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Before he can dig deeper, Kingston pops up to end the inning, and Jameson heads back to the mound for the bottom of the seventh, probably grateful for the escape.

The bench crew is chattering about calls and plays and whatever else fills the time when you’re not on the field. But I’m not much for dugout small talk during games. Instead, I watch the freshman catcher—my replacement—work behind the plate. He’s good, I’ll give him that. But I’m better.

Or at least I was, before I let my head get tangled up in everything that isn’t baseball. Then again, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe baseball isn’t everything. Maybe sometimes it’s just a game, and there are more important things.

But for now, I’m the guy on the bench, covered in dirt, trying to figure out how to be everything for everyone without losing myself. And let me tell you, that’s harder than hitting a curveball in the dark.

The stadium lights have kicked on now, that magic-hour glow making every field look like something out of a movie.

You know that scene in Field of Dreams where they talk about baseball being a constant?

Yeah, it’s kind of like that—except instead of ghost players out of cornfields, I’m watching our left fielder try to catch bugs in his glove between pitches.

I should be studying the opposing pitcher’s tells—the way he adjusts his cap before a changeup, or how his glove hand twitches before he throws to first. He’s predictable as fuck.

Instead, I’m thinking about how Camdyn used to make fun of my game-day superstitions.

“Baseball players are just organized chaos with cleats,” she’d say, and damn if she wasn’t right.

The Texas crowd is getting restless, that special kind of antsy that happens when you’re down by three runs and the ice in your overpriced soda has melted into sugar water.

There’s a kid two rows up waving a foam finger, smacking his dad in the face every time he moves. At least someone’s making contact today.

Coach Allen’s still next to me, probably brewing up another life lesson. The man has more sayings than a fortune cookie factory, and about half of them make sense. The rest? Well, “You gotta milk the cow before you make the cheese” ain’t Shakespeare, my guy.

But here’s the thing about Coach: he’s been right about a lot. He saw something in that strikeout-prone twelve-year-old and turned him into a college catcher. He knew I had an arm when everyone else wanted to stick me in right field—baseball’s version of being picked last in gym.

Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right.

The only thing he’s been wrong about? Camdyn.

See, Coach thinks relationships are like batting slumps—something you work through or walk away from. But Camdyn? She’s that perfect pitch you see in slow motion, when everything else fades and you just know. You know?

“Remember what I told you when you were thirteen?” Coach asks.

“Don’t eat sunflower seeds with the shells still on?” I deadpan, because sometimes humor is the only shield against a lecture.

He snorts. “About focus.”

Oh yeah, that speech. Baseball is like dating. You can’t be thinking about other pitches when you’re trying to hit the one in front of you. Pretty sure he stole that from a Hallmark movie, but whatever. If you can’t tell, I don’t want to have this conversation.

I watch Jameson set up for his next pitch.

His cleats dig into the mound, he touches his nose with his glove.

He’s calling off whatever the catcher asked for, curve’s coming.

The freshman stares at the dugout. He doesn’t know Jameson like I do and he’s set up inside, not expecting what’s headed his way.

“You’re too good to be riding pine,” Coach says. “But talent ain’t worth shit without focus.”

Thank you, Wisdom Willie. Had no idea.

The word focus echoes in my head like a foul tip off my mask.

Focus. Like I haven’t been trying to focus every time I’m behind the plate or in the box.

Like I haven’t spent hours in the cage, in the gym, watching film until my eyes burn.

Like I haven’t been trying to be everything this team needs while also being everything Camdyn deserves.

But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you can’t be everything to everyone. Maybe that’s why they call it a sacrifice fly and not a have-it-all fly.

A burst of “Sweet Caroline” blasts through the speakers, and the crowd does that weird sing-along thing that happens at every baseball game since the dawn of time.

BAH BAH BAH! Even some of our guys join in, because apparently nothing brings people together like Neil Diamond and the seventh-inning stretch.

“You’re thinking about her right now, aren’t you?” Coach’s voice slices through the chorus.

I am. Still thinking about her on me, if you want the honest truth.

But what I say is, “Nah, thinking about my swing.”

Coach snorts. He knows I’m lying. I know I’m lying. Hell, even the bat boy probably knows. But sometimes you stick to your story, even when it’s as believable as claiming you meant to bunt on that wild swing for the fences.

