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My phone buzzes. For a second, my heart jumps, but it’s just the team chat. King sent another dumb meme.
I try not to think about Camdyn. Usually, I manage during the day, or until someone says her name. It’s not that she doesn’t cross my mind—she does, all the time. I’m just busy enough to distract myself.
Until I can’t.
Until thinking about her, and how much I’m hurting her, sits in my stomach like a stone. This thing between us, this closeness, my need for her—it’s something I might never figure out.
Lying there, phone above my face, I stare at our thread. Mookie keeps attacking my hand every time I lower it. He’s obsessed with fingers—or anything that moves, honestly, but fingers are his favorite chew toys. It’s annoying as hell and hurts. His teeth are tiny razors.
Why can’t I give her what she wants? Is there some deep-rooted childhood trauma? I spent my early years running wild in a hotel, best friends with an alcoholic doorman named Tom whotaught me way more about girls than a ten-year-old needed to know. Once I hit middle school, I basically lived at the ball field.
But my family was loving. My childhood was happy.
The only time life wasn’t perfect, I was ten. My dad almost died in a commercial fire. He’s a firefighter, so that’s always a risk, but this was different. Three months in the hospital for burns, broken bones, smoke inhalation. He still chose to go back. He taught me you can love something so much, even if it could kill you. Even if everyone tells you to stop, you can’t.
Mookie pounces on my chest, claws digging in. He’s relentless—just like I know Camdyn’s thoughts about us probably are. I know she’s wondering what we are, where this is going. The way my heart jumps every time I see her name on my screen.
But I stay indecisive, unable to give her what she wants, and refusing to let go. I don’t know if it’s an insecurity or what. I’m not unloved. I’m not tormented by demons. I’m just... confused. Torn between the diamond and the girl who deserves all of me, not half.
You ever hear that saying? Baseball is half talent, mostly mental. It’s probably the only sport where failing seventy percent of the time makes you a legend.
Think about it. Ted Williams, Babe Ruth, Willie Mays—legends, but they walked back to the dugout disappointed way more often than they rounded the bases. A .300 average means you missed seven out of ten.
That’s what makes baseball beautiful. It’s a nine-inning lesson in resilience, not just a game. The thing is, Camdyn isn’t a game. She’s real, and every time I pull back when she wants more, I’m not just striking out—I’m breaking her heart.
Some days it feels like we’re both standing at the plate, watching strike three sail by. In baseball, you get another at-bat. With her, I might not.
Here’s what the game’s taught me lately: tomorrow’s another game. Another shot. The greats don’t quit after a strikeout. They study what went wrong, adjust, and step back in. Every pitch is a new chance, every at-bat a fresh start.
But I can’t seem to step all the way in when it comes to us.
Maybe that’s why I love baseball so much. Deep down, I know what it’s like to fail. Swing and miss. Watch hope go foul. But I also know what it’s like when everything connects and all the strikeouts are worth it.
So I keep stepping up to the plate. Even if, sometimes, I wonder if I’m in the wrong game.
“I swear to God,if I’m benched because you made me late, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” I tell Jameson as we sprint for the bus. The early morning Seattle fog clings to everything, the world thick and gray, like we’re running through soup. I hate being late. Especially for the team bus—Coach Allen would literally murder us, then mount our heads above the dugout as a warning.
“Chill, man.” Jameson wheezes next to me. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Yeah, well, this is your fault.”
He’s gasping, barely keeping pace. “How?”
“You brought the damn cat to our dorm, and now he thinks turning the place into his personal escape room is a game. This is the fourth time I’ve chased his little ass down the hall this week!”
Jameson chuckles between breaths. “Come on, you gotta admit, watching you army-crawl under the vending machine was pretty fucking funny. I think Mookie thinks he’s winning.”
“Fuck you,” I pant, realizing I really need more cardio if I get winded crossing campus.
“You’re not a morning person, are you?”
I don’t answer because suddenly Inez materializes through the fog like some badly-dressed ghost. Again. She’s rocking at least three different plaids, none of them matching, her thick black glasses sitting crooked.
Jameson snorts and jogs ahead. “Don’t be late, lover boy.”
“I hope you trip,” I call after him, then stop in front of Inez because my mom raised me right, even if this is the third “random” run-in this week. “What’s up?” I manage, trying not to sound annoyed. The guys from the bus start catcalling and making kissy noises. Real mature.
She frowns at the bus, then at me. “Why are they doing that?”