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I did. I saw everything. The way he kept his hands back, the perfect rotation of his hips, the slight lift in his front shoulder that told me he knew it was gone the moment he madecontact. Little things you notice when you’ve spent countless years watching someone play, hours in batting cages with them, analyzing swings and comparing notes.
I look at the student section before I can stop myself. Inez is still filming, jumping with Brynn. Something in me twists. She got the video, but I got the moment.
“Holy shit!” Callie clutches my arm. “I can’t believe that just happened!”
“I know!” I laugh, shaking her off. “Chill, girl.”
Jaxon crosses home, and before the team mobs him, his eyes find mine in the crowd. I don’t know how, but he always knows where to look. He smiles, kisses the cross around his neck—the twin to mine—and gives me a subtle nod. Private, just us, even in the chaos. The intensity makes my breath catch.
“Aww!” Callie squeezes my hand. “It’s like he hit that for you!”
He didn’t, but that look? Hot as fuck.
The team storms the field, Gatorade showers Jaxon’s head, orange catching the lights. His uniform’s drenched, hair plastered, grin wide. The crowd goes wild as the team hoists him up, chants of “JAX-ON! JAX-ON!” rolling across the stadium.
Two more games in this series, but tonight doesn’t matter. They beat their rivals under Friday night lights, bottom of the tenth, walk-off grand slam—the stuff of college baseball legend.
The celebration spills to the dugout and Jaxon’s family heads our way. Everyone gravitates to our seats, players still celebrating below. Emerson gets to us first, vibrating with excitement. His parents follow, his dad shaking his head, still in disbelief.
Through the chaos, I catch another glimpse of Jaxon. Surrounded by teammates, being mobbed, but he finds my eyes again. This time, his smile is softer. Even though I know Inezis somewhere watching, even with thousands around us, it feels like it’s just us.
“You know, it’s gonna be hours before we see him,” Jaxon’s dad says, hands in his old UW hoodie’s pockets. “You pretty girls wanna go to dinner with me?”
Callie grins, as though Mr. C only invited her. “I will!”
Of course she does. She’s been crushing on him since freshman year and has zero chill about it.
She’s already arm-in-arm with him, practically skipping. So much for being subtle.
I catch up as we weave through the crowd, stadium lights casting long shadows. “Why are you flirting with Mr. C?” I hiss.
“I don’t know. I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
She shrugs, but she’s not fooling anyone. “Firefighters are hot, girl.”
I stare. “My dad’s a firefighter. Don’t make this weird.”
Her smile turns innocent as we’re jostled by the crowd. “Oh, I know.” She fans herself dramatically. “Why do you think I love Thanksgiving at your house?”
“You’re awful.” I shake my head, laughing.
Mr. C glances back, catching Callie mid-fan, and shakes his head knowingly. He’s not blind—he’s dealt with this since Em was in middle school. All her friends have crushed on Caleb Ryan. Rite of passage, apparently.
“Does he think I’m weird?” Callie whispers, panicked.
“Yes.” Someone bumps me from behind—nobody walks straight after a game—and I slam into Emerson, who dominoes into her mom. Smooth. “Sorry!” I call, but they wave it off, used to our chaos.
“Are you serious?” Callie’s practically hyperventilating.
I roll my eyes. “Will you chill the fuck out? He doesn’t care. Man’s been a firefighter for twenty years—he’s seen it all. Thirsty housewives setting kitchens on fire, just for him.”
“That’s... actually not comforting,” Callie mutters, but at least she stops fanning herself.
The parking lot’s a mess of headlights and honking horns. The spring air’s cool, someone’s grilling by the tailgate, probably celebrating.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Jaxon, but I’m not about to die checking it in a parking lot.