Page 36

My heart’s about to beat out of my chest as the paper shakes in my hand. I remember that day. Watching the game on ESPN as Camdyn’s world crashed, knowing I was part of the reason. Because you and I both know what happened days before that game. “Why are you writing about her?”

“I don’t know. I interviewed her and she seemed like the most interesting player.

” Inez shrugs, cheeks still pink, and I can tell by the way she’s fidgeting with her phone that she’s nervous.

The way she always is, but now it pisses me off.

Like she’s playing innocent when she knew exactly what she was doing.

“She had that huge breakdown and Mr. Bennett said it’d be a good piece leading into the season opener. ”

“For your paper, or Camdyn?” My pulse is pounding in my ears. The thought of Camdyn reading this, reliving that moment through someone else’s judgmental lens, makes me want to punch something. “Think about how she’s gonna feel reading this.”

She blinks slow behind those glasses, and I see something else—jealousy, maybe hurt, maybe both. “Well, sometimes we need to hear things we don’t want to.”

“Yeah, and she’s spent the last year reliving that day,” I snap.

“Inez, you don’t even know what you’re talking about.

” I stand and toss the paper on the desk, reaching for my bag.

My hands shake and I hate that they’re shaking, hate that I care this much, hate that I can’t stop caring this much. “Don’t publish this.”

“I think I know a little from my research, Jaxon. I interviewed her and her team.” Inez’s voice takes on that academic tone she uses to sound professional, but it just makes her sound more clueless. “A lot of people think she cost them the series win. She fell apart.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

“Oh yeah?” I spin to face her. Usually, I’m good at holding my cool, but not when she’s blaming Camdyn for that game. Not when I remember Camdyn walking off the field, tears streaming, looking so goddamn small. “Did you look at the stats from that game?”

“Yes,” she mumbles, searching my face, probably seeing more than I want her to.

“Clearly you didn’t, or you didn’t get what you were looking at.

” I stand up, my whole body trembling, my voice rising.

“If you’d read the box score or the game notes, you’d see the first five hits off her were errors by the middle infield.

She had a no-hitter going with eleven strikeouts against the number one team in the country.

As a fucking freshman, Inez.” She flinches at her name, but I don’t stop.

The words are pouring out, all the anger and protectiveness I’ve been holding back.

“Or maybe the loss should be on the coach who rode a nineteen-year-old pitcher outta high school for longer than humanly possible. They had four other pitchers in the bullpen and still pitched Camdyn every game. So maybe it’s on them.

I don’t fucking know, but she had the weight of the entire school on her shoulders and it wasn’t her fault.

That night was a result of everything she’d gone through before that game.

She doesn’t need a goddamn article written about her. ”

“Wait, what?” Inez’s eyes go wide behind her glasses, and I see the moment she gets it—what Camdyn means to me, why I’ve been distant, everything I never said out loud.

“Nothing.” I toss her paper on the desk and stand. I grab my bag and phone with shaky hands. “Don’t print this fucking shit. I mean it.”

Harsh, yeah. But can you blame me? Some things matter more than being nice, more than sparing someone’s feelings. And Camdyn... she matters more.

Inez jogs after me when I’m out the classroom door, her Converse squeaking across the linoleum, that goddamn duct tape probably peeling off again. “Jaxon, wait.”

I don’t. I keep walking. Fuck this. My hands are still shaking, my mind flashing back to that game, to Camdyn’s face, to everything nobody else saw. Nobody but me, because I knew the real reason for her breakdown. It’s personal and nobody needs to know it.

“I’m sorry.” She rushes after me. “Jaxon! Wait. I won’t write the article.”

I stop and cup the back of my neck, anger mixing with guilt.

Yeah, I led Inez on. Yeah, I ghosted her.

Yeah, I’m being an asshole. But this isn’t about that.

I turn to her once I’m outside, door slamming behind me.

“You better not. You have no idea the kind of pressure she was under. She doesn’t deserve that shit.

It was out of her control.” I glance at her watery eyes behind those thick frames; she looks like she might cry.

Inez barely flinches, but I know my words sting. Her black hair falls forward as she looks down, and for a second she looks so small, so lost. “Okay. I won’t.”

I can’t tell if she’s lying. I don’t know her well enough to know her intentions. But right then, my feelings for her changed. To be honest, they changed the day I told Camdyn about her and realized I never stopped wanting Camdyn. Maybe they never changed at all. Maybe I was just lying to myself.

Inez reaches out and touches my hand, her fingers cold and uncertain. “I mean it, Jaxon.” I don’t pull away, but I want to. Every bit of contact feels wrong now. “I’m sorry.”

I take a deep breath. I don’t want to have this conversation, but she insists. “It’s fine.” I pull away, stepping back. The distance feels necessary—a line between what could’ve been and what is. “Just don’t write about her.”

Shock, then sadness, flickers across her face as she processes my words. Maybe she’s surprised I snapped. Or maybe she’s finally accepting what I should’ve told her weeks ago. “Are you upset with me?”

Yes. Are you fucking blind?

Thankfully, I don’t say that out loud. I just watch her fidget with her sleeve, pushing her glasses up again—nervous habits that used to seem cute but now just remind me how wrong this all was.

“Nah.” I shake my head, nod toward the athletic hall. “I gotta go though.”

“Oh, okay.” Her eyes fall to those ridiculous duct-taped shoes. “See you around.”

I nod, posture stiff and guarded, but say nothing. Look, I know I’m being an asshole. But can you blame me? I know I can’t protect Camdyn from everything that’s written about her, but I’ll try, because she always stood up for me.

“I get it,” she says softly, eyes still glued to her shoes. She doesn’t get it. Not really. “You care about her.”

Why wouldn’t I? She’s the one person who’s always been there for me, no matter what. She gets it. Why wouldn’t I stick up for her? The question hangs between us, heavy with everything I never said, every way I tried to pretend I could move on.

I say nothing.

The late afternoon sun catches her face and for a second I remember why I liked her. She’s pretty in her own way, smart, driven... but, I don’t know. I don’t see her the same as before. Maybe because I finally stopped lying to myself about who I want.

I can see it in Inez’s eyes. She doesn’t understand any of this. How could she? She only knows bits and pieces, most of them bullshit, from whoever she asked.

“I should go,” I tell her, adjusting my bag. “I have somewhere to be.” Lie. We both know it. The slump in her shoulders says she sees right through me, but what else can I say? Sorry I led you on while I was still in love with someone else?

Inez nods, twisting her notebook until the pages crinkle. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you around.”

“Sure.”

As I walk away, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Jameson sending another selfie with Mookie, but part of me hopes it’s Camdyn.

I don’t look. Not right away. I want to pretend it’s her, asking where I am, checking on me since we haven’t seen each other this week. I want to hold onto the possibility for a moment longer.

I keep walking toward my dorm, that urge to check my phone getting stronger. Honestly, defending Camdyn wasn’t about her, or us, or even me. I defend her because, after everything—every way I’ve hurt her, every time I tried to move on—she’s the one person I can’t let go.

Camdyn is misunderstood by everyone. She’s a perfectionist, mysterious, complicated, quietly intense, and people mistake that for being selfish or bitchy or whatever. She isn’t. I hate to think anyone would write lies about her or paint her as anything but beautiful. She doesn’t deserve that.

My phone buzzes again. This time I check it, heart racing.

It’s Jameson. Pic of Mookie on my pillow. Again.

I don’t reply.

I feel like I’m stuck in a pickle. Not the kind you eat—the baseball kind, where you’re trapped between bases and the defense is running you down. That’s me, caught between moving on and looking back, stuck in the middle, chased by feelings I can’t outrun.