Page 22

EARNED RUN

JAXON

A run that scores without the help of a defensive error.

S ee that guy on the bench? The one who looks like he lost a fight with the infield dirt, shoulders slumped like he’s carrying the weight of every missed throw this season? Yeah, that’s me. Jaxon Ryan, benched and questioning every life choice that got me here.

The Texas sun is brutal, turning the dugout into something between a sauna and Satan’s left nut.

Sweat trickles down my neck, and the metal bench is burning through my jersey.

The air is thick with that classic baseball cocktail: fresh-cut grass, leather, pine tar, and about fifteen flavors of athletic tape melting in the heat.

Everyone has an off game, but when you’re playing Division 1 ball with two freshmen catchers breathing down your neck, and a senior who’d sell his soul for your spot, a bad game hits different. The stakes are higher than the pop flies our outfielders have been dropping in warm-ups.

You know that saying about playing for the love of the game?

It’s real. The older you get, the more obvious it gets.

Some guys might play for scholarships, draft prospects, or their dad’s unfinished dreams—but it all started the same way: some kid picked up a ball or a bat and fell head over cleats in love with the feeling.

The stadium speakers are blasting music so loud it’s thumping through my chest, and I’m trying not to think about Camdyn. I’m failing at both staying focused and not thinking about her.

I love this game for its contradictions.

It’s slow—until it isn’t. It’s a team sport built on one-on-one battles.

And right now, watching Jameson on the mound—our ace, currently attempting what I think is supposed to be a dance move between pitches—I’m reminded it’s both the most serious and ridiculous sport ever invented.

Try standing in the box with some dude throwing a hundred miles an hour at you.

You’ve got about a third of a second to decide if you should swing.

Oh, and don’t forget to check if it’s a fastball, slider, curve, or that weird thing Jameson throws that we just call a changeup, even though nobody knows what it actually is.

Some days you’re Barry Bonds. Other days, you’re that kid in Little League who closes his eyes and hopes for the best.

Coach Allen drops onto the bench beside me, and I can tell by his face he’s not happy. And even though I don’t want to hear his take on why I missed a throw, it’s still better than his views on dating during college ball.

The stadium PA starts blasting “All the Single Ladies,” and I swear the baseball gods are just screwing with me now.

“Your head’s not in it,” Coach says, as if my three-for-nine showing and those two missed throws weren’t proof enough.

I nod, watching a paper cup tumble across the warning track like a baseball-themed tumbleweed. The truth is, my head’s about forty miles away, probably in bed wishing Camdyn was riding my dick. But whatever. We all have dreams.

But Coach Allen’s about to ruin those dreams. He’s been my coach since I was twelve—back when I held the record for strikeouts from the batter’s box, not the pitcher’s mound. Not the kind of record anyone wants, but I owned it.

The smell of hot dogs and popcorn drifts down from the concession stands, mixing with the leather-and-dirt scent that’s permanently embedded in my gear. My stomach growls, reminding me I’m fucking starving.

I should be focused on the game, on earning back my starting spot, on proving I belong here. Instead, I’m thinking about her on my dick—yeah, I admit it—and how I’m probably screwing everything up by trying not to screw anything up.

Welcome to college baseball: games are long, seasons are longer, and trying to balance your heart between the diamond and everything else feels impossible. At least the bench is warm—though in Texas, that’s less a perk and more a punishment.

“I don’t care what you do off the field,” Coach continues, “but when you’re here, playing for me, you work your ass off and give me everything you’ve got.”

“Yes, sir.” I give him the answer he wants, watching as two scorpions near the dugout fence engage in what looks like either an intense turf war or the world’s tiniest baseball game. They’re showing more coordination than I did in warm-ups.

“Listen, Jax.” He leans back, his gray Husky T-shirt looking like he just went for a swim. The man’s staring at his Gatorade bottle like it’ll reveal the secret to fixing my batting average.

The silence stretches. Finally, he sighs. “You need to take this seriously.”

Great advice.

I drop my eyes, suddenly fascinated by the sunflower seed graveyard at my feet. My jaw clenches as I spot Jameson dancing on the mound during his warm-up. “Like that fool?”

Coach Allen squints and chuckles. “No, not like him. What I mean is, I know what you and that girl went through last season.” He keeps his voice low, because in a dugout, nothing travels faster than drama—except maybe a foul ball to the dome.

