Page 3

DROP BALL

CAMDYN

A pitch that moves downward as it approaches the plate.

“ I ’ll be your Valentine.”

Sprawled across my twin XL bed—the cheap mattress pad doing nothing to cushion the plastic-covered springs—I scroll through my sad-as-fuck playlist. I don’t look up at Callie bouncing around our cramped dorm room, her feet padding against the industrial carpet that’s probably older than both of us.

I hate how annoyingly positive she can be.

“Go fuck yourself,” I mumble, adding another Taylor Swift song to the mix. The fairy lights strung across our cinder-block walls cast a soft glow that doesn’t match my mood. I don’t even like Taylor Swift, but it seems fitting, so why the fuck not.

“That’s harsh.” Holding up her candy bag—the same one she’s been parading around campus—she gives me puppy-dog eyes, and I want to throw my spin ball at her face. “I have candy.” It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve chucked the ball at her. The dent in our mini fridge proves that.

“Not really.” I hold out my hand, my laptop sliding precariously on my lap. “Gimme the candy.”

“No.” She pulls the bag back, the plastic crinkling. “Why do you hate Valentine’s Day? No girl does.”

I set my phone down on my cluttered desk—covered in softball stat sheets and half-finished psychology homework—and lean back against the wall.

The cold cinder-block seeps through my Washington Huskies sweatshirt.

“It’s a stupid made-up holiday for the lazy mofos who forgot how to rizz.

” I grab my pillow and hold it on my lap like some kind of security blanket.

In some ways, it is. Do you know how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep with my face smashed into this pillow, trying to muffle the sound so my hallmates don’t hear?

Too many to count.

Callie eyes me, smiling, and curls up next to me with her candy. The bed creaks under our combined weight. She lies her head on my pillow, her dark hair sweeping over my hands, smelling like that expensive Olaplex shampoo she swears by. “Says every girl who doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“Nah.” I side-eye her as her long lashes brush her eyebrows.

Through our door, I can hear drunk freshmen stumbling down the hall, probably heading to some Valentine’s party.

“I actually hate Valentine’s Day. I’d rather deep throat a cactus and suck the devil’s nutsack than celebrate this stupid holiday. ”

“Girl, you only hate it because Jesse Miller told you your ass was fat in the sixth grade on Valentine’s Day.”

There’s probably some truth to that, but I won’t admit it. The hum of our ancient radiator fills the silence. “I hate it because it sets unrealistic expectations for men and women.”

“Soooo.” Callie picks at a loose thread on our shared blanket—the one we bought at Target freshman year.

I sigh, the sound echoing off our low ceiling. I know what she wants to ask. “What?”

“What’d he say?”

I knew Callie would ask about Jaxon eventually. It’s been a week since that day at the field, when the fog felt like it could just swallow me up. Like it or not, I had to look at the scoreboard: Jaxon and I were over. The game was over. And I wasn’t sure if there’d be another one.

I don’t know how, but I’ve made it a week, so win for me.

Well, maybe not a win, because it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m alone, staring at the photos I still haven’t taken down from my bulletin board—me and Jax at his last home game, both of us in our uniforms, his arm around my waist like it belonged there.

I only made it through the last week because I was in Florida for softball.

Now I’m back on campus and he’s clearly still talking to her.

“So?” Callie presses, shifting on my bed, making the cheap frame squeak against the wall. Our neighbors probably think we’re doing something way more interesting than wallowing in my misery.

I shrug, feeling the anxiety of the day and the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day and he’s not with me.

The empty protein shake bottle he left on my desk during our last hookup still sits there, mocking me.

“All he pretty much said was he doesn’t want a serious relationship right now. Or something like that.”

Callie rolls her eyes so hard I swear I can hear it. “He’s just saying that. He doesn’t mean it.”

Callie and I met freshman year of high school, and then got roomed together in college—her parents helped, but whatever. She’s been my best friend since I was fourteen.

When we first met, we hated each other because I wouldn’t share my gum.

Eventually, when Callie realized I’d never share (because she had her own pack), she befriended the girl with the tough resting bitch face.

I’m not actually a bitch. I just act like it.

Well, okay, I can be one if you piss me off.

But my tough exterior is just me not wanting to let anyone in.

I care too much. I love too hard, and it’s hard for me to let go completely—even if it breaks me.

