Page 25

BASE PATHS

JAXON

The areas between the bases are marked out with dirt. The runner can’t run outside these marks to avoid a tag.

S unlight pours over Husky Stadium, turning the turf almost blinding green and casting sharp shadows beneath the grandstands.

The outfield fence, decked in purple and gold, practically vibrates in the glare.

Players’ cleats crunch on the warning track, and the smell of freshly cut grass mixes with distant notes of grilled onions from the concession stands.

The stands are empty now, but the distant bark of a vendor echo across the field, promising the place will be buzzing by first pitch.

Once the season kicks off, it feels like I’m living out of my baseball bag more than my dorm.

One week I’m in Austin, sweating through my jersey; the next I’m back in Washington, where the spring air still has that winter bite.

Then it’s down to UCLA, where the palm trees make me forget what month it is.

And finally, back home for a Friday night showdown against our biggest cross-state rivals, the Washington State Cougars.

If you’ve ever played ball in Washington, you know these east-west matchups hit different.

The rivalry cuts deeper than baseball—like the whole state draws a line right down the Cascade Mountains.

Tonight’s game has my blood humming, and not just because of baseball.

Camdyn’s supposed to be back from Texas this morning, and my stomach does this weird flip every time I think about seeing her.

I won’t admit this to anyone, but I fucking miss her.

Three weeks of texts and late-night FaceTimes that, well, got steamy fast. But neither of us wants to talk about what’s really building between us—we’re ducking that pitch like it’s wild and we’re not wearing helmets.

The weirdest part? I’m actually nervous about seeing her.

Beside me, Jameson’s doing his usual pregame weather obsession, squinting at imaginary clouds. “It better not fucking rain.”

I glance up at the perfectly blue sky. “It’s not gonna rain. Chill.”

Jameson’s got more riding on tonight than just a W.

Their ace pitcher apparently talked shit during summer ball, and now it’s turned into this whole thing.

Social media’s calling it the Battle of the Best, which sounds like something ESPN made up on a slow news day, but I get it.

Both of them throw heat in the upper 90s, both projected first-round picks.

The dugout buzzes, electric as the air before a thunderstorm.

“Yo?” August, our freshman third baseman who still doesn’t get personal space, shoves his phone in my face. “Ya see this?”

It’s a TikTok from the softball team’s bus ride.

I pretend I’m not searching for Camdyn, but who am I kidding?

She’s not there, of course. While other players are doing coordinated dances and mugging for the camera, Camdyn’s probably in the back with her headphones on, studying game film.

That’s her thing—let her arm do the talking while everyone else chases likes.

The only face-on pics of her are the official team shots, and even then she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

It’s actually refreshing. In a world where everyone’s trying to be an influencer, she’s just trying to influence the strike zone.

I push the phone away. “Lock in, man.”

He gets the message, tucks his phone before I have to throw it in the equipment bag.

We’ve got a strict no-phone policy in the dugout, but freshmen test it like it’s an Olympic sport.

They learn quick, especially after Coach Allen starts his phone collection hobby.

Nothing teaches discipline like watching your iPhone become a hostage for a week.

Morning BP’s winding down, and I’m watching Lou, our new hitting coach, give Kingston the death stare.

Kingston’s been using Ollie’s head for target practice with shagged balls—because apparently being twenty doesn’t mean you’ve outgrown being twelve.

No one but Jameson is buying the Weather Channel’s fifteen percent chance of rain.

Coach Lou’s an interesting character study.

The man speaks fluent eyebrow-raise, and his disapproving head shake is legendary.

But there’s something simmering under that quiet surface.

He reminds me of my dad’s friend Owen—always jokes and smiles until someone crosses a line, then suddenly it’s full Incredible Hulk.

I once watched Owen blast my dad with a fire hose during a barbecue.

Those things hit harder than a fastball to the ribs.

I nudge Jameson, who’s still on his amateur meteorologist grind, as I strap on my batting gloves. “Go piss him off.”

Jameson peers up from under his hat. “Why?”

“I wanna see what happens when he’s mad.”

“Nah, fuck y’all. You do it.”

“No way, bro.” I step onto the field, feeling the familiar crunch of cleats on dirt. “I’m not stupid.”

Jameson snorts and parks himself on the bench. “And I am?”

“Mmm. Debatable some days.” I shrug and take a few practice cuts.

“Bitch, whatever.” He rolls his eyes as I join Ollie in the on-deck circle.