The truth is, baseball’s been my life since before I knew what having a life meant.

But Camdyn? She makes me want more than box scores and batting averages.

She makes me want lazy Sunday mornings and coffee shop debates and all those normal college things that seem impossible when you’re playing Division 1 ball—because they are impossible. Who has time for coffee shops?

And maybe that’s what scares me most. Not striking out with the bases loaded or missing a throw to second. What scares me is that for the first time, baseball might not be enough.

But try explaining that to Coach Allen, who probably thinks Romeo and Juliet could’ve worked if they’d just focused more on their respective teams.

A roar from the crowd pulls my attention back to the field. We’ve got the bases loaded with one out. Jameson’s pacing, which usually means he’s about to strike out the side or walk in three runs. With Jameson, there’s no in-between.

I find myself edging forward on the bench, muscle memory kicking in.

My fingers twitch, itching to call pitches.

Because even though I’m benched, even though my mind’s lost somewhere between home plate and Camdyn, I still know Jameson better than anyone.

I know he’s thinking slider, but his slider’s been hanging outside for these hitters today.

The freshman behind the plate calls for exactly that. A slider. I wince before the pitch even leaves Jameson’s hand.

CRACK!

The sound echoes like a gunshot. The ball rockets to left field, and for a second, I think it’s gone. But our left fielder makes a diving catch worthy of SportsCenter, and suddenly the dugout’s on its feet. Everyone except me. I’m still sitting here. I don’t have the energy to get up.

“That’s what focus looks like,” Coach says, because of course he does. Everything’s a teaching moment with him.

Go fuck yourself.

I want to tell him I am focused. I’m focused on the fact that when I had to tell someone about the baby Camdyn lost, it was Coach I turned to, not my dad.

The memory hits. Last season, after Camdyn had the miscarriage, I hated myself for being relieved I didn’t have to worry about being a dad at nineteen. I hated baseball, and life.

Coach Allen found me in the cages at 2 a.m., destroying baseballs like they’d personally insulted me. He didn’t say much, just fed the pitching machine while I swung until my hands bled.

Finally, he said, “Sometimes life throws you a pitch you can’t hit.”

Probably the most honest thing he’s ever said to me. No lectures about focus or keeping my head in the game. Just truth.

But then he followed it up with advice about ending things with Camdyn, about how relationships during college ball were like trying to catch with a broken mitt. You might get by for a while, but eventually, everything falls apart.

So I did what he said. I walked away. Told her we needed space, that I couldn’t be what she needed.

And you know what? It was the worst play I’ve ever made.

“Ya seeing what freshie’s calling?” Coach Allen’s voice snaps me out of it.

I nod. Kid’s not doing a bad job, honestly. He’s got good instincts, even if his blocking needs work. But watching him catch for Jameson feels like letting someone else drive my car. Even if they’re doing everything right, it still feels wrong.

“The pressure’s on. He’s keeping it simple,” Coach says. “Not overthinking.”

Is he, though? Or is he just too green to even know what overthinking is yet? Wait till he falls for someone who makes him question everything he thought he knew. Wait till he has to choose between the game he loves and the person he loves more.

He also doesn’t know Jameson’s pitches, so he’s winging it out there, but whatever.

The lights are fully on now, creating that artificial day that only exists in baseball and convenience stores. A moth kamikazes into my eye, and I bat it away.

“I saw your girl’s article about last week’s game was good,” Coach says suddenly, blindsiding me.

He knows about Inez. He’s the one who volunteered me to meet her over winter break for that article on the upcoming season.

Part of me thinks it’s because he wanted me away from Camdyn, but I can’t be sure.

I try to keep my face neutral. “She’s not my girl.”

“Did you read it?”

“Nope.”

“Well, it was about team dynamics and pressure. How baseball’s a mental game disguised as a physical one.” He takes a long drink. “She gets it.”

She doesn’t, though. She only knows what she’s read, not what she’s seen. To really get this game, you have to look past the surface. Past the stats and scores and rings.

“Yeah, I guess,” I manage, like I’m talking about the weather instead of a girl who knows nothing about me besides what she’s written.

Coach nods. “You know the difference between a good player and a great one?”