Page 35

PICKLE

JAXON

The occurrence when the defense chases after a baserunner caught in-between bases.

W hat the fuck am I doing? Why can’t I stop myself from wanting her? Probably because nothing that feels this good could ever be wrong. And damn, Camdyn makes me feel so good.

I haven’t seen Camdyn much this week. She was in California, then Utah, and I was bouncing around Texas, Utah, Oregon, and now, finally, home again.

For a few nights, anyway. My mind keeps drifting to the last time I saw her—the way she looked at me.

I overthink every look, every touch, every second of silence between us.

“What the fuck?” I slam the keys again. The screen is still black. “It’s not doing anything. This damn thing never works.”

I’m so not in the mood for this shit today, and the last place I want to be when the sun is out is stuck in a damn classroom.

Jameson looks up from his phone at the computer screen, then at me like I’ve disappointed him. “It’s not even on, genius.”

“Bro, what?” I check the screen and the start button on the side. “It’s not?”

“Nah, man.” He glances down at his phone. “The light would be green.”

He’s right. It’s not on. This is what happens when you’re running on three hours of sleep in college. “Oh.”

“Yo, you talk to King today?” He flips his phone around in his hand.

“No. Why?”

“He came into class today covered in blood.”

I raise an eyebrow. “His blood?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

I stare at Jameson, thinking how random that is—but then again, it’s not for King.

Kingston’s the kind of dude where you’re never sure what the hell his personal life looks like.

I have no idea what he’s doing off the field, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to know.

The dude is a little crazy. He fucks around a lot, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a drug dealer on speed dial during the off-season.

“Jaxon?” I hear someone call, and I immediately recognize the voice. “Are you in here?”

Fuck.

She found me. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, you’re about to. My stomach drops, guilt tangling with annoyance. I’ve been dodging her texts for weeks, and now here she is, probably wanting answers I don’t have the balls to give.

The moment Inez comes into view, Jameson sighs and pushes away from the table. “I’m out. Mookie is missing me.” He holds up his phone to show his screensaver: him with the damn cat. On my pillow.

I slap his phone out of his hand. Idiot. “That cat does not miss you.”

“He does.”

“Don’t go.” I try to grab the back of his hoodie, but he’s too quick. “Help meeeee.”

“I can’t. I’m really busy.” He keeps walking, leaving me to clean up this mess I made.

“Hello, Jameson,” Inez says softly as he passes her, her voice all apologetic and shrinking.

Jameson doesn’t say anything but waves and keeps his head down.

None of my friends like Inez. I think it’s because of Camdyn, and they all love her, but I haven’t asked.

Honestly, I don’t give a fuck because it’s not like I’m dating Inez and need their approval.

But standing here, watching her fidget in her oversized sweater, pushing those thick-rimmed glasses up her nose, I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

“I’ve tried texting you, but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh, yeah.” I take my hat off and turn it backward, buying time, avoiding her dark eyes behind those glasses that look both hurt and hopeful. “I’ve been busy.”

“Oh.” That’s all she says, but somehow that single syllable carries the weight of every ignored text, every missed call.

I feel like a dick for ghosting her, but how the hell do I talk to her, or text her back, when I’m still clearly hung up on Camdyn?

And still sleeping with her. It’s better to ghost Inez than try to explain this mind-fuck inside me, right?

The way Camdyn’s name echoes in my head even when I’m with someone else, the way I can’t seem to want anyone else, even when I try. Even when I should.

“What’s up?” I ask as she stands next to me in jeans with paint splatters, two inches too short, and her usual black Converse taped together with duct tape. The shoes somehow make this worse. They’re so perfectly Inez, so earnestly different from Camdyn’s curated athlete aesthetic.

I’m honestly surprised Inez is here. I haven’t texted her in weeks and never replied when she sent me a video of my grand slam after the WSU game. Yeah, dick move.

She hands me a paper. “Can you look at my article for me? Since you know sports and stuff. It’s on the girls’ baseball team.”

Baseball team? I stare up at her as she perches on the desk.

There’s something endearing about how nervous she is, all mismatched clothes and jittery energy, but that just makes me feel worse.

Because I know I led her on, and my heart was never in it.

“You mean softball team? We don’t have girls’ baseball. ”

“Oh, yeah, whatever.” She waves her hand like it’s nothing, her black hair falling in her face as she adjusts her glasses again. “Same thing.”

