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Her lips flatten and though I know she gets it, she doesn’t understand how controlled I am by this. “Are you coming back inside?”
“Yeah.” I nod, my breathing slowing slightly. “In a minute.” Or maybe never. Never sounds good right about now.
“Okay, well,” she pauses and hugs me once more. I stare at the media center, dreading seeing Inez’s face again. Like, what do you even say after running out during an interview? ‘Sorry, had an emotional breakdown about your maybe-boyfriend, shall we continue?’ “I love you.”
I smile but don’t say anything. My throat’s tight with unease and I’m not sure I can say anything, or should say any more. I need to get my shit together and back inside that damn building. I need to harness that uncontrollable urge to break down. This right here was the reason I failed in the World Series. I can't, won’t let it happen again.
I breathe in, and out once more. Like those meditation apps are always telling you to do, except I’m pretty sure they didn’t plan for this level of emotional chaos.
My phone vibrates once in my back pocket and I think it’s probably Coach Drew telling me to get my ass back inside.
I pull it out of my pocket to see Jaxon’s name on the screen. My heart does this weird stop-start thing that can't be healthy.
Jaxon
Good luck today!
You’re starting in the circle!!
Go get 'em girl??
All right, so he looked it up on the website to see I’m starting. And he texted me at the exact moment I needed it. Relief floods through me and that feeling, the warmth, the calmness that he texted me when I needed reassurance is both ecstatic and overwhelming at the same time.
I can’t allow myself to get too excited. I hate that my heart is tethered to the one person who keeps me hanging on, even when I know I need to let go. It’s like being on an emotional yo-yo, and he’s the one holding the string.
Every time my phone buzzes, I drop what I’m doing. It’s like I’m on deck, waiting for my turn, holding my breath for his call.
It feels a lot like a sacrifice fly. I let my plans hang in the air, knowing he might not even notice. I make it easy for him to win, to feel wanted, while I stay behind, tagged out and hoping maybe this time, he’ll see what I’m giving up for him. Or maybe I’m the out so he can score?
CHAPTER 8
EARNED RUN
JAXON
A run that scores without the help of a defensive error.
See that guy on the bench? The one who looks like he lost a fight with the infield dirt, shoulders slumped like he’s carrying the weight of every missed throw this season? Yeah, that’s me. Jaxon Ryan, benched and questioning every life choice that got me here.
The Texas sun is brutal, turning the dugout into something between a sauna and Satan’s left nut. Sweat trickles down my neck, and the metal bench is burning through my jersey. The air is thick with that classic baseball cocktail: fresh-cut grass, leather, pine tar, and about fifteen flavors of athletic tape melting in the heat.
Everyone has an off game, but when you’re playing Division 1 ball with two freshmen catchers breathing down your neck, and a senior who’d sell his soul for your spot, a bad game hits different. The stakes are higher than the pop flies our outfielders have been dropping in warm-ups.
You know that saying about playing for the love of the game? It’s real. The older you get, the more obvious it gets. Someguys might play for scholarships, draft prospects, or their dad’s unfinished dreams—but it all started the same way: some kid picked up a ball or a bat and fell head over cleats in love with the feeling.
The stadium speakers are blasting music so loud it’s thumping through my chest, and I’m trying not to think about Camdyn. I’m failing at both staying focused and not thinking about her.
I love this game for its contradictions. It’s slow—until it isn’t. It’s a team sport built on one-on-one battles. And right now, watching Jameson on the mound—our ace, currently attempting what I think is supposed to be a dance move between pitches—I’m reminded it’s both the most serious and ridiculous sport ever invented.
Try standing in the box with some dude throwing a hundred miles an hour at you. You’ve got about a third of a second to decide if you should swing. Oh, and don’t forget to check if it’s a fastball, slider, curve, or that weird thing Jameson throws that we just call a changeup, even though nobody knows what it actually is. Some days you’re Barry Bonds. Other days, you’re that kid in Little League who closes his eyes and hopes for the best.
Coach Allen drops onto the bench beside me, and I can tell by his face he’s not happy. And even though I don’t want to hear his take on why I missed a throw, it’s still better than his views on dating during college ball.
The stadium PA starts blasting “All the Single Ladies,” and I swear the baseball gods are just screwing with me now.
“Your head’s not in it,” Coach says, as if my three-for-nine showing and those two missed throws weren’t proof enough.
I nod, watching a paper cup tumble across the warning track like a baseball-themed tumbleweed. The truth is, my head’sabout forty miles away, probably in bed wishing Camdyn was riding my dick. But whatever. We all have dreams.