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SACRIFICE FLY

CAMDYN

A struck ball caught by a fielder that then allows a runner to score after tagging up.

D o you ever wake up in the morning and, in those first few moments of disoriented sleep, dream up a completely different life for yourself?

I do.

Look at me, lying here in my Huskies baseball T-shirt I stole from Jaxon last year. It’s worn thin in places, smells like a mix of Tide and his cologne—even after countless washes. The purple W is starting to crack, but I refuse to throw it out or give it back. Mine now, bitch.

Sometimes in my imaginary bliss, I pretend Jaxon and I are married, he’s playing in the MLB and I’m lying in bed waiting for him. The fantasy usually involves him being drafted by the Mariners so we can stay in Seattle, because apparently, even in my dreams, I’m practical.

A girl can dream in delulu land.

Today I imagine I was born a princess and my servant will be here soon with my coffee and a toasted cheese bagel with cream cheese, a slice of prosciutto, and a sprinkle of Everything But the Bagel seasoning. Chef's kiss.

If you haven’t tried it, do it. You won’t regret it. It’s a game changer. The cafeteria ladies at the athletes’ dining hall actually started making it for me after I brought in my own prosciutto one too many times. Now it’s called “The Pitcher's Special” on their secret menu.

Blinking slowly, I look around my dorm room and focus on the pink and purple lava lamp on my nightstand between mine and Callie’s beds.

She’s already left for the morning, or didn’t come back last night.

Her side of the room is a shrine to basketball glory—medals hanging from the bed frame, her All-Star certificate proudly displayed, and about fifteen pairs of Nikes lined up perfectly under her desk.

My side looks like I’m homeless and hoarding my shit in piles, ready to move at any moment.

The morning light streams through our third-floor window, catching the dust particles dancing in the air.

From here, I can see the baseball stadium where the guys practice, and I definitely don’t crane my neck trying to spot a certain number 99 during their morning workouts.

Okay, maybe I do, but like, casually. Shhhh.

Sigh. It’s apparent I'm not a princess. No one is bringing me a bagel and if I don’t get my ass out of bed, I’m going to be late for media day.

The thought makes my stomach twist. Nothing like having cameras shoved in your face while you try not to say anything stupid that ends up as a viral TikTok clip.

I reach for my notebook beside my bed and do my morning journaling and manifesting. It’s something my pitching coach-slash-therapist told me to do last year. It’s helped a lot with cultivating a positive mindset going into a game.

Today’s entry is pretty standard: “Lead the Pac-12 in strikeouts,” “Get drafted to pro softball,” and definitely not “Make Jaxon realize I’m the love of his life.” Okay, maybe that last one’s in there too, but I wrote it small so it doesn’t count if you can’t read it.

Once I’m finished journaling and meditating I throw on my team-issued Nike leggings and one of our twelve million purple workout tops.

The dorm hallway is already buzzing with activity. Music thumps from behind closed doors, the smell of burnt coffee and dry shampoo fills the air, and someone’s definitely burning microwave oatmeal again.

I head to the Starbucks coffee cart and meet up with Brynn and a few other teammates.

The early morning fog is still lifting off the quad.

The students shuffling to their 8 AM classes look like extras from The Walking Dead.

The coffee cart guy, Theo, already has my order started when he sees me coming.

If that’s not the definition of making it in college, I don’t know what is.

I actually don’t know if his name is Theo either.

I named him that. He looks like a Theo to me.

I check my phone hoping Jaxon texted me but nothing. I refuse to message him first.

I won’t do it.

I can’t.

I have rules now, remember?

Rules that mean under no circumstance will I text first. I think any girl will relate when we say the guy texting first is right up there with him saying I love you.

Maybe it’s not that deep, but if you've been in a situationship, you know what I’m saying.

It’s like the unwritten rule of college dating.

So yeah, I check it once more while I’m drinking my coffee. The screen mocks me with its notification-less existence.

I even check his location—yes I have it—and it looks like he’s at the stadium, probably doing their early morning batting practice.

That makes me feel a little better because if he had been in his dorm still, I would have been sad that he hadn’t texted me yet.

Plus, knowing he’s at practice and not, say, getting coffee with Inez, helps quiet the anxious voice in my head.

After coffee the girls and I walk through campus together, past the field and into the media center.