“He’s going to realize he’s messing up.” Callie picks up one of my worn batting gloves and runs her fingers over the leather.

She’s been the biggest supporter of Jax and me. I’m not sure who cried more when we broke up—me, Callie, or my mom. The group chat they started without me called “Operation Get Them Back Together” isn’t as secret as they think.

“That’s not how he really feels,” Callie adds, tossing a Sour Patch Kid in her mouth.

I shrug and reach for her candy bag resting on her stomach. I set it on my pillow and dig through it, the wrappers crinkling in the quiet room. “I wouldn’t know how he feels anymore. He doesn’t tell me.”

Her face scrunches up in disgust, lit by the blue glow of her phone screen. “So he’s dating her?”

“I guess so. Casually.” The word tastes bitter in my mouth, like dining hall coffee left on the warmer too long.

“Wow.”

I pick through the candy in my hand, searching for Swedish Fish and Skittles. I like the crunch and squish together. “You know, I knew when he said she wanted to interview him that they’d like each other.”

“Really? I would have never seen it. I have chemistry with her. She’s actually so different from him.” Callie’s voice echoes off the walls.

“Yeah, but he’s a nice guy, you know?” I stick two Swedish Fish and a few Skittles in my mouth. “He likes people for their personality and I get it, she’s nice from what I’ve heard, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Callie blows out a breath and sits up, the box of chocolates Jameson gave her in her hand. The mattress springs protest. “That sucks.” She stares at the heart-shaped box, already dented at one corner. “Girl, why’d Jameson give these to me?”

“Because he loves you.” A loud burst of laughter from the hallway makes us both jump. Probably the girls from 3B coming back from their Valentine’s party.

The story of Callie and Jameson is as complicated as Jax and me.

They dated last year, on and off, but Callie has commitment issues.

Their relationship timeline is documented in Polaroids stuck to our mirror, showing a year’s worth of almost-but-not-quite moments.

They always come back to each other, but Callie won’t commit.

So they go back and forth, talking and ghosting each other.

Huh. Maybe she’s rubbing off on Jaxon.

I chew on gummy candies and glance at Callie, now sprawled across my UW blanket—the one Jax got me after I committed. “Am I being dramatic when I say him dating her over me feels like my heart is going to explode into a thousand pieces?”

“No.” She gasps, her charm bracelet jingling as she gestures wildly.

“Honestly, I’d feel the same way if Jameson actually got a girlfriend.

” She turns toward me, the box of chocolates still in her hand, crinkling the wrapper of a forgotten granola bar beneath her.

“Camdyn, he’s all you’ve ever known. When I think of you or Jaxon, I think of you guys together.

I wish a guy would look at me the way Jaxon looks at you. ”

“Jameson does.”

“No, he looks at me like he’s confused.”

I snort, the sound echoing off our low ceiling. “Can you blame him? He’s been trying to date you for over a year.”

“I know.”

Before I can ask why she won’t date him this month (it’s a different reason every month), Brynn walks into our room holding a single rose, letting in a blast of hallway air that smells like burnt popcorn and someone’s questionable attempt at ramen.

“Kingston gave me a rose!” she announces, her eyes full of excitement. “An actual rose!”

Brynn Zimmerman plays with me on the softball team. She’s my catcher—the one who befriended the shy pitcher who rarely talks and overthinks everything to the point of anxiety. Or an ulcer. I’m thinking I might have an ulcer. The bottle of Tums on my nightstand is getting dangerously low.

“Jameson gave me chocolates.” Callie holds up the box as Brynn kicks off her slippers, the fuzzy pink monstrosities landing next to our overflowing laundry basket. “That’s weird.”

I don’t know why but I’m suddenly pissed at both of them for not appreciating their gifts.

The LED strip lights Callie insisted on hanging flash an angry red, matching my mood.

“You don’t deserve these!” I rip the chocolates from her hands and Brynn laughs.

I toss the rest of the candy from the bag in my hand at Callie, some of it getting lost in the abyss between my bed and the wall.

“This is why I fucking hate this stupid, made-up holiday!”

Brynn sits next to Callie, the bed frame groaning under the weight of three college athletes. Her eyes flick from Callie to me. The faint thump of bass from someone’s Valentine’s playlist down the hall provides a soundtrack to my breakdown. “What’s with her?”

“Jax is dating Inez.” (And yes, she air quotes “dating,” her silver rings catching the fairy lights.)