All right. Maybe taking a quiz isn’t so bad.

Probably better than reading another one of Inez’s articles on why band should be a sport.

Yes, you heard that right. And no, I do not want to explain.

That was during the brief window when I thought I could move on from Camdyn.

When I convinced myself that maybe someone I wasn’t so attracted to was what I needed.

Spoiler: it backfired, because the moment I started talking to Inez, I couldn’t stop running back to Camdyn.

“Uh, it’s really not.” I fight back laughter as Inez’s brows scrunch together and she adjusts her glasses yet again. “They’re very different sports,” I say, trying—and failing—to be gentle.

“How so?” She gives me a what the fuck does it matter look, but it’s about as threatening as a puppy. That’s Inez—she tries to be confrontational, but she’s more like a frustrated librarian silently scolding you for being too loud. “It’s a bat and a ball and you score a point.”

“Girl, what? Sports journalism is not for you.” I lean back, laughing at her serious concentration.

Maybe I shouldn’t be such an ass. Whatever.

Except I do care, because I can see the hurt on her face, and I’m being a dick again.

“You score runs, not points. The balls are different sizes. The bats are completely different—wood, aluminum. Field sizes, everything?—”

“Jaxon,” she groans and tries to grab her paper back, cheeks going red. I snatch it away. “Okay, okay, I get it. Can you just read it?”

“Yeah.” I scan the paper and focus on her title. Hm. “Madness on the Mound?”

“Yeah?” She sighs, clearly frustrated. “Is that not good?”

“Well, um. Mound?”

“What now? Are you just gonna pick it apart or actually give me feedback?”

She’s pissed and I’m making it worse by the second. Maybe that’s better. Maybe if she’s mad at me, this will be easier. Maybe she’ll stop looking at me with those goddamn eager eyes that make me feel like a fraud.

“I’m not trying to pick it apart, but if you’re writing about softball, you gotta get the terminology right. Did you do any research?”

“Yes?”

She’s obviously offended and I know I should shut the fuck up, but I don’t. I point to the paper. “There’s no mound. It’s called a circle.”

Inez turns, looking at me like I’ve lost it. “Oh my God. Does it matter?” She smacks my shoulder. “Just read it.”

“All right, chill. I’m reading.” I keep going. “But it matters to them and everyone who loves the sport, so I’d fix it.”

Drawing in a deep breath, I read her first paragraph.

The arm that led the Huskies to their first college world series appearance in fifteen years. Does this lefty strong arm have what it takes to finish the job this year?

“Wait.” I look at Inez suspiciously, my heart suddenly hammering. “Is this about Cam?”

“Camdyn O’Hara?” She nods, like this shouldn’t be a problem, but if I was even half awake, I’d pick up on her expression. She knows about Camdyn and me. It’s written all over her damn face. “Yeah.”

But I’m not picking up on anything except the pounding in my chest, rage and protectiveness mixing with something else—fear.

Fear of someone else telling Camdyn’s story wrong, of defining her by her worst moment.

Fear of what this means about Inez writing about her, about whether this is revenge for my ghosting, about whether I’ve managed to hurt both of them at once.

“You interviewed her?” Camdyn hasn’t said a word to me about Inez. Not a damn thing. My throat feels tight, thinking about Cam sitting across from Inez, neither of them knowing the full story. “When?”

“Yes. Couple weeks ago. Before their games against Arizona.”

That was before the home series against WSU. Weeks ago. My chest is so tight I’m about to have an anxiety attack or a heart attack—pick your poison. I swallow hard.

“Oh.” I don’t know if Inez knows about me and Cam. I’ve been careful not to mention her, but even if I did, I’d never talk shit about Camdyn or spill about her career. The thought makes me sick.

She shifts, fingers picking at a loose thread on her sweater. “Is there something wrong?”

Fuck you, I think, but I don’t answer. My throat tightens as I keep reading, and it feels like someone’s injecting ice into my veins. Each word feels like a personal attack, not just on Camdyn, but on everything I know about her, everything we’ve shared.

If you’ve spent any time near Husky Stadium in the spring, one name keeps coming up. Camdyn O’Hara. Left-handed sophomore pitcher who led the Huskies to their first World Series appearance in over a decade as a freshman starter.

The bigger question: Can O'Hara close the deal this year?

Last year they were one game from the College World Series when O’Hara fell apart in the closing innings after allowing zero hits in the previous six. So what led to the breakdown captured by millions?