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“You know,” Jameson says, somehow still talking, “between your stalker journalist and Cam, you’ve got quite the—OW!” He rubs his head where my protein bar nailed him. “Uncalled for.”

“So is your existence, but here we are.”

I close my eyes, letting the bus and the bullshit fade. My phone buzzes again—probably the team chat, but I check anyway.

Camdyn

bring me back In-N-Out or don’t come back at all

I grin, typing back:

i gotchu

“Yo,” King is suddenly standing in the aisle, staring at me. “When freshie falls asleep, grab his phone and take a pic of your cock.”

I stare at King. You think he’s joking. He’s definitely not.

“Why?” I finally ask, because I know he won’t leave unless I do.

He shrugs and leans into the seat in front of me. “Why not?”

I look back at my phone. “Because I don’t want my dick on his phone.”

“He won’t know it’s yours.” He raises an eyebrow and winks. “Or will he?”

“Fuck off.” I kick his shin. “You do it.”

“Nah.” He flops down next to Ollie, probably trying to talk him into it.

I’ve said it before—Kingston’s fucking weird. Wildcard. You never know what mood he’ll show up in, and unfortunately, it sets the tone for the team. If he’s in a bad mood, we all feel it.

Today, he’s in a good mood, so maybe this twelve-hour bus ride won’t suck too much.

The USC locker room hits different when you’re the visiting team.

Everything’s too red, too polished, too.

.. them. But it’s the massive poster of Camdyn outside the locker room that stops me dead.

There she is, larger than life, frozen mid-pitch at last year’s College World Series finals—form perfect, as always.

The Trojans went all out for their Super Nationals promo.

I want to rip it off the wall. Why the fuck do they have that outside the baseball locker room? So their guys can stare at her?

The thought makes me want to puke.

“Gawdamnnn.” Nash whistles, dropping his gear bag with a thud. “Cam’s looking bad as fuck on that wall.”

I pretend to busy myself with my cleats, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. I know how good Camdyn looks in her uniform. She looks even better out of it.

The rest of the guys file in, a few pausing to stare at that poster. Yeah, she’s breathtaking in uniform. Trust me, I’m painfully aware half the conference has probably daydreamed about her. The idea of Nash looking at her like that sends a spike of anger through my chest.

He says something to Ollie I don’t catch, then smirks at me. “You still hitting that, Jax?” Nash jerks his chin at Cam’s poster. “Or is she finally available for the rest of us on the roster?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, buying time. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, everyone knows you two had something going.” Nash tosses his batting gloves in a locker. “Or still have something going? You’re not exactly subtle.”

That surprises me. I thought I was.

Across the room, Jameson catches my eye—his look says he knows exactly what’s going on.

He’s the only one who does—how Camdyn and I have been dancing around each other for months, sneaking moments between games, pretending we’re just friends.

He also knows why I can’t give her more, even though it’s killing me.

Nash chucks a Gatorade lid at me. “She single?”

“Not exactly,” I manage, voice tight.

Nash stares, smirk still on his lips. “Ah, I see.”

“Mhm.”

The rest of the team is getting ready for warm-ups, but all I can focus on is the churn in my gut.

Jealousy and anger gnaw at me. Jealousy, because I hate how other guys look at her.

Anger, because I know it’s my fault. I’m the one keeping us in this limbo.

If I could just give her what she wants—what we both want—none of this would be happening.

But as I watch Nash’s eyes drift back to that poster for the hundredth time, I know something’s gotta give. Soon. We could actually be together. Really together. Not this half-in, half-out bullshit where I use baseball as my excuse.

Nash sighs, slapping my shoulder. “Well, if things change, lemme know. I wouldn’t mind taking a swing at that.”

My hand tightens around my water bottle until the plastic squeaks. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I want to deck him. Have I mentioned I don’t like Nash? I don’t. He’s a second baseman and an infield garden gnome. I’ve seen traffic cones with better footwork.

Jameson catches my eye again, subtle head shake. He knows I’m close to snapping—one smart-ass comment away from doing something stupid that could screw up the game, or my starting spot, or both.

“Ryan.” Coach Allen’s voice cuts through. He’s at the locker room door, arms crossed. “Come with me. Now.”

Thank god. One more second of Nash’s mouth, and I might’ve shown him exactly why Camdyn and I are so “complicated.”

