Page 29

Damn it. Stop. Focus. You’re in public. This is not the time or place to relive how his hands felt on my skin or how he—nope.

Stop it, dumbass. Baseball. Watch baseball.

“Wait.” Callie stares at Jameson, thankfully interrupting my increasingly dirty thoughts. “Is Jameson pitching?”

“I would think so, since Jaxon’s catching tonight.” I glance at her, still licking ‘real’ nacho cheese like a five-year-old. “He was warming up when we got here.”

“Oh. I didn’t notice.”

Of course not. She was distracted by food. The girl could miss the apocalypse if someone waved a fry in front of her. “Have you talked to him lately?”

She leans in, the stadium music drowning her words. “We texted the other day.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.” She does that indecisive head tilt, eyes glazed, the same look she gets when Coach explains a new defense. “It’s always weird.”

I look at Jaxon, crouched behind the plate, ready for warmups. “You always say it’s weird with him. But you keep texting.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t like him, why text?”

She sighs, staring at her nachos like they’ll give her life answers. “I don’t know what it means.”

She probably doesn’t. But when Jameson takes the mound, his eyes find Callie and her cheeks flush. Every time she watches him pitch, she goes right back to texting and then they hook up. Most predictable game of baseball ever—you always know what pitch is coming.

“Yeah, but it’s confusing for him when you text randomly,” I point out. I feel bad for the guy—he clearly likes her. The way he looks at her reminds me of how Jaxon used to look at me. Before everything got complicated.

“Nooo. It’s not like that.” She sets down her nachos—another half-eaten snack for the trash. “We’re just friends.”

I gesture at Jameson on the mound. “Does he know that?”

“Yesss.” She rolls her eyes.

“Mhm.” I don’t think he does. Just like I don’t think Jaxon knows what we are. Or maybe he does and I’m the one left in the dark. Story of my life lately.

The top of the first flies by—three straight batters gone, victims of Jameson’s nasty knuckleball and change-up. His pitches have insane movement on them. The batters don’t stand a chance.

Jaxon’s hitting leadoff tonight, which is rare. He’s usually three or four, but coaches mix it up for certain games. WSU’s got a stacked lineup and bullpen, so you put your best at the top.

Jaxon’s walk-up song starts—and it’s the same as mine.

Did he know? He had to. My walk-up was in my last home run video, posted on Instagram. Jaxon liked it, commented with an ice emoji.

He looks over his shoulder as he goes to the plate, but no eye contact. My heart speeds up and I want him to look at me, but he doesn’t. He’s locked in. Game mode. All business, no distractions. Not even for the girl in his hoodie.

As he stands at the plate, I remember the first time he told me he loved me. I smile.

We weren’t careless with those words. Even in the end, never careless or vindictive. Maybe that’s what makes this harder. No clean break, no villain. Just two people who couldn’t make it work but can’t let go.

In fact, Jaxon didn’t tell me he loved me until freshman year of high school. We’d been together over a year before he said it. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Late spring, after a high school game, he handed me his first home run ball and whispered, “Something special for someone special.” He kissed me and said, “I love you.”

I can still feel how my heart pounded. So innocent.

So real, when love didn’t come with expectations and hidden truths.

I loved him, so consumed in what I felt for him, nothing else mattered.

Everything was simpler then. Baseball was just a game, love was just love, and the future was bright and endless.

Smiling, I watch him take the first pitch. Strike, but high in the zone—he leaves it. Next is a knuckleball in the dirt, then a foul tip. He barrels up the fourth pitch—line drive to left, splits the gap, classic Jaxon. He’s left at third as the inning ends with two pop-ups and a lineout.

The Cougs get on the board first after a string of errors—one by King at short, two more by third base. The kind of inning that makes pitchers want to throw gloves.

Jameson’s pissed, tossing his glove at the ump after the inning for inspection and you don’t have to read his lips to know he’s saying some not-so-nice things. I get it. Nothing worse than throwing perfect pitches and watching your defense fall apart.

“Uh oh,” Callie says, watching Jameson lay into his coach. “He looks pissed.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “It sucks when you get ground balls and the defense can’t handle it.”

“Yikes,” she says, biting off a piece of Red Rope. She’s gone through more candy than a Halloween trick-or-treater.

Jaxon gets a hit in the second and scores, tying it 2-2.

He grounds out his second at-bat, flies out in the fifth, then homers in the seventh giving them an 8-6 lead.

Every time he rounds first, I hold my breath, watching for that subtle head tilt toward our section.

