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Late spring, after a high school game, he handed me his first home run ball and whispered, “Something special for someone special.” He kissed me and said, “I love you.”
I can still feel how my heart pounded. So innocent. So real, when love didn’t come with expectations and hidden truths. I loved him, so consumed in what I felt for him, nothing else mattered. Everything was simpler then. Baseball was just a game, love was just love, and the future was bright and endless.
Smiling, I watch him take the first pitch. Strike, but high in the zone—he leaves it. Next is a knuckleball in the dirt, then a foul tip. He barrels up the fourth pitch—line drive to left, splits the gap, classic Jaxon. He’s left at third as the inning ends with two pop-ups and a lineout.
The Cougs get on the board first after a string of errors—one by King at short, two more by third base. The kind of inning that makes pitchers want to throw gloves.
Jameson’s pissed, tossing his glove at the ump after the inning for inspection and you don’t have to read his lips to know he’s saying some not-so-nice things. I get it. Nothing worse than throwing perfect pitches and watching your defense fall apart.
“Uh oh,” Callie says, watching Jameson lay into his coach. “He looks pissed.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “It sucks when you get ground balls and the defense can’t handle it.”
“Yikes,” she says, biting off a piece of Red Rope. She’s gone through more candy than a Halloween trick-or-treater.
Jaxon gets a hit in the second and scores, tying it 2-2. He grounds out his second at-bat, flies out in the fifth, then homersin the seventh giving them an 8-6 lead. Every time he rounds first, I hold my breath, watching for that subtle head tilt toward our section. Sometimes it comes, sometimes not. It’s like trying to predict a knuckleball—impossible, and you look stupid for trying.
They end up going into innings. WSU ties it in the ninth and the tension in the stadium is thick enough to choke on.
“Oh my gosh!” Callie’s jumping up and down. “I’m so nervous.”
“I know, right?” My hands are actually shaking. You’d think I was playing, not watching.
Top of the tenth, WSU homers to right off Jameson’s hanging curve, but that’s all they get.
My nerves are shot. “This is literally insane,” Callie says, clinging to my arm as we scream for the Dawgs. Her nails dig into my skin but I barely notice.
Hands over my face, I glance at the scoreboard. Cougars up by one. We have to score to tie or win.
Jaxon comes up, bases loaded, two outs, bottom of the tenth. “I can’t watch.” But I do. He walks up like he owns the place. That’s what I love—if he’s nervous, you’d never know.
If it were me, I’d be pacing, adjusting my gloves seventeen times, muttering to myself like a lunatic.
Callie leans in over the roar of the crowd. “I can’t believe how calm he is!”
I laugh. “He’s always like that. Nothing fazes him on the field.”
It’s true. He keeps it all inside—Dad taught him early. Baseball is ninety percent mental, the rest is physical.
Jaxon doesn’t look at me, but the intensity on his face makes me flush. He looks so damn good under the lights, shadows making him look older, dangerous. Everyone’s on their feet. It’s one of those moments that feels unreal. But it’s happening.
I glance at Inez. She’s screaming, cheering, phone up, probably recording him. Will she text him later? Or is this for some article about the star catcher? Doubtful. Either way, I hate that she gets to have this memory on her phone. Stupid, because I have six years of memories of him on mine. But this feels different.
I think about filming him myself, but fuck it, I want to actually live the moment. Some things shouldn’t be on a screen.
Jaxon works a 3-2 count. Fouls off three pitches—one down the third-base line, one that nearly kills the ump, one just foul of right. He steps out and takes a breath. I know he doesn’t want a walk. He wants that walk-off. Under the lights, home field, bases loaded—every kid’s dream.
The pitcher winds up. I can’t tell you what he throws, but Jaxon barrels it up, sends it soaring to center. The crack of the bat echoes. Jaxon knows, we all know. It’s gone before it lands—a white dot swallowed by the black sky, gone into the roaring crowd.
Jaxon flips his bat up with practiced ease and points to the dugout.
Grand slam. Walk-off. Game over.
The stadium goes fucking ballistic. The student section is a jumping mass of gold and purple, fight song blasting, chaos everywhere.
And as he’s rounding second, my eyes go to Inez. She’s filming, jumping, smiling like she’s just seen God. And maybe she has, because that was baseball magic, but jealousy twists in my gut. She’ll text him, probably. But I got to live it. I got to wear his hoodie while it happened.
Callie grabs my arm, screaming. “Did you see that?”