Page 10

Callie sighs beside me, her hand on my shoulder. The gesture is gentler than I deserve. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Nathan asked me for her number this morning.”

I nod, but I don’t say any more. What am I going to say? Don’t give it to him?

The projector hums overhead, casting shadows across my notebook where I should be taking notes about market equilibrium, but instead, I’m gripping my pen so hard it might snap.

Professor Blaine’s marker squeaks as she draws another curved line on the board.

“Before we dig in, a quick reminder about your assignments.” She sets down her coffee, eyes sweeping the room to make sure everyone’s listening.

“Your business economics case study is due next week. You’ll pick a real-world company and analyze how external market forces have shifted its supply and demand equilibrium.

I want more than just a regurgitation of textbook theory—give me actual analysis.

What happened when those forces hit? What did the company do right?

What did they screw up? What would you have done differently? ”

She pauses to let it sink in. “This is not a group project. You’re responsible for your own research and your own argument.

A lazy summary gets you a lazy grade. I expect data, citations, and your own perspective.

Think critically, not just like a student, but like a future manager—or an athlete who has to make split-second decisions when everything changes. ”

A couple students groan quietly. I just stare at my laptop screen, trying to picture myself as anything other than a guy barely holding it together. Business economics feels about as far from my real life as it gets, but apparently, I have to fake it for another week.

“Questions?” Professor Blaine asks, but no one raises a hand. She nods, satisfied, and moves on to the first slide—supply and demand curves, the same ones I can’t seem to get out of my head.

Case study. Analysis. Data. Like I don’t have enough on my plate already.

I nudge Callie. “Will you help?—”

“No,” she snaps. She’s mad at me now and I don’t blame her. I’m pissed at myself.

I can’t stop thinking about Nathan wanting her number.

I know guys find Camdyn attractive. They always have.

You don’t have to tell me she’s beautiful and that guys would literally kill to see her naked.

Her body is unbelievable. Muscular from years of softball training, tits, thick as fuck ass, the prettiest, cutest face I’ve ever seen, and the personality to go with it.

You’d think looking at her body and face, she’d be bitchy.

She’s not, though. Maybe if you don’t know her, but once you do, you see how incredibly loyal she is to everyone around her and genuine to the ones she lets into her life.

Professor Blaine’s voice fades into background noise as my mind wanders to the first time I really noticed Camdyn—not as the pretty blonde in my middle school science class, but as someone who could change my whole world.

The memory is so clear it could’ve been yesterday—her sitting at the table, bright green eyes staring back at me with both annoyance and curiosity because I stole her pencil.

Who would’ve thought that stolen pencil would lead to three years of. ..everything?

The PowerPoint slides change, but I barely register the graphs and charts. Instead, it’s on Camdyn. I’ve watched her grow from that young, pretty little blonde into the beautiful woman she is now. I’ve never met someone more loyal, forgiving, innocent, and unforgettable as Camdyn O’Hara.

“Mr. Ryan,” Professor Blaine’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Perhaps you’d like to explain how external market forces affect equilibrium price?”

The class turns to look at me, but all I can think about is how external forces are affecting my own equilibrium. How every decision I make seems to push me further from where I want to be.

“Sorry, Professor. I was…” I clear my throat, straightening in my seat. “Could you repeat the question?”

She sighs, probably adding another mental tally to her “distracted athlete” count. “Pay attention, please. This will be on the midterm.”

Right. The midterm. Another thing I need to worry about, another pressure point in this already overwhelming life. But honestly? The thought of failing this test doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the thought of failing Camdyn. Or this Nathan dude getting her number.

I also know, eventually, she’s going to move on from me if I don’t get my shit together.

And I can’t blame her if she does.

The rain picks up outside, drumming against the windows like it’s trying to match the rhythm of my racing thoughts.

In baseball, you’re taught to control the controllable.

Focus on what you can change, let go of what you can’t.

