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The scattered UCLA crowd is getting louder, sensing their team is close to getting out of this jam. We’ve got runners on first and second, no outs. This is the spot you dream about.
I take a practice swing, feeling the weight of the bat, timing the pitcher. My heart’s racing, but not from nerves. This is what I live for. These moments. These games. The chance to be the guy.
The UCLA catcher sets up outside. Ollie swings, gets just enough of the slider.
The ball rockets straight back.
I see it coming—too late. There’s that split second, time slowing, where you know exactly what’s about to happen but can’t do a damn thing.
Ever take a foul ball to the face? It ain’t pretty.
The impact is explosive, instant. White-hot pain erupts across my face as the ball nails me square in the nose. My kneesbuckle. Suddenly I’m on the dirt, warm blood pouring between my fingers, mixing with sweat and turning my white gloves red.
“Shit!” Someone’s yelling—maybe Coach Allen, maybe the trainer, I don’t know. My ears are ringing too loud to tell.
The dirt beneath my knees is dark with blood. Breathing through my nose, something shifts in a way it definitely shouldn’t, and nausea rolls through me.
“Don’t move, don’t move.” The trainer’s there, gentle but firm, tilting my head back. “Let me see.”
The crowd goes quiet—the only sound is the palm fronds rustling in the night. Out the corner of my eye, I see Ollie at the plate, bat limp in his hands. Coach Allen appears, face tight with concern.
“It’s broken,” the trainer says quietly to Coach. “Pretty sure there’s a facial fracture, too. He needs a hospital.”
“Can’t.” I mumble, voice thick and nasal. “M’up next.”
Coach Allen’s face hardens. “Like hell you are. You’re done.”
“Coach—”
“This isn’t a discussion, Ryan. You’re bleeding all over home plate, and your nose is sideways.”
They help me up. Through watery eyes, I catch the scoreboard. Runners on first and second. No outs. Bottom of the eighth. Down by one.
And I’m walking away.
The frustration burns hotter than the pain.
“Keep pressure on it,” the trainer says as we head to the tunnel. “We’ll get you checked out and X-rayed.”
Stadium lights cast long shadows as we leave the field, the warm California night wrapping around us like a blanket. Behind us, the UCLA crowd starts that respectful applause they do when a player’s hurt. But all I can think about is how I don’t get to finish this game—and that I’m out, at least for this series. Maybe longer.
CHAPTER 17
SLOW ROLLER
CAMDYN
A weakly hit ground ball.
Idon’t know if you’re surprised or if you’re just rolling your eyes and saying, “I told you so,” but guess who hasn’t texted me back after I said good luck to him yesterday?
Yep. The bitchy little baseball player. It’s been over twenty-four hours. I have no idea what’s going on. Did I do something wrong? Is he pissed at me?
New rule for you: absolutely do not think he has actual feelings for you.
Brynn helpfully sums this up for me while we’re out at brunch celebrating Callie’s sister getting married. For context, Callie’s older sister, Paige, is kind of a big deal on campus—a senior, a total basketball badass, and already on her way to the WNBA. But first, she’s getting married to some basketball star who graduated last year and just got drafted into the NBA. They’re gonna have little pro baller babies.
“Girl, let me give you some advice about a situationship.”