaching for the cap, I replace it on the water and her eyes move back to the paper. My leg starts bouncing under the table, a nervous habit I can’t control. The silence is deafening as she reads, and my mind wanders to dangerous places.
I wonder how she likes sharing a room with Brynn, considering Brynn never cleans up after herself and the last time I was in her dorm room it was littered with half-empty water bottles and Red Bull cans.
My focus remains on Inez as she continues reading the questions. At the hockey game, I didn't have a clear view of her. Now that she’s literally two feet from me, I can’t stop staring at her and wondering what Jaxon likes—or liked—about her. She’s completely different from me and I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.
I think better. No, maybe worse? Fuck. I don't know.
I’ve told you this, but I’m blonde, green-eyed, freckles dusting my nose and cheeks. I’m usually wearing leggings, Birkenstocks with ankle socks (I know some of you are cringing right now), and oversized T-shirts and hoodies. I cry at romance movies. Actually, I sometimes cry daily for no reason at all. I laugh at anything I think is funny and usually isn't to others, or when I’m nervous. I’d rather watch cute animal videos of kittens doing silly things on YouTube than watch TV, and I adore penguins. If I could adopt one, I would. I actually researched this and you can’t in the United States. Trust me, I spent three hours looking into it and may have considered moving to Antarctica.
I hate crowds and making eye contact with strangers. I have a farmer’s tan nine months out of the year, love Dr. Pepper and dill pickles, and rarely pick up a book unless it’s for a class.
This girl in front of me is nothing like that, from what I can tell.
“Okay, I’m ready.” Her eyes lift to mine and she adjusts her glasses once more. “Are you Camdyn?”
Why is she so formal? My heart’s doing this weird flutter-skip thing that can’t be healthy.
I nod and reach for the diamond cross around my neck, fidgeting with it. “Sure.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a win.
Her lips are in a flat line as she eyes the cross between my fingertips. She blinks a few times, as though she’s somehow confused by my cross, then clears her throat. “What caused the breakdown at the College World Series finals?”
Yep. That’s her first fucking question. And here I thought it was going to be about my relationship with Jaxon.
The room suddenly feels like it’s closing in, and I swear the temperature shot up twenty degrees. I lift my stare to Inez, then to Coach Drew in the corner of the room watching me closely.
He mouths, “You good?” and I nod. I’m not good. Not even close to good. But what am I supposed to do? Run screaming from the room? Actually... no, don’t tempt me.
My throat feels tight as I think about that game. I remember it. Vividly. Like, HD-surround-sound-traumatic-memory vivid. I can tell you everything about the sixth inning when it fell apart and the uncontrollable devastation knowing my first appearance in the World Series would forever be remembered as the “freshman's fault.” I can distinctly recall that first hit off me. The way the ball sounded when it made contact with the bat—that sickening crack that still haunts my dreams. The dive our shortstop made to get it and the way the seams of the ballsounded when it hit the edge of her glove. I can tell you how it felt to see her miss, and the two batters I walked after that. The error at third and the one in left field that followed. The dropped third strike, the missed assignment covering second... The realization that we had nothing left in the bullpen to relieve me, even after I’d already thrown over five hundred pitches in the last week.
I remember crying and the way the tears felt cool compared to the heat of my face and the way my uniform was soaked in sweat. I can recall the feeling of the blood filling my socks from the hole in my drag foot cleat that had ripped my toenail off the night before. The blisters on my fingertips from the seams on the ball rubbing against the skin for too long. Fun times, right?
There’s a lot I don’t want to say. The parts of Jaxon and me that messed with my mindset. And there are parts of that game that don't matter. Like those errors. If you looked at the box score, I had eight hits on me in one inning. None earned. To any other coach, they would have pulled me after the first four hits and two walks. If not for a different look in speed and spin, then because I wasn’t performing. The coaching staff left me in and I trusted what they were doing at the time. We also had no more pitchers in the bullpen. I was the only option, and I failed.
I’ll be honest when I say I felt like I let everyone down because in a lot of ways, I had. My chest tightens thinking about it, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
In, out. In, out.
Don't pass out during the interview, Cam. That would definitely make headlines.
I’m careful about what I say, as it’s a direct reflection of the team, the coaches, this school, and myself. “A few things.” I make eye contact with Inez, briefly, as she’s not only recording me but writing notes. My palms are so sweaty I wipe them on my leggings. “I was a freshman carrying the load of three pitchersin that series, not to any fault of the coaching staff, but due to injuries we hadn’t been expecting in the first few games of the series. I felt the weight of everything on my shoulders and didn’t know how to handle the pressure.”
In truth, it was a string of unfortunate events that led to a girl realizing she’d given up on the game in the middle of it. She’d given up on herself when she found weakness, and it had a lot to do with Jaxon.
I picture myself in the circle, bottom of the seventh inning, crying through that last batter and the sound the ball made when it hit her. I walked in the winning run. The memory hits me like a physical blow, and I have to fight the urge to curl into a ball right here at the table.
Agitation gnaws at me. It’s like I’m back in Oklahoma, shattered, alone, confused. Tears sting my eyes and the room begins to feel smaller and smaller.
Like, seriously, who designed this space? A claustrophobic hamster?
I push through it though, as sweat beads at my temples, and I know without even seeing myself in a mirror, my cheeks are bright red. I probably look like I ran a marathon in a sauna.
Inez nods. “Well, some say something happened in your personal life that week. Can you elaborate on that?”