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It doesn’t. When the water eventually turns cold—because three floors of college athletes never leaves any hot water—and my tears haven’t stopped, my anxiety gets heavier. It’s as though my chest is caving in and I’m suffocating, drowning in everything I can no longer control. Like being caught in a pickle between bases. I shouldn’t focus on this, but I keep thinking about Jaxon and Inez together tonight. Him texting her good morning and goodnight. Game day selfies. “How was your day?” texts he used to send me. Everything I used to have and don’t anymore.
The bathroom mirror fogs up, hiding my reflection but not the memories.
If you’re wondering why I’m still so upset after almost a year, it’s because I’m a girl and delusional. That’s why. Also, it was only a week after our breakup when Jaxon and I started sleeping together again. No strings attached. No feelings. Just two college athletes who trusted each other, having casual sex. And we had a lot of it, that’s for sure. So yeah, I got my hopes up. Feelings got involved, and it got messy.
Until last week.
Until he hit me with, “I’m talking to someone.”
We talked, and knew eventually one of us might date someone else, but I never believed he actually would. Like when Coach tells you there’s a chance you might not start—you hear the words but don’t really process them.
Through the frosted glass of our shower door, I stare at the mirror and a rush hits me I’m not prepared for. Pain radiates through my body and I collapse onto the shower floor, cryinginto my palms. The hot water pounds against my back. Why can’t I make it stop? Why can’t I stop loving him?
I pray it doesn’t hurt this bad forever. I pray I can stop loving him, because if I can stop the pain, it’ll go away, right? Like an ice bath after a doubleheader—temporary agony for eventual relief.
I rest my chin on my knees and stare at the water beading on the steamy walls. It looks like my tears, and I cry harder knowing I can’t make this pain go away.
“Cam?” Callie asks, knocking on the door. I hear it creak open. "Are you okay? You’ve been in here a long time."
I can’t stop crying long enough to answer. The shower head sputters, probably running out of hot water like my ability to keep it together.
“Okay.” She peeks inside the shower at me on the floor, worry etched on her face. “I’m not leaving until I know you’re not drowning yourself in here.”
“I’m not,” I manage to say through shivers. The water’s turning cool, refreshing against my hot skin but now I’m shaking.
She reaches in and turns the water off. “You’re going to die of hypothermia.” The squeak of the faucet is painfully familiar—how many times had I hidden in here after a bad game?
I don’t say anything. I still can’t.
Callie helps me out of the shower and wraps a towel around me. “You’re like an ice cube.”
This isn’t the first time she’s had to help me out of the tub. That night after I left Jaxon’s dorm room, it was Callie and Brynn who got me through the next week. If it hadn’t been for them, I would’ve given up on everything. They took turns sitting with me, making sure I didn’t completely lose my control—in softball and in life.
Rubbing my arms, Callie takes another towel and wipes my tears. Through the wall, we can hear our neighbors blasting “All Too Well (Taylor’s Version)”—because apparently the universe wants me to suffer. “Don’t let him control you anymore.”
I wish it was that simple. Like when Coach says “just throw strikes” as if I’m not trying to do exactly that.
“I can’t stop holding onto him. I love him, Callie.” I sob. “And I don’t want to. I don’t want to keep loving him but I can’t stop. I don’t know how to not love him.” My voice cracks like a bat on a cold day.
“I know, babes. I know,” Callie soothes, rubbing my back like she does before big games when the anxiety threatens to overwhelm me.
When I first met Jaxon, I didn’t think I’d fall for him. He had longer hair than most boys at school, always tucked under a baseball cap, and he was completely different from anyone I’d liked before. Mysterious, shy at times, but with a quiet confidence you only get from knowing who you are on a field.
We got closer over the summer between seventh and eighth grade, during endless tournament weekends. Eventually, we started dating. I didn’t love him yet. Love hit freshman year when he made the varsity baseball team and I saw him hit a home run in their opening game.
I don’t know what the hell happened, or why it did, but as he rounded second and our eyes met, I saw a boy—green eyes boring into mine, flushed cheeks, bright-as-fuck smile. His jersey was already dirty from a head-first slide earlier. He winked at me and I fell right then and there. From that day on, Jaxon Evan Ryan had my heart, and I haven’t stopped loving him since.
Even when he hurts me.
Even when I hate him.
Even when he’s probably sharing gummy worms with an awkward, book-loving journalism major right now.
I still love him despite it all.
The sound of drunk girls singing “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” filters through our dorm. At least someone’s having a good Valentine’s Day.
Honestly, it feels like I’m standing at the plate, just waiting for something I can handle. I thought I understood where things were going with us. I saw the pitch coming—steady, almost familiar—and for a second, I believed I could trust it. I believed in us.