The morning sun beats down on us and I smile remembering all those early morning games during high school when I’d walk into the park for bracket play Sundays.

Now here I am, at a Division I school, walking to media day to start off the series against Arizona.

From the time I picked up a ball at ten years old, I knew I wanted to be a pitcher.

I never imagined one day I’d be the starting pitcher at a D1 school.

I doubt myself constantly at times, but I’m the reason I’m here.

I took my talent to the next level. Only a small percentage of high school athletes do that.

“Do your leggings fit you weird?” Brynn asks, pulling at hers as they ride up a little too far in the front. “I want last year’s back.”

“Oh, uh, no?” I glance down at them and realize we’re wearing the same ones. “They actually fit pretty good. Maybe it’s because they switched brands?”

“I think I have an awkwardly long torso.” Brynn brings her leg up and practically kicks me in the face. “I’m loving all the shoes though.”

I laugh and push her away from me. Brynn’s dorm room has more shoes than it does clothes. I’m not sure I’ve seen her wear the same pair twice and it doesn’t help the school gives us at least four pairs a year.

The fall gear handout is like Christmas morning for college athletes.

We get everything from bags, leggings, sweatpants, shorts, hoodies, and enough shoes to fill Brynn’s closet twice over.

Then there’s all the softball stuff: practice jerseys, custom-designed gloves in team colors, batting gloves, visors, and more hoodies than any human needs.

By the time we’re done, our dorm rooms look like a University of Washington merch store exploded inside them.

Brynn jets out her hand to one of our infielders, Zoey, and stops her. “Wait.” Zoey, who had been in a “talking stage” with Kingston, will forever be Brynn’s enemy. “Girl, did you see that play King made yesterday? Like everyone is talking about it.”

“Nah.” Zoey shrugs, rolling her eyes. “Didn’t see it.”

I can tell by the way Zoey walks faster she doesn’t want to talk to Brynn.

I don’t know why Brynn does this, but if any girl shows interest in Kingston, Brynn either befriends them for reasons I don’t know, or talks about him constantly within earshot to make it known they have always had something going on.

I find that kind of crazy though. You don’t see me befriending Inez.

Speaking of...

There’s a crowd of people huddled around a table in the media center, and tucked in the corner is Inez DeLuca, looking like she raided an art student’s closet.

Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, paint splatters decorating her beat-up Converse like abstract art.

She’s got on these black skinny jeans with rips that definitely weren’t bought that way, and thick-rimmed glasses that she keeps pushing up her nose while she scribbles in her notebook.

That’s the thing about Inez, she’s not what you'd expect. When Jaxon first mentioned her, I pictured some confident journalism major who had her life figured out. Instead, she’s this awkward art student who can barely make eye contact when she interviews people.

Which somehow makes it worse? Like, how am I supposed to be mad at someone who looks like they might cry if you speak too loudly?

She notices me and gives this tiny wave, immediately dropping her pen in the process. As she bends to pick it up, her glasses slide down her nose again.

“Did you know she was doing this?” I ask Brynn, who’s suddenly very interested in her phone.

“Who?”

I gesture toward Inez with a nod. “Her.”

“Oh, uh.” Her lips flatten and she half shrugs. “Kinda?”

“What do you mean kinda?”

“She mentioned it, I think.” Brynn grabs both my hands and faces me, smiling. “Girl, Callie said Jax sent y’all coffee the other day.” She pauses and smiles widely. “So like, is it a thing again?”

And there it is. The question I’ve been avoiding since that shower at his uncle’s condo. You know the one I’m talking about. The one where we definitely didn’t just get clean.

“I... don’t know what’s going on. We haven’t talked about it.

And I don’t know if Jax really sent coffee.

Jameson brought it over so like, I don’t know.

” I also don’t want to be having this conversation with Brynn.

I get uncomfortable talking about Jaxon with her because I don’t know what she tells Inez.

Her mouth goes slack. “You didn’t ask him about it?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “Didn’t want to be disappointed.”

“I know the feeling.” Brynn sighs, sipping on her iced coffee. “I can’t even get Kingston to text me two days in a row.”

Coach Drew starts herding us toward the interview stations, and my stomach does that thing where it feels like I swallowed a softball. Last time I did interviews, I had a mental breakdown on national TV after bombing in the World Series. Not my finest moment.