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But right before it reached me, everything changed. It dropped out from under me, fast and sharp. That’s how the end felt. One minute I thought we were solid, and the next, the ground just gave way. Maybe I should’ve seen it coming, but who really expects the pitch to break like that?
Now I keep replaying it in my head, wondering if I could’ve adjusted, if I missed some sign. But love, like baseball, isn’t always predictable. Sometimes the thing you’re counting on moves at the last second, and all you can do is watch yourself swing and miss.
CHAPTER 3
INTENTIONAL WALK
CAMDYN
Occurs when the defending team elects to walk a batter on purpose, putting them on first base instead of letting them try to hit.
Iwake up to the blaring of my phone alarm and the patter of rain hitting the dorm window. I move the curtain aside and stare at hundreds of raindrops on the glass and a blanket of gray beyond. It rains in Seattle a lot, but not as much as people think. Lately, the weather matches my mood perfectly—gloomy as fuck.
I roll over, unplug my phone, and stare at the screen flashing my alarm. I hate mornings. I was one of those kids you had to nag a million times to get out of bed, and even then, I wouldn’t move until someone dragged me.
I want to press snooze, but my dumb ass signed up for a 9:00 a.m. class. I can’t fail it—not when my softball scholarship depends on my GPA.
As I slide the lock screen open, I notice two things: I have ten minutes to get ready and I have zero notifications. Well, unlessyou count the UW alert about some dude with a machete on the loose. Totally normal around here.
The area around the University of Washington is... interesting. Between the Ave’s sketchy corners and tent cities that pop up faster than mushrooms after rain, we get these alerts almost every day. At least it’s rarely the students causing trouble.
My next thought? Jaxon and Inez. Of course my brain goes there. It’s like picking at a scab—you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help yourself.
I bet she woke up to a good morning text from him. The thought makes my stomach twist. I used to get those texts. “Morning beautiful” with that stupid heart emoji he always used. Now Inez probably gets them, and I get campus safety alerts about machete guy. Cool.
For so long I was afraid of Jaxon being with someone else because I thought the only thing keeping him holding on to me—his love—would fade if he moved on. Turns out I was right. Now I get to watch him fall for someone else from the front row, and it fucking sucks.
I don’t have time to wallow in Jaxon-induced misery. I have to be in the training center by 6:00 a.m. for lifting and our morning run. Welcome to the glamorous life of a D1 athlete—specifically, a softball pitcher. Between workouts, practices, and three extra weekly sessions for pitching, strength, and mental prep, I barely have time to breathe, let alone obsess over my ex.
Yet somehow, I still manage both.
Yawning, I peel myself from bed, drag my sorry ass into the shower, and head into the Seattle drizzle toward the training center. Campus is weirdly beautiful this early, all misty and quiet. The cherry trees along the Quad are starting to bloom, pink petals falling like snow when the wind blows. It would be romantic if I weren’t so busy being bitter.
For softball players, Division 1 seasons start the first day of fall quarter per NCAA rules. Usually September 1, you’re allowed to practice as a team. From there, it’s fall scrimmages against other D1 schools, but ground travel only.
Once February rolls around, the season starts with a few tournaments that don’t count against the Pac-12 playoffs but get things rolling. Remember the morning I found out about Jaxon and Inez? Yeah, that was right after we got back from Mexico, then hit the Clearwater Invitational in Florida. Nothing like hearing your ex is moving on while you’re stuck on a team bus for twelve hours.
When it’s not game day or travel, my typical day is a morning workout, breakfast, classes, practice or specialty training, lunch, study hall, maybe another practice, dinner, and finally, “me time.” Lately, though, “me time” just means stalking Inez’s Instagram and hating myself for it.
I’d tell you all about my workouts, but honestly, they’re boring. Just know, I hate running. I freaking hate it. Lately, I’ve been doing extra laps, trying to tire myself out so I don’t lie awake at night wondering if Jaxon’s thinking about her.
After my workout,I swing by the athletes’ dining hall. It’s this fancy setup—smoothie bar, build-your-own açaí bowls, pastries from local bakeries, and a protein-packed menu from sports nutritionists.
Some athletes are on custom plans and might be forced to eat more or less. I’m supposed to watch my macros, but lately I’ve been stress-eating muffins like they’re going extinct. Sue me.
The dining hall is empty except for a handful of baseball, soccer, and softball players. I’ve run into Jaxon here a few times, but his first class isn’t until ten, so he has more time in the mornings. He’s not a morning person anyway, which explains why he didn’t take a 9:00 a.m. class, unlike my brilliant self.
Honestly? I kind of miss those awkward run-ins. Even if we barely spoke, at least I got to see him. Now he probably gets breakfast with Inez at some hipster coffee shop on the Ave, sharing avocado toast and talking about whatever journalism majors talk about.
Who eats avocado toast anyway? It looks like vomit.
God, I need to stop.
I grab a protein bar, banana, and a premade shake for after class. And then I stand in line for Starbucks, because I can’t skip coffee—especially not when I’m this deep in my feelings.
Rain comes down in heavy mist as I rush toward class, coffee in hand. With a half-eaten protein bar in my mouth and my books clutched to my chest, I struggle not to drop anything as I dodge people in the quad. The rain clings to my black hoodie, leaving it covered in what looks like lint. I try to brush it off, but that just makes it worse.
You might be thinking, girl, use an umbrella. Okay, well, nobody in Washington uses an umbrella. I’m sorry, but you’re fucking weird if you do. No offense. That’s how we know you’re not from here. If you’re carrying an umbrella, you’re not a Washington native, and we’re judging you. Inez carries one of those clear bubble umbrellas, which should tell you she’s not from here. Not that I’ve noticed. Or care.