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Holy fuck. Here we go. Another metaphor. I brace myself, expecting something about keeping your eye on the ball.

But instead, he says, “A good player knows his strengths. A great one knows his weaknesses too—knows when to push through them and when to work around them.”

I look at him, wondering if this is still about baseball.

Before I can ask, Jameson gives up a walk, stomping his way to the mound.

I watch the freshman jog out, see him say something that makes Jameson crack a smile. It’s probably not as good as what I’d say, but it works.

The sun’s almost gone now, leaving behind that deep Texas twilight that makes everything feel more dramatic than it needs to be. Kind of like how Jameson’s glaring at his rosin bag like it betrayed him.

You ever notice how time moves differently in baseball?

Nine innings can feel like nine minutes or nine years, depending on your side of the scoreboard.

Right now, watching from the bench, it feels like this game started around the Industrial Revolution.

I’m still hungry and digging through bags for food.

I find Sour Patch Kids in Ollie’s bag and rip them open as Coach Allen walks back into the dugout.

A kid in the stands is waving a sign that says “MY FIRST BASEBALL GAME!” in crooked letters, and I remember when it was all that simple.

When baseball was just about hitting a ball and running bases, not about juggling relationships and expectations and the weight of your future riding on every at-bat.

I watch Jameson deliver his first pitch since the mound visit, this one actually catching the corner.

Coach sits down next to me again and I fight the urge to groan. Why can’t he find someone else to bother?

He shifts, probably uncomfortable with showing this much emotional depth at once. “You’re a better player when you’re not trying to be perfect. When you’re just... you.”

The word ‘perfect’ hangs in the air. Perfect game. Perfect season. Perfect boyfriend. Perfect everything. Maybe that’s my problem—trying to perfect things that were never meant to be perfect.

He stands up to walk away, then turns back. “Oh, and Jax?”

“Yeah, Coach?”

“Next inning, you’re in.”

I nod and set the candy down. Ollie comes in as the inning ends and kicks my leg. “Gimme my candy, fatty.”

As I strap on my gear, Coach waves me over. “Their lineup’s turning over. Number two hitter’s been sitting dead red all night. Seven hitter can’t touch the outside corner.”

I nod, already running through the lineup. The guy’s a fastball hunter with warning track power and a habit of wiggling his back elbow before he sits on a heater.

Jameson’s face lights up when he sees me heading out, like Christmas came early and Santa brought his favorite catcher back. “My bitch’s back.”

“Shut up and throw strikes,” I tell him.

I drop into my squat. I’m not trying to shut everything out. I’m letting it all in—the crowd noise, the smell of popcorn and beer, the way the lights cast everyone’s shadow in four directions.

Jameson looks for the sign. I put down one finger, touch my left thigh, sweep up toward my knee. Fastball, inside corner.

The batter steps in, does his routine: tap the plate, adjust the gloves, wiggle that back elbow. I’ve got his number now, and not the one on his jersey.

Jameson winds up, and I feel it—this pitch is gonna be perfect. Not because we’re forcing it, but because we’re finally letting it just be.

Kind of like life, when you think about it.

The pitch comes in, a four-seamer with enough bite to catch the inside corner. The batter’s back elbow twitches—told you. He swings like he’s trying to hit the ball back to last Tuesday.

But all he gets is air.

Strike one.

Game on.

Nine pitches. That’s all it takes to close out the game once I’m back behind the plate.

Jameson finds his groove, painting corners like a baseball Picasso.

We claw back those three runs in the eighth when Kingston finally remembers which end of the bat to hold, and squeeze out the win in the ninth when I hit a dinger to left.

We hold them to a three-pitch inning—three pop-ups to short and right.

Now we’re walking to the bus, cleats clicking against the concrete in that familiar post-game rhythm. The stadium’s emptying, but that electric feeling of a comeback win still hangs in the air.

“Bro,” Jameson says, adjusting his bag, “that block you made in the eighth? Straight dirty.”

I shrug, but yeah, it was sweet. The kind of play that makes SportsCenter—if anyone watched college baseball in Texas on a Friday night. “Oh, yeah.”

“Don’t downplay it, bitch. You were showing off ‘cause freshie can’t block shit.”

“Maybe a little.” I grin.

As we board, my phone feels heavy in my pocket. I’ve been fighting the urge to pull it out since the last out, knowing Camdyn’s game is probably over too.

My phone buzzes as I find a seat in the back with Jameson and King. Unfortunately, it’s just an Instagram notification, but my heart still does that stupid jump, hoping it’s Cam.

In my seat, I pull up the school website to check her game.

The bright screen lights up my face as I scroll to today’s game. University of Washington vs. Texas. The box score loads, and?—

Holy shit.

I sit up straighter, nearly dropping my phone. I read it twice.

Camdyn O’Hara: 3-4, 2 HR, 6 RBI

P: 6.2 IP, 14 K, 1 ER

The home run in the fourth, opposite field bomb. Second one, bottom of the seventh. Fourteen strikeouts before they brought in their closer. Fourteen. That’s not good, that’s straight-up balling.

The bus engine rumbles to life, and someone starts playing country music from the back—probably Kingston, who thinks every bus ride needs a Luke Combs soundtrack.

My thumb hovers over the message icon next to her name.

But instead of typing, I close the app and let my phone go dark.

For now, I lean back in my seat, close my eyes, and picture her on the mound today.

The way she probably had that look—the one that says she knows exactly what pitch is coming next, and exactly where it’s going.

The way she probably blew that last strikeout pitch right past some poor Texas hitter who never had a chance.

Fourteen strikeouts. Two home runs.

Some people make extraordinary look easy.

I should know. I’m in love with one of them.

Too bad I can’t find the courage to tell her.

And I can’t blame my mistakes on anyone else. I can’t chalk this up to a bad bounce or a misplayed ball.

This mistake, it’s an earned run. No errors, no one else to blame. My words, my choices, my doubts—it’s on me. I own this loss. I earned it.