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COMEBACKER

JAXON

A ball hit back to the pitcher.

I ’m lying in the dark of my dorm, staring at my phone—Camdyn’s name lit up on the screen. I can’t get the baseball field sex out of my head, or how fucking good I feel when I’m with her—especially compared to nights like this, alone.

Mookie headbutts my phone for the third time, trying to steal my pillow. I swear he’s doing it just to piss me off enough to give it back.

“Mookie,” I mutter, nudging him aside. He meows, as if I’m the one being annoying, then goes right back to gnawing on the corners of my phone case. “Bro, stop that.”

He doesn’t.

My thumb hovers over our message thread—the last text was six hours ago.

Just a “good game!!” after she struck out twelve against ASU.

After the field sex, Camdyn flew to Arizona.

We faced Stanford at home and then we head to California tomorrow to play USC, but all I can think about is her and what she’s doing now.

Probably on the bus, buzzing from the win.

I want to text her. Ask what she’s doing. But I don’t. I can’t.

I click the phone off, then on. 11:42 p.m.

The urge to text is a real, physical ache. I want every detail about her game, including her third-inning bomb to center.

But I hesitate. I’m confusing her, and I know what she wants—commitment. She has me, no question. I love her. But I can’t give her what she deserves: a real relationship, not these stolen moments and mixed signals.

I roll onto my back, arm over my eyes. Mookie immediately relocates to my chest, curling up with his butt in my face.

The ceiling fan spins lazy circles overhead, but sleep is impossible.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her smile, or think about the sex, and how badly I want more.

I think about taking care of my hard dick, but I don’t.

My phone buzzes. For a second, my heart jumps, but it’s just the team chat. King sent another dumb meme.

I try not to think about Camdyn. Usually, I manage during the day, or until someone says her name. It’s not that she doesn’t cross my mind—she does, all the time. I’m just busy enough to distract myself.

Until I can’t.

Until thinking about her, and how much I’m hurting her, sits in my stomach like a stone. This thing between us, this closeness, my need for her—it’s something I might never figure out.

Lying there, phone above my face, I stare at our thread. Mookie keeps attacking my hand every time I lower it. He’s obsessed with fingers—or anything that moves, honestly, but fingers are his favorite chew toys. It’s annoying as hell and hurts. His teeth are tiny razors.

Why can’t I give her what she wants? Is there some deep-rooted childhood trauma?

I spent my early years running wild in a hotel, best friends with an alcoholic doorman named Tom who taught me way more about girls than a ten-year-old needed to know.

Once I hit middle school, I basically lived at the ball field.

But my family was loving. My childhood was happy.

The only time life wasn’t perfect, I was ten.

My dad almost died in a commercial fire.

He’s a firefighter, so that’s always a risk, but this was different.

Three months in the hospital for burns, broken bones, smoke inhalation.

He still chose to go back. He taught me you can love something so much, even if it could kill you.

Even if everyone tells you to stop, you can’t.

Mookie pounces on my chest, claws digging in. He’s relentless—just like I know Camdyn’s thoughts about us probably are. I know she’s wondering what we are, where this is going. The way my heart jumps every time I see her name on my screen.

But I stay indecisive, unable to give her what she wants, and refusing to let go. I don’t know if it’s an insecurity or what. I’m not unloved. I’m not tormented by demons. I’m just... confused. Torn between the diamond and the girl who deserves all of me, not half.

You ever hear that saying? Baseball is half talent, mostly mental. It’s probably the only sport where failing seventy percent of the time makes you a legend.

Think about it. Ted Williams, Babe Ruth, Willie Mays—legends, but they walked back to the dugout disappointed way more often than they rounded the bases. A .300 average means you missed seven out of ten.

That’s what makes baseball beautiful. It’s a nine-inning lesson in resilience, not just a game. The thing is, Camdyn isn’t a game. She’s real, and every time I pull back when she wants more, I’m not just striking out—I’m breaking her heart.

Some days it feels like we’re both standing at the plate, watching strike three sail by. In baseball, you get another at-bat. With her, I might not.

Here’s what the game’s taught me lately: tomorrow’s another game. Another shot. The greats don’t quit after a strikeout. They study what went wrong, adjust, and step back in. Every pitch is a new chance, every at-bat a fresh start.

But I can’t seem to step all the way in when it comes to us.

Maybe that’s why I love baseball so much. Deep down, I know what it’s like to fail. Swing and miss. Watch hope go foul. But I also know what it’s like when everything connects and all the strikeouts are worth it.