“It’s stressful, and the last thing you want is me harping on your dating life, son. ”

His hand lands on my shoulder, heavy with experience and what he thinks is wisdom. “But take it from a man who’s been there. I know what it’s like. You want to be a twenty-year-old kid. You want to party and have all the bitches you want.”

I resist the urge to tell him the only “bitches” I’m interested in are pitches that hang over the plate. And Camdyn. Not that I’d ever call her that. I value my life.

“And that part’s fine,” he continues. “Live it up, because once you’re in the big leagues, you have even less freedom than now.”

My pulse quickens, blood rushing in my ears. He’s wrong. Dead wrong. I don’t want all the options. I want one girl. The same girl who texts me random penguin facts at 2 AM because she knows I’ll laugh. The same girl this man beside me convinced me to push away.

“What you don’t need is a relationship in this game.” He waves at the field like he’s showing off a new car. “Go out, have fun. But that’s where it ends. Your mind stays on baseball. Relationships don’t fit in college sports.”

I force my face to stay neutral. “I’m not in a relationship.”

Because of you.

He shrugs. “You say that, but I know you better than you think.”

Well, he’s got me there. He’s known me since I was the kid who couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat. Back when my biggest concern was whether my helmet made my ears look big.

“The only thing standing between you and greatness is yourself. Get out of your own head.”

Déjà vu. He told me this at sixteen when Camdyn and I first got serious.

Again at seventeen, when I chose her over a Florida recruiting camp where they probably would’ve told me what I already knew—I had what it took.

Then at eighteen, when I picked UW to be closer to her (though my mom and sister going there gave me a solid cover story).

He hammered it in after the miscarriage last season. Coach Allen’s still the only one who knows about that. I listened to him, ended things with Camdyn when she needed me most. Some days I think my biggest error wasn’t any of those missed throws—it was walking away from her.

Jameson storms into the dugout after his inning, having struck out the side but looking like someone just pissed in his Gatorade. He throws his glove down next to me and grumbles something.

Kingston tilts his chin at Jameson. “Damn, his calls are terrible.”

None of us are sure if he means the ump’s calls or the fact that Ollie’s already down 0-2 at the plate. Knowing Kingston, he probably doesn’t either.

Jameson and I look up at him, and he shrugs. “He’s an umpy with a dumpy.” He nods toward home plate like we might’ve missed which ump he’s talking about.

Jameson grabs someone’s glove and chucks it at Kingston. It hits his thigh and clatters to the concrete. “Shut the fuck up.”

Kingston adjusts his batting gloves like he’s about to step into a boxing ring, not a batter’s box. “What’s up? The umpy with a dumpy or a girl?”

Jameson’s jaw clenches. “Fuck off.”

I watch him attack his Gatorade bottle like it personally insulted him. But I know that look. That’s not an ump problem. That’s a girl problem. “What’d Callie do now?”

He shakes the bottle until Gatorade fountains out the top, making a sticky blue puddle. “She acts all happy to hear from me and then I find out she’s been talking to Sawyer.”

“Who?”

“I don’t fucking know. That kid she’s been talking to. I think Brynn dated him last year for a bit.”

“Wait.” I raise an eyebrow. “The soccer player?”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He rolls his eyes so hard I’m worried he’ll strain something. “Him.”

“Oh, damn.”

Jameson lifts what he thinks is his water bottle and splashes his face. Blue drops fall from his nose, and he looks down at his now-stained white jersey. “That was Gatorade.”

I can’t help but laugh. It’s not the first time he’s mixed up his bottles, and knowing Jameson, it won’t be the last. He can throw a 100 mph fastball but still struggles with basic color recognition.

“Yo, my guy, what’s up with you and the journalist chick? Ink?” he asks, trying to deflect from his Gatorade shower and love life.

I almost laugh—he never says “my guy.”

“Inez?” My heart does this weird skip, mostly guilt because I’ve been ghosting her since Camdyn and I ended up in my uncle’s steam shower. Not my proudest moment, but neither is sitting here watching someone else catch for my team.

“Whatever her name is.”

I snort. He knows her name. “Nothing’s happening with her.”

“Dang.” His eyebrows scrunch together. “Actually?”

He’s not disappointed. Trust me, I know that tone. It’s the same one he uses when Coach cancels practice early.

I give him this noncommittal head roll that could mean anything from “no” to “I’m having a seizure.” “It’s whatever.”