I elbow Ollie. “Ya think Lou has a temper?”

Ollie wipes his face with his sleeve, thinking. “If anyone’s gonna find out, it’s gonna be King.”

“True.” Can’t argue with that. But right now, my mind’s split between tonight’s game and wondering if Camdyn’s plane has landed.

Three weeks is a long time to go without seeing that smile she saves for me—the one that makes me forget about batting averages and ERAs and everything except her.

But first, we’ve got a rivalry game to win, and I’ve got about six hours to get my head on straight.

We’re finishing up BP when I hear Jameson laugh. “Jax. Come look at this.”

I glance down the dugout, where he’s hunched over his bag like he’s guarding nuclear launch codes. Come to think of it, he’s been weirdly focused on that bag the last hour. “What?”

He waves me over, trying to look innocent and failing. “C’mere.”

I keep packing up my gear, taking my sweet time. “If you have another squirrel in your bag, no.”

“Nah, man. I don’t.”

After a long, suspicious drink from my water bottle, I make my way over, cleats scraping against the concrete. I keep my distance—I learned that lesson in Texas when he “surprised” me with a scorpion.

“What? I’ma punch you in the face if that’s a snake or some shit.”

He points into his bag, grinning. “Look.”

Reluctantly, I peer over the edge, half-expecting something to pop out. Instead, I’m staring into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on a cat. A tiny black furball looking up at us like we’re the weird ones.

“Jameson,” I sigh, already knowing where this is going. “Get that thing out of there.”

“No.” He pets its head like he’s found his soulmate. “He needs me. His mom isn’t here.”

“How would you know? Maybe she’s out finding food.”

“He’s not a bird. If the mom left, she ain’t coming back.”

I blink, trying to decide if this is classic Jameson bullshit or if he actually knows what he’s talking about. With him, it’s always a coin flip. “How would you know?”

He rolls his eyes like I’m the dumbest person alive. “I grew up in the country. I know these things.”

“Mhm.” I back away and grab my Gatorade. “You can’t keep it.”

“What are you, my fucking dad? Why not?”

I take a long drink, staring at him. “You live in a dorm room.”

“So? It’s not a dog. We don’t have to walk it.” Jameson cradles the kitten against his chest like it’s glass, and the little thing lets out the world’s tiniest meow. Great. “It really likes me.”

“Awesome.” I cap my Gatorade. “It imprinted on you.”

He frowns. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re its mom now, country boy.”

“What? I’d be the dad. You’re the mom.”

Before I can defend my masculinity, Coach Allen strolls in, and Jameson slams his bag shut so fast I worry he’s given the kitten whiplash. Coach doesn’t notice anything but his clipboard as he announces, “Get some food, boys. Be back by three for warmups.”

As soon as the dugout clears, Jameson sets his bag down and the tiny black missile launches out, running circles between our legs like it’s had three espressos, screaming its head off and trying to climb Jameson like a tree.

I watch the circus, already defeated. “I’m not taking care of that thing.”

“Bro, we live together.” Jameson scoops up his new best friend. “Joint custody.”

I shake my head, already thinking about texting Camdyn a pic—she’d probably love this little demon. He looks like a furry penguin. “You were one of those kids who brought home strays, weren’t you?”

“No, but I did hide a baby goat in my closet for a week.”

Of course he did. “How’d your parents not notice?”

“I don’t know.” Jameson shrugs. “Their room was on the other end of the house.”

“So when’d they find it?”

He laughs. “When it chewed through the wall into my sister’s room.”

The kitten meows again, and I can already see my future: our dorm room, unauthorized pet sanctuary, all because Jameson can’t resist a stray.

As you probably guessed, Jameson’s powers of persuasion (or my temporary insanity) won out, and now we have an illegal dorm resident who’s claimed my pillow as his kingdom.

I groan, watching this tiny black menace make biscuits on my perfectly arranged bedding. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

Here’s something most people don’t know about me: I’ve got OCD.

Not the casual kind where people joke about pencils lined up—I mean the real deal.

Everything in my space has an order, a purpose, a place.

And animal fur? That’s my own personal nightmare.

Invisible chaos floating around, landing on everything. And now it’s on my pillow.

The pillow my face goes on.

The pillow I washed yesterday.

Completely unacceptable.

Jameson’s too busy admiring his new son to notice my crisis. “What should we name him?”

“What if it’s a girl?”

“I checked. It’s a boy.”