But sitting here, watching the Seattle sky cry while my whole world feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, I realize I don’t know what’s controllable anymore.

Maybe that’s the problem. I’m trying to control everything—my future, my career, my relationships—when sometimes you have to let the game come to you. But the stakes feel so much higher when it’s not just a game on the line, but your whole heart.

I try to focus on Professor Blaine’s lecture, but the equations on the board blur together. Supply and demand. Market forces. Economic equilibrium. None of it makes sense when my own life feels so out of balance.

“For Thursday’s class,” Professor Blaine announces as students start packing up their laptops, the hour somehow already gone, “read chapter eight and complete the case study analysis. Remember, midterms are in two weeks.”

Two weeks. Same time as our road trip to Arizona State. Another test to study for, another series to prepare for, another chance to prove I deserve my starting spot. The weight of it all settles on my shoulders.

Callie’s already shoving her notebook into her backpack, but she pauses to give me one last look. There’s something different in her eyes now—not just anger, but maybe understanding. Or pity. I’m not sure which is worse.

“Just…” she starts, then shakes her head. “Don’t wait until it’s too late, Jax. Because Nathan isn’t the only one asking about her.”

The classroom empties around us, chairs scraping against linoleum, the shuffle of feet and murmur of conversations about market equilibrium and upcoming assignments. But I stay seated, staring at my blank notebook page where I should have been taking notes.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Inez, probably. Or maybe Coach about tonight’s practice schedule. Or my academic advisor reminding me about the study hall hours I need to log this week. Everyone wants something from me—time, attention, commitment.

Everyone except Camdyn. She only wanted me. The real me, not the starting catcher or the business major or the guy with MLB scouts watching his every move. Just Jaxon. The guy who stole pencils in seventh grade science and makes her laugh.

I finally pack up my stuff, the weight of my backpack nothing compared to the weight in my chest. Here’s the thing about being a catcher: you’re supposed to be the field general, the guy who sees the whole game and makes the right calls.

You’re supposed to know when to call for a fastball and when to mix in the curve.

When to settle your pitcher down and when to let him work through it.

But right now? I feel like I’m calling all the wrong pitches. And the game—the one that matters—is slipping away from me, one missed signal at a time.

After my morning class, I head back to the athletes’ dining hall for lunch.

Business economics was brutal—not because of Callie drilling me about Camdyn, but because trying to understand market equilibrium and opportunity costs on four hours of sleep isn’t exactly fun.

And I have no idea when I’m gonna make time to study.

Jameson, Kingston, and I meet up with the rest of the team for hitting practice.

We got back from Long Beach on Monday, and we leave for Pittsburgh in a few days for a tournament before conference play starts.

If you haven’t guessed it, I'm a starting sophomore catcher for the Huskies—pretty fucking good and probably going pro someday.

NCAA requirements limit us to twenty hours of required practice per week during season, but between voluntary workouts, film study, and actual games, it feels more like forty.

Some ask, why baseball?

I’m not sure how to answer that. I’ve never loved anything more than baseball. Well, there’s something I’ve loved as much and can’t imagine not being a part of my life.

I don’t know what it is about the game, but it relaxes me.

For a kid who struggled to find something that calmed his nerves and made him feel like he was a part of something bigger, baseball was that for me.

When I stepped behind the plate, nothing else mattered but me and the pitcher.

The game was there for me when life got too much to handle.

It helped me through my dad nearly dying in a fire, and it was there for me when my grandpa passed away.

It’s never let me down... until now. Until the pressure of maintaining a 3.0 GPA for eligibility while taking financial accounting and business economics makes my head spin. Until every practice feels like a tryout for the pros.

The moment I’m inside the hitting facility lined with batting cages, Jameson asks about Inez.

“Who’s the chick?” Jameson asks while feeding balls into the pitching machine.

