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“Next inning, you’re in.”
I nod and set the candy down. Ollie comes in as the inning ends and kicks my leg. “Gimme my candy, fatty.”
As I strap on my gear, Coach waves me over. “Their lineup’s turning over. Number two hitter’s been sitting dead red all night. Seven hitter can’t touch the outside corner.”
I nod, already running through the lineup. The guy’s a fastball hunter with warning track power and a habit of wiggling his back elbow before he sits on a heater.
Jameson’s face lights up when he sees me heading out, like Christmas came early and Santa brought his favorite catcher back. “My bitch’s back.”
“Shut up and throw strikes,” I tell him.
I drop into my squat. I’m not trying to shut everything out. I’m letting it all in—the crowd noise, the smell of popcorn and beer, the way the lights cast everyone’s shadow in four directions.
Jameson looks for the sign. I put down one finger, touch my left thigh, sweep up toward my knee. Fastball, inside corner.
The batter steps in, does his routine: tap the plate, adjust the gloves, wiggle that back elbow. I’ve got his number now, and not the one on his jersey.
Jameson winds up, and I feel it—this pitch is gonna be perfect. Not because we’re forcing it, but because we’re finally letting it just be.
Kind of like life, when you think about it.
The pitch comes in, a four-seamer with enough bite to catch the inside corner. The batter’s back elbow twitches—told you. He swings like he’s trying to hit the ball back to last Tuesday.
But all he gets is air.
Strike one.
Game on.
Nine pitches. That’s all it takes to close out the game once I’m back behind the plate. Jameson finds his groove, painting corners like a baseball Picasso. We claw back those three runs in the eighth when Kingston finally remembers which end of the bat to hold, and squeeze out the win in the ninth when I hit a dinger to left.
We hold them to a three-pitch inning—three pop-ups to short and right.
Now we’re walking to the bus, cleats clicking against the concrete in that familiar post-game rhythm. The stadium’s emptying, but that electric feeling of a comeback win still hangs in the air.
“Bro,” Jameson says, adjusting his bag, “that block you made in the eighth? Straight dirty.”
I shrug, but yeah, it was sweet. The kind of play that makes SportsCenter—if anyone watched college baseball in Texas on a Friday night. “Oh, yeah.”
“Don’t downplay it, bitch. You were showing off ‘cause freshie can’t block shit.”
“Maybe a little.” I grin.
As we board, my phone feels heavy in my pocket. I’ve been fighting the urge to pull it out since the last out, knowing Camdyn’s game is probably over too.
My phone buzzes as I find a seat in the back with Jameson and King. Unfortunately, it’s just an Instagram notification, but my heart still does that stupid jump, hoping it’s Cam.
In my seat, I pull up the school website to check her game.
The bright screen lights up my face as I scroll to today’s game. University of Washington vs. Texas. The box score loads, and?—
Holy shit.
I sit up straighter, nearly dropping my phone. I read it twice.
Camdyn O’Hara: 3-4, 2 HR, 6 RBI
P: 6.2 IP, 14 K, 1 ER