Sometimes it comes, sometimes not. It’s like trying to predict a knuckleball—impossible, and you look stupid for trying.

They end up going into innings. WSU ties it in the ninth and the tension in the stadium is thick enough to choke on.

“Oh my gosh!” Callie’s jumping up and down. “I’m so nervous.”

“I know, right?” My hands are actually shaking. You’d think I was playing, not watching.

Top of the tenth, WSU homers to right off Jameson’s hanging curve, but that’s all they get.

My nerves are shot. “This is literally insane,” Callie says, clinging to my arm as we scream for the Dawgs. Her nails dig into my skin but I barely notice.

Hands over my face, I glance at the scoreboard. Cougars up by one. We have to score to tie or win.

Jaxon comes up, bases loaded, two outs, bottom of the tenth. “I can’t watch.” But I do. He walks up like he owns the place. That’s what I love—if he’s nervous, you’d never know.

If it were me, I’d be pacing, adjusting my gloves seventeen times, muttering to myself like a lunatic.

Callie leans in over the roar of the crowd. “I can’t believe how calm he is!”

I laugh. “He’s always like that. Nothing fazes him on the field.”

It’s true. He keeps it all inside—Dad taught him early. Baseball is ninety percent mental, the rest is physical.

Jaxon doesn’t look at me, but the intensity on his face makes me flush. He looks so damn good under the lights, shadows making him look older, dangerous. Everyone’s on their feet. It’s one of those moments that feels unreal. But it’s happening.

I glance at Inez. She’s screaming, cheering, phone up, probably recording him.

Will she text him later? Or is this for some article about the star catcher?

Doubtful. Either way, I hate that she gets to have this memory on her phone.

Stupid, because I have six years of memories of him on mine. But this feels different.

I think about filming him myself, but fuck it, I want to actually live the moment. Some things shouldn’t be on a screen.

Jaxon works a 3-2 count. Fouls off three pitches—one down the third-base line, one that nearly kills the ump, one just foul of right. He steps out and takes a breath. I know he doesn’t want a walk. He wants that walk-off. Under the lights, home field, bases loaded—every kid’s dream.

The pitcher winds up. I can’t tell you what he throws, but Jaxon barrels it up, sends it soaring to center. The crack of the bat echoes. Jaxon knows, we all know. It’s gone before it lands—a white dot swallowed by the black sky, gone into the roaring crowd.

Jaxon flips his bat up with practiced ease and points to the dugout.

Grand slam. Walk-off. Game over.

The stadium goes fucking ballistic. The student section is a jumping mass of gold and purple, fight song blasting, chaos everywhere.

And as he’s rounding second, my eyes go to Inez. She’s filming, jumping, smiling like she’s just seen God. And maybe she has, because that was baseball magic, but jealousy twists in my gut. She’ll text him, probably. But I got to live it. I got to wear his hoodie while it happened.

Callie grabs my arm, screaming. “Did you see that?”

I did. I saw everything. The way he kept his hands back, the perfect rotation of his hips, the slight lift in his front shoulder that told me he knew it was gone the moment he made contact.

Little things you notice when you’ve spent countless years watching someone play, hours in batting cages with them, analyzing swings and comparing notes.

I look at the student section before I can stop myself. Inez is still filming, jumping with Brynn. Something in me twists. She got the video, but I got the moment.

“Holy shit!” Callie clutches my arm. “I can’t believe that just happened!”

“I know!” I laugh, shaking her off. “Chill, girl.”

Jaxon crosses home, and before the team mobs him, his eyes find mine in the crowd. I don’t know how, but he always knows where to look. He smiles, kisses the cross around his neck—the twin to mine—and gives me a subtle nod. Private, just us, even in the chaos. The intensity makes my breath catch.

“Aww!” Callie squeezes my hand. “It’s like he hit that for you!”

He didn’t, but that look? Hot as fuck.

The team storms the field, Gatorade showers Jaxon’s head, orange catching the lights. His uniform’s drenched, hair plastered, grin wide. The crowd goes wild as the team hoists him up, chants of “JAX-ON! JAX-ON!” rolling across the stadium.

Two more games in this series, but tonight doesn’t matter. They beat their rivals under Friday night lights, bottom of the tenth, walk-off grand slam—the stuff of college baseball legend.

The celebration spills to the dugout and Jaxon’s family heads our way. Everyone gravitates to our seats, players still celebrating below. Emerson gets to us first, vibrating with excitement. His parents follow, his dad shaking his head, still in disbelief.