I hadn't told him, or anyone besides Camdyn, about Inez. Somehow, it’s all around campus today like we’re back in high school and I got caught holding hands with another girl. I’m assuming Callie told him. Or maybe Inez is telling people; I have no idea.

I groan. “Not you too.” I stare at the grip on my bat, checking the wear on the tape. “I don’t wanna talk about it. And why’d you tell Cam I played Fortnite with her?”

He flashes a nervous smile. “My bad. Didn’t know it was a secret.”

“Mhm.”

Jameson Gomez—he's been my roommate and teammate since I got to UW. He’s from Alabama, not as country as you’d think, and a hell of a pitcher.

He throws consistently around a hundred miles per hour, and I’m the only one who can catch his knuckleball.

We got paired up together during the first few practices last year, and now it feels wrong if I catch for anyone else.

The rhythmic thwack of balls hitting the back net usually calms me down, but today my timing’s off.

“All right, hear me out,” Jameson continues, setting another ball on the tee. “I mean, I saw her when we came in. She cute, I guess. In a quirky way I don’t know what to think about.”

I try to figure out how to explain why I would go for Inez DeLuca over Camdyn. If you looked at them side by side you’d probably say, ‘what the fuck ya thinking?’ Any man with hormones would choose Camdyn. Without question.

I shrug, not knowing what else to say. “She’s nice, ya know.”

But nice doesn’t keep me up at night thinking about her. Nice doesn’t make my heart race when I see her name pop up on my phone.

Jameson sits on the bucket of balls and places another ball on the tee. “Yeah, but journalist chick, Camdyn… no comparison.”

I take a swing and send the first ball into the net. “There’s more to dating someone than their looks, my man.”

He places another ball on the tee. “Mmm. Okay. So you find her attractive.”

“I don’t know.” I shrug and get back in my stance. I look down at my feet to be sure they’re lined up correctly. “She’s cute.”

He grins. “Would you fuck her?”

I have to think about it. I definitely can’t say I’m physically attracted to Inez. Again, she’s cute, but she doesn’t get my dick hard if that’s what you’re wondering. Maybe you weren’t. I don’t know. And I definitely don’t think about her when… well, you know.

“Nah, man.” I draw in a quick breath and shake my head at Jameson. “I don’t like her like that.”

He chuckles as I swing and then feeds me another ball on the tee. “Okay, well, now I’m even more confused. Why the fuck ya with her?”

“Bro, there’s more to a relationship than sex.”

“Not when you’re twenty, my man .”

Well, he’s not wrong.

“And we’re not dating. We’re just talking,” I add.

“Mhm.”

Thankfully Jameson is pulled away for arm care and stretching, as our pitchers don’t hit in our league. I’m left to hit off the machines.

Being in the cages usually helps my mood, but today it doesn’t provide the relief I’m looking for. All I can think about is Camdyn and how sad she is. Because of me. It’s always because of me.

As I’m leaving practice and heading back to the dining hall, I think about texting her. We haven’t spoken in almost two weeks, and we’ve never gone that long without talking. Ever. Hell, I don’t even know if she wants to hear from me. She could hate me now.

I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

It’s weird, but ending things with her kind of feels like one of those fielder’s choice plays in baseball. You know, where the guy with the ball could just throw to first and get the easy out, but instead tries for something else—maybe goes for second, or home—hoping it’s the smarter move.

That’s what I did, I think. I could’ve just stayed with her, played it safe, but I convinced myself there was some other play I needed to make.

I told myself it was the right decision.

Now I’m not even sure what “right” means.

All I know is, I threw it to a different base and now I’m standing out here, missing her, wondering if I just overcomplicated everything.

And now I’m stuck second-guessing myself, not even sure if I got the “out” I wanted. Maybe I was just trying too hard to control the game, and now I’m not sure what play comes next.

I’m reckless with her love. Always thinking it’s going to be there waiting.

I disappoint her.

I fail her.

I fail myself.

Inning after inning.