I follow Coach down the hall, past trophy cases packed with USC conference championships and player awards. The familiar smell of leather and pine tar hits as I drop into a chair across from his big oak desk.

He doesn’t sit. Just leans on the desk, giving me that look that’s made more freshmen squirm than a pop quiz. “You went 1-for-4 yesterday. Missed a throw down. That’s not you.”

“Just an off day.”

“Bullshit.” He never raises his voice, which somehow makes it worse. “Your head’s not in it. Hasn’t been for weeks.”

I start to protest, but he holds up a hand.

“Listen, Jax. You’re my three-hole hitter and the best damn catcher in the conference.

But postseason’s three weeks out, and I need the Jaxon Ryan who hit .

342 last year. The one who ran our defense and called pitches like a pro.

” He lets that settle. “Whatever’s going on—fix it. The team needs you locked in.”

My throat feels tight. “Yes, sir.”

“I mean it. You’ve got pro scouts at every game. Don’t let... distractions screw up what you’ve worked for.”

The way he says ‘distractions’ makes it obvious he knows exactly what—or who—is on my mind. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. Either way, he’s right. I’ve worked too hard to let my average tank because I can’t get my shit together.

Heading back to the locker room, my phone buzzes.

It’s Camdyn.

Good luck!!

Two simple words, and everything’s complicated again.

Bottom of the eighth at Jackie Robinson Stadium. We’re down one to UCLA, California sunset painting the sky orange and purple behind the palms. Even as night creeps in, the air stays thick and warm—nothing like cool Seattle evenings.

I adjust my batting gloves in the on-deck circle, watching their reliever work Ollie with that filthy slider.

I catch myself thinking about what Camdyn would throw here.

Probably a changeup, low, in the dirt. Maybe a rise ball.

It’s an 0-2 count; the next pitch should be unhittable, something to get the batter chasing. Nothing Ollie can do damage with.

The scattered UCLA crowd is getting louder, sensing their team is close to getting out of this jam. We’ve got runners on first and second, no outs. This is the spot you dream about.

I take a practice swing, feeling the weight of the bat, timing the pitcher. My heart’s racing, but not from nerves. This is what I live for. These moments. These games. The chance to be the guy.

The UCLA catcher sets up outside. Ollie swings, gets just enough of the slider.

The ball rockets straight back.

I see it coming—too late. There’s that split second, time slowing, where you know exactly what’s about to happen but can’t do a damn thing.

Ever take a foul ball to the face? It ain’t pretty.

The impact is explosive, instant. White-hot pain erupts across my face as the ball nails me square in the nose. My knees buckle. Suddenly I’m on the dirt, warm blood pouring between my fingers, mixing with sweat and turning my white gloves red.

“Shit!” Someone’s yelling—maybe Coach Allen, maybe the trainer, I don’t know. My ears are ringing too loud to tell.

The dirt beneath my knees is dark with blood. Breathing through my nose, something shifts in a way it definitely shouldn’t, and nausea rolls through me.

“Don’t move, don’t move.” The trainer’s there, gentle but firm, tilting my head back. “Let me see.”

The crowd goes quiet—the only sound is the palm fronds rustling in the night. Out the corner of my eye, I see Ollie at the plate, bat limp in his hands. Coach Allen appears, face tight with concern.

“It’s broken,” the trainer says quietly to Coach. “Pretty sure there’s a facial fracture, too. He needs a hospital.”

“Can’t.” I mumble, voice thick and nasal. “M’up next.”

Coach Allen’s face hardens. “Like hell you are. You’re done.”

“Coach—”

“This isn’t a discussion, Ryan. You’re bleeding all over home plate, and your nose is sideways.”

They help me up. Through watery eyes, I catch the scoreboard. Runners on first and second. No outs. Bottom of the eighth. Down by one.

And I’m walking away.

The frustration burns hotter than the pain.

“Keep pressure on it,” the trainer says as we head to the tunnel. “We’ll get you checked out and X-rayed.”

Stadium lights cast long shadows as we leave the field, the warm California night wrapping around us like a blanket.

Behind us, the UCLA crowd starts that respectful applause they do when a player’s hurt.

But all I can think about is how I don’t get to finish this game—and that I’m out, at least for this series. Maybe longer.