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The home run in the fourth, opposite field bomb. Second one, bottom of the seventh. Fourteen strikeouts before they brought in their closer. Fourteen. That’s not good, that’s straight-up balling.
The bus engine rumbles to life, and someone starts playing country music from the back—probably Kingston, who thinks every bus ride needs a Luke Combs soundtrack.
My thumb hovers over the message icon next to her name.
But instead of typing, I close the app and let my phone go dark.
For now, I lean back in my seat, close my eyes, and picture her on the mound today. The way she probably had that look—the one that says she knows exactly what pitch is coming next, and exactly where it’s going. The way she probably blew that last strikeout pitch right past some poor Texas hitter who never had a chance.
Fourteen strikeouts. Two home runs.
Some people make extraordinary look easy.
I should know. I’m in love with one of them.
Too bad I can’t find the courage to tell her.
And I can’t blame my mistakes on anyone else. I can’t chalk this up to a bad bounce or a misplayed ball.
This mistake, it’s an earned run. No errors, no one else to blame. My words, my choices, my doubts—it’s on me. I own this loss. I earned it.
CHAPTER 9
BASE PATHS
JAXON
The areas between the bases are marked out with dirt. The runner can’t run outside these marks to avoid a tag.
Sunlight pours over Husky Stadium, turning the turf almost blinding green and casting sharp shadows beneath the grandstands. The outfield fence, decked in purple and gold, practically vibrates in the glare. Players’ cleats crunch on the warning track, and the smell of freshly cut grass mixes with distant notes of grilled onions from the concession stands. The stands are empty now, but the distant bark of a vendor echo across the field, promising the place will be buzzing by first pitch.
Once the season kicks off, it feels like I’m living out of my baseball bag more than my dorm. One week I’m in Austin, sweating through my jersey; the next I’m back in Washington, where the spring air still has that winter bite. Then it’s down to UCLA, where the palm trees make me forget what month it is. And finally, back home for a Friday night showdown against our biggest cross-state rivals, the Washington State Cougars. If you’ve ever played ball in Washington, you know these east-westmatchups hit different. The rivalry cuts deeper than baseball—like the whole state draws a line right down the Cascade Mountains.
Tonight’s game has my blood humming, and not just because of baseball. Camdyn’s supposed to be back from Texas this morning, and my stomach does this weird flip every time I think about seeing her. I won’t admit this to anyone, but I fucking miss her. Three weeks of texts and late-night FaceTimes that, well, got steamy fast. But neither of us wants to talk about what’s really building between us—we’re ducking that pitch like it’s wild and we’re not wearing helmets.
The weirdest part? I’m actually nervous about seeing her.
Beside me, Jameson’s doing his usual pregame weather obsession, squinting at imaginary clouds. “It better not fucking rain.”
I glance up at the perfectly blue sky. “It’s not gonna rain. Chill.”
Jameson’s got more riding on tonight than just a W. Their ace pitcher apparently talked shit during summer ball, and now it’s turned into this whole thing. Social media’s calling it the Battle of the Best, which sounds like something ESPN made up on a slow news day, but I get it. Both of them throw heat in the upper 90s, both projected first-round picks. The dugout buzzes, electric as the air before a thunderstorm.
“Yo?” August, our freshman third baseman who still doesn’t get personal space, shoves his phone in my face. “Ya see this?”
It’s a TikTok from the softball team’s bus ride. I pretend I’m not searching for Camdyn, but who am I kidding? She’s not there, of course. While other players are doing coordinated dances and mugging for the camera, Camdyn’s probably in the back with her headphones on, studying game film. That’s her thing—let her arm do the talking while everyone else chases likes. The only face-on pics of her are the official team shots,and even then she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. It’s actually refreshing. In a world where everyone’s trying to be an influencer, she’s just trying to influence the strike zone.
I push the phone away. “Lock in, man.”
He gets the message, tucks his phone before I have to throw it in the equipment bag. We’ve got a strict no-phone policy in the dugout, but freshmen test it like it’s an Olympic sport. They learn quick, especially after Coach Allen starts his phone collection hobby. Nothing teaches discipline like watching your iPhone become a hostage for a week.
Morning BP’s winding down, and I’m watching Lou, our new hitting coach, give Kingston the death stare. Kingston’s been using Ollie’s head for target practice with shagged balls—because apparently being twenty doesn’t mean you’ve outgrown being twelve. No one but Jameson is buying the Weather Channel’s fifteen percent chance of rain.
Coach Lou’s an interesting character study. The man speaks fluent eyebrow-raise, and his disapproving head shake is legendary. But there’s something simmering under that quiet surface. He reminds me of my dad’s friend Owen—always jokes and smiles until someone crosses a line, then suddenly it’s full Incredible Hulk. I once watched Owen blast my dad with a fire hose during a barbecue. Those things hit harder than a fastball to the ribs.
I nudge Jameson, who’s still on his amateur meteorologist grind, as I strap on my batting gloves. “Go piss him off.”
Jameson peers up from under his hat. “Why?”