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“Come on, everyone knows you two had something going.” Nash tosses his batting gloves in a locker. “Or still have something going? You’re not exactly subtle.”
That surprises me. I thought I was.
Across the room, Jameson catches my eye—his look says he knows exactly what’s going on. He’s the only one who does—how Camdyn and I have been dancing around each other for months, sneaking moments between games, pretending we’re just friends. He also knows why I can’t give her more, even though it’s killing me.
Nash chucks a Gatorade lid at me. “She single?”
“Not exactly,” I manage, voice tight.
Nash stares, smirk still on his lips. “Ah, I see.”
“Mhm.”
The rest of the team is getting ready for warm-ups, but all I can focus on is the churn in my gut. Jealousy and anger gnaw at me. Jealousy, because I hate how other guys look at her. Anger, because I know it’s my fault. I’m the one keeping us in this limbo. If I could just give her what she wants—what we both want—none of this would be happening.
But as I watch Nash’s eyes drift back to that poster for the hundredth time, I know something’s gotta give. Soon. We could actually be together. Really together. Not this half-in, half-out bullshit where I use baseball as my excuse.
Nash sighs, slapping my shoulder. “Well, if things change, lemme know. I wouldn’t mind taking a swing at that.”
My hand tightens around my water bottle until the plastic squeaks. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I want to deck him. Have I mentioned I don’t like Nash? I don’t. He’s a second baseman and an infield garden gnome. I’ve seen traffic cones with better footwork.
Jameson catches my eye again, subtle head shake. He knows I’m close to snapping—one smart-ass comment away from doing something stupid that could screw up the game, or my starting spot, or both.
“Ryan.” Coach Allen’s voice cuts through. He’s at the locker room door, arms crossed. “Come with me. Now.”
Thank god. One more second of Nash’s mouth, and I might’ve shown him exactly why Camdyn and I are so “complicated.”
I follow Coach down the hall, past trophy cases packed with USC conference championships and player awards. The familiar smell of leather and pine tar hits as I drop into a chair across from his big oak desk.
He doesn’t sit. Just leans on the desk, giving me that look that’s made more freshmen squirm than a pop quiz. “You went 1-for-4 yesterday. Missed a throw down. That’s not you.”
“Just an off day.”
“Bullshit.” He never raises his voice, which somehow makes it worse. “Your head’s not in it. Hasn’t been for weeks.”
I start to protest, but he holds up a hand.
“Listen, Jax. You’re my three-hole hitter and the best damn catcher in the conference. But postseason’s three weeks out, and I need the Jaxon Ryan who hit .342 last year. The one who ran our defense and called pitches like a pro.” He lets that settle. “Whatever’s going on—fix it. The team needs you locked in.”
My throat feels tight. “Yes, sir.”
“I mean it. You’ve got pro scouts at every game. Don’t let... distractions screw up what you’ve worked for.”
The way he says ‘distractions’ makes it obvious he knows exactly what—or who—is on my mind. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. Either way, he’s right. I’ve worked too hard to let my average tank because I can’t get my shit together.
Heading back to the locker room, my phone buzzes.
It’s Camdyn.
Good luck!!
Two simple words, and everything’s complicated again.
Bottomof the eighth at Jackie Robinson Stadium. We’re down one to UCLA, California sunset painting the sky orange and purple behind the palms. Even as night creeps in, the air stays thick and warm—nothing like cool Seattle evenings.
I adjust my batting gloves in the on-deck circle, watching their reliever work Ollie with that filthy slider. I catch myself thinking about what Camdyn would throw here. Probably a changeup, low, in the dirt. Maybe a rise ball. It’s an 0-2 count; the next pitch should be unhittable, something to get the batter chasing. Nothing Ollie can do damage with.