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My wet clothes cling, mud drying on my leggings. I sneak glances at Jaxon. His white T-shirt is practically see-through, hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his jaw. I want to reach out and wipe it away.
Y’all, what the fuck am I doing? I keep asking and doing nothing, but how do I resist him? I need a flowchart. Seriously.
And I know I’ve said it before, but I won’t get hurt this time.
I won’t let my feelings mess me up, but I can’t deny I still love him, and pretending otherwise is pointless.
When we’re alone like this, I believe everything will work out. It’s fine we don’t have answers. I believe it when I’m with him, because of how good I feel.
Our footsteps echo off the brick buildings as we pass the library, windows dark except for security lights. Rain drums on the student center’s metal awning. Water streams down my face, but I barely notice. I’m too aware of Jaxon beside me, how his hand keeps brushing mine.
It’s between the innings when my mind wanders—what does it mean? I want this to work so much, I lose myself in the process. I let it happen, over and over, because right now, I’m his.
Outside my dorm, the security light throws harsh shadows across the wet concrete. Jaxon pulls me in by the waist, rain falling around us. “Ya leave for Arizona tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.”
He hugs me, then rests his forehead on mine. I’m not sure what to think. His eyes—mysterious, intense, full of secrets. I trace my thumb along his jaw, feel the stubble, knowing “I love you” is right there on my tongue.
I won’t say it.
I won’t admit that no matter how hard I try not to be Attachment Barbie, I am.
I wanted to be GI Jane about all this. Strong. Detached. Ready for any curveball. Instead, I’m standing here in the rain, mud-covered and completely gone for him, waiting on his signals.
Every time I tell myself this is the last inning, he throws another perfect game, and I’m right back behind home plate, ready to catch whatever he sends.
Attachment Barbie, you suck at this.
CHAPTER 16
COMEBACKER
JAXON
A ball hit back to the pitcher.
I’m lying in the dark of my dorm, staring at my phone—Camdyn’s name lit up on the screen. I can’t get the baseball field sex out of my head, or how fucking good I feel when I’m with her—especially compared to nights like this, alone.
Mookie headbutts my phone for the third time, trying to steal my pillow. I swear he’s doing it just to piss me off enough to give it back.
“Mookie,” I mutter, nudging him aside. He meows, as if I’m the one being annoying, then goes right back to gnawing on the corners of my phone case. “Bro, stop that.”
He doesn’t.
My thumb hovers over our message thread—the last text was six hours ago. Just a “good game!!” after she struck out twelve against ASU. After the field sex, Camdyn flew to Arizona. We faced Stanford at home and then we head to California tomorrow to play USC, but all I can think about is her and what she’s doing now.
Probably on the bus, buzzing from the win.
I want to text her. Ask what she’s doing. But I don’t. I can’t.
I click the phone off, then on. 11:42 p.m.
The urge to text is a real, physical ache. I want every detail about her game, including her third-inning bomb to center.
But I hesitate. I’m confusing her, and I know what she wants—commitment. She has me, no question. I love her. But I can’t give her what she deserves: a real relationship, not these stolen moments and mixed signals.
I roll onto my back, arm over my eyes. Mookie immediately relocates to my chest, curling up with his butt in my face. The ceiling fan spins lazy circles overhead, but sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see her smile, or think about the sex, and how badly I want more. I think about taking care of my hard dick, but I don’t.