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“What now? Are you just gonna pick it apart or actually give me feedback?”
She’s pissed and I’m making it worse by the second. Maybe that’s better. Maybe if she’s mad at me, this will be easier. Maybe she’ll stop looking at me with those goddamn eager eyes that make me feel like a fraud.
“I’m not trying to pick it apart, but if you’re writing about softball, you gotta get the terminology right. Did you do any research?”
“Yes?”
She’s obviously offended and I know I should shut the fuck up, but I don’t. I point to the paper. “There’s no mound. It’s called a circle.”
Inez turns, looking at me like I’ve lost it. “Oh my God. Does it matter?” She smacks my shoulder. “Just read it.”
“All right, chill. I’m reading.” I keep going. “But it matters to them and everyone who loves the sport, so I’d fix it.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I read her first paragraph.
The arm that led the Huskies to their first college world series appearance in fifteen years. Does this lefty strong arm have what it takes to finish the job this year?
“Wait.” I look at Inez suspiciously, my heart suddenly hammering. “Is this about Cam?”
“Camdyn O’Hara?” She nods, like this shouldn’t be a problem, but if I was even half awake, I’d pick up on her expression. She knows about Camdyn and me. It’s written all over her damn face. “Yeah.”
But I’m not picking up on anything except the pounding in my chest, rage and protectiveness mixing with something else—fear. Fear of someone else telling Camdyn’s story wrong, of defining her by her worst moment. Fear of what this means about Inez writing about her, about whether this is revenge for my ghosting, about whether I’ve managed to hurt both of them at once.
“You interviewed her?” Camdyn hasn’t said a word to me about Inez. Not a damn thing. My throat feels tight, thinking about Cam sitting across from Inez, neither of them knowing the full story. “When?”
“Yes. Couple weeks ago. Before their games against Arizona.”
That was before the home series against WSU. Weeks ago. My chest is so tight I’m about to have an anxiety attack or a heart attack—pick your poison. I swallow hard.
“Oh.” I don’t know if Inez knows about me and Cam. I’ve been careful not to mention her, but even if I did, I’d never talk shit about Camdyn or spill about her career. The thought makes me sick.
She shifts, fingers picking at a loose thread on her sweater. “Is there something wrong?”
Fuck you, I think, but I don’t answer. My throat tightens as I keep reading, and it feels like someone’s injecting ice into my veins. Each word feels like a personal attack, not just on Camdyn, but on everything I know about her, everything we’ve shared.
If you’ve spent any time near Husky Stadium in the spring, one name keeps coming up. Camdyn O’Hara. Left-handed sophomore pitcher who led the Huskies to their first World Series appearance in over a decade as a freshman starter.
The bigger question: Can O'Hara close the deal this year?
Last year they were one game from the College World Series when O’Hara fell apart in the closing innings after allowing zero hits in the previous six. So what led to the breakdown captured by millions?
My heart’s about to beat out of my chest as the paper shakes in my hand. I remember that day. Watching the game on ESPN as Camdyn’s world crashed, knowing I was part of the reason. Because you and I both know what happened days before that game. “Why are you writing about her?”
“I don’t know. I interviewed her and she seemed like the most interesting player.” Inez shrugs, cheeks still pink, and I can tell by the way she’s fidgeting with her phone that she’s nervous. The way she always is, but now it pisses me off. Like she’s playing innocent when she knew exactly what she was doing. “She had that huge breakdown and Mr. Bennett said it’d be a good piece leading into the season opener.”
“For your paper, or Camdyn?” My pulse is pounding in my ears. The thought of Camdyn reading this, reliving that moment through someone else’s judgmental lens, makes me want to punch something. “Think about how she’s gonna feel reading this.”
She blinks slow behind those glasses, and I see something else—jealousy, maybe hurt, maybe both. “Well, sometimes we need to hear things we don’t want to.”
“Yeah, and she’s spent the last year reliving that day,” I snap. “Inez, you don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I stand and toss the paper on the desk, reaching for my bag. My handsshake and I hate that they’re shaking, hate that I care this much, hate that I can’t stop caring this much. “Don’t publish this.”
“I think I know a little from my research, Jaxon. I interviewed her and her team.” Inez’s voice takes on that academic tone she uses to sound professional, but it just makes her sound more clueless. “A lot of people think she cost them the series win. She fell apart.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
“Oh yeah?” I spin to face her. Usually, I’m good at holding my cool, but not when she’s blaming Camdyn for that game. Not when I remember Camdyn walking off the field, tears streaming, looking so goddamn small. “Did you look at the stats from that game?”
“Yes,” she mumbles, searching my face, probably seeing more than I want her to.