So I keep stepping up to the plate. Even if, sometimes, I wonder if I’m in the wrong game.

“I swear to God, if I’m benched because you made me late, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” I tell Jameson as we sprint for the bus.

The early morning Seattle fog clings to everything, the world thick and gray, like we’re running through soup.

I hate being late. Especially for the team bus—Coach Allen would literally murder us, then mount our heads above the dugout as a warning.

“Chill, man.” Jameson wheezes next to me. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Yeah, well, this is your fault.”

He’s gasping, barely keeping pace. “How?”

“You brought the damn cat to our dorm, and now he thinks turning the place into his personal escape room is a game. This is the fourth time I’ve chased his little ass down the hall this week!”

Jameson chuckles between breaths. “Come on, you gotta admit, watching you army-crawl under the vending machine was pretty fucking funny. I think Mookie thinks he’s winning.”

“Fuck you,” I pant, realizing I really need more cardio if I get winded crossing campus.

“You’re not a morning person, are you?”

I don’t answer because suddenly Inez materializes through the fog like some badly-dressed ghost. Again. She’s rocking at least three different plaids, none of them matching, her thick black glasses sitting crooked.

Jameson snorts and jogs ahead. “Don’t be late, lover boy.”

“I hope you trip,” I call after him, then stop in front of Inez because my mom raised me right, even if this is the third “random” run-in this week. “What’s up?” I manage, trying not to sound annoyed. The guys from the bus start catcalling and making kissy noises. Real mature.

She frowns at the bus, then at me. “Why are they doing that?”

I shrug, run a hand over my face and adjust my hat. “No idea.”

She glances between the bus and me. “Oh, you’re leaving. Where to?” I hoist my bag onto my shoulder. The weight of my catcher’s gear feels right. Familiar. Grounding. Way easier than this awkward conversation.

“Cali. USC tomorrow.” I start inching toward the bus, hoping she’ll get the hint. She doesn’t.

“Oh, okay.” She shifts her weight, adjusts her glasses, and digs in her messenger bag, which is covered in hand-drawn anime. “I actually have some questions about?—”

“JAXON!” Coach Allen’s voice booms from the bus. “Unless you’re planning to WALK to California, get your ass on this bus NOW!”

“I’ll, uh, let you go,” Inez finally says, looking disappointed as she pushes her glasses up again. “Maybe I could text you the questions?”

“Yeah, maybe?—”

“RYAN!”

I roll my eyes. “Gotta go.”

She says something under her breath, but I miss it. Never been so grateful for Coach’s drill sergeant routine. As I jog to the bus, Jameson is waiting, watching Inez walk away. “Your girlfriend’s outfit is giving me a migraine.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I shove my hand in his face. “She’s not my girlfriend and you know it.”

“Mhm. You still talking to her?”

“No.” I slump into a seat near the back, ignoring the whoops and whistles from the team. The bus lurches forward, and through the foggy window, I watch Inez’s mismatched silhouette disappear into the gray. My phone buzzes against my leg.

Jameson’s head pops up over the seat. “Ten bucks she’s already writing an article about your junk.”

“Twenty says I throw you out the emergency exit.”

“You’re so cranky.” He grins, nods at my phone. “How’s Cam?”

I refuse to answer. Still, I can’t help checking Camdyn’s location—the little dot shows her at her dorm, probably passed out after that brutal series in Arizona. The softball team went 3-1 against ASU, and knowing Cam, she’s still pissed about that one loss. She’d texted at midnight:

deaddd

don't wake me unless building's on fire

maybe not even then

My thumb hovers over the message icon. It’s barely 5:15 AM; she needs the sleep, but?—

“What do you think of this collar?” Jameson shoves his phone in my face, chucks a protein bar at my head with his other hand.

I refuse to look at his Amazon cart full of random cat shit. “I don’t care. Stop talking.”

“You’re a bad?—”

“King!” I call out to the seat behind. “Trade with me?”

“Nah,” King mumbles, already half-asleep. “I can’t listen to him for twelve hours.”

The bus hits a pothole—someone’s bag spills, sunflower seeds everywhere. Coach Allen yells from the front: “Whoever made that mess better clean it up before we hit Oregon, or you’re all running poles!”

I turn back to my phone, pull up my thread with Camdyn.

heading to cali

didn’t want to wake you

murder those sun devils for me yesterday?

I delete it before sending.

She needs sleep more than my random thoughts. Instead, I shoot off:

on the bus

text when you’re up