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“It was just a quick reply. You’re making this bigger than it needs to be.” Her phone buzzes again. She flips it over fast, but not before I see his name. My heart does that stupid little flip, even when the message isn’t for me.

I set my fork down. “Really? Because I seem to remember you throwing your phone across the room last month when Kingston didn’t answer your good morning text for six hours.”

Brynn’s cheeks go pink. She takes a long sip of iced tea, hand trembling a little as she sets it down, immediately reaching for her phone again. “That was... different.”

“Different how? Because it’s you and Kingston?” My own phone sits there, silent and smug. Would it kill him to send one text? Just one?

The ferry horn sounds outside, as if it’s backing me up. A server tops our water, ice clinking in the awkward silence. Brynn’s phone buzzes again and this time she doesn’t hide the smile as she checks it.

“You literally cried in the locker room because he liked some girl’s Instagram post.”

“That was one time,” Brynn says, but I see it in her eyes. She pushes asparagus around her plate, not meeting my gaze. Her phone lights up—seriously, how many texts is she getting? “Okay, fine. Maybe I see your point.”

“The difference is,” I say, watching a sailboat cut across the bay, “you date around, I don’t.” I leave the rest unsaid: she knows exactly what she’s doing, and we both know it. Whatever’s lighting up her phone right now probably explains why mine stays dark.

Callie squeezes my hand. The candles are lit now, reflections turning the windows into mirrors. I catch my own reflection—I look tired. Worn down by hope. Behind me, Brynn is typing under the table, lips pressed thin and guilty.

I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over his contact.

Three little dots, that’s all I want. Just proof he’s okay, that his nose isn’t as bad as Brynn made it sound, that there’s a reason he’s ghosting me but texting my friend.

But sending that message would feel like admitting defeat—showing him, and her, just how much this is killing me.

Brynn’s phone chimes and she giggles before catching herself, shooting me a quick, almost-sorry glance. It lands in my stomach like bad seafood. Suddenly, halibut isn’t appealing—just like my dignity.

Back in my dorm, I sit cross-legged on my bed, phone heavy in my hands like it holds all my worst fears. Outside, the campus glows against the night sky, blurred by rain—steady, unreachable, like any hope I have for something real with Jaxon.

I type.

Delete.

Type again.

Every message feels like a confession I don’t want to make.

Hope you’re okay

Heard about your nose

Delete.

Too casual—like I haven’t spent three hours watching that clip on repeat, like I didn’t sit through brunch with Brynn checking her phone and smirking.

Brynn told me what happened

You could have texted me back

Delete.

God, I sound needy. Pathetic. Like a loser stabbing halibut at brunch while everyone else moves on with their lives.

Must be nice replying to some people and not others

Delete.

Jesus. When did I become this person?

Rain drums against the window. My laptop glows sickly from my desk, tomorrow’s poli sci half-done and forgotten. Who cares about empires when your own tiny world is crumbling? The taste of expensive seafood and betrayal still lingers.

I fall back onto my pillows, phone above my face like a guillotine. Blue light washes everything in that otherworldly glow—just like those candles in the restaurant, reflecting tired hope right back at me. The last message I sent him wishing him good luck sits there, mocking me:

Such a normal text. Such an easy thing to ignore. Such a tiny message to carry so much weight.

My fingers hover over the keyboard again, indecision making my chest ache. The rain gets louder, my thoughts matching its rhythm. I flip my phone over, heart pounding in that weird, too-big way.

I check his location—I hate that I do this, but I do. Still in California. In some hotel room. Doing who knows what, with a broken nose and my broken trust. What if he’s texting Brynn right now? What if she’s the one he wants?

I hate my fucking brain.

Game highlights play on my laptop. Masochist move, but I watch it again. There’s a clip of the play, and my stomach drops every time. The camera pans away fast, but not before I see blood on his white jersey, his body crumpling like a poem someone gave up on.

Finally, I type:

Heard about your nose

Hope you’re okay

Send, before I can chicken out. Regret floods me immediately. The message is delivered. Those three dots pop up and disappear, twice—each time, a heartbeat of hope.

Thanks

One word. Five letters. A whole universe of dismissal.

I stare until the letters blur, until they mean nothing, until they’re just proof of all we’re not—like those container cranes blinking red into the dark.

My fingers move without thinking:

Bro, that’s it?

You can text Brynn back but can’t even reply to my good luck text

Send.

Oh God. Immediate regret. I should throw my phone out the window. Or transfer. Or move to Antarctica. I should?—

Sorry forgot and then yeah that happened

I didn’t text Brynn though

Wait. What? She lied to me? My lungs empty like I’ve been punched. Tears burn. I flip my phone screen-down, as if hiding it erases the whole conversation.

Worst part? I know I’ll check my phone again in ten minutes. Hell, probably five. Hope rising like those ferry waves, no matter how much I hate myself for it.

Brynn was right at brunch, her words echoing now: a situationship is only a situation to one person. To the other, it’s nothing.

But wait—he didn’t text Brynn? She said he did. The confusion crashes over me, washing away my self-pity and replacing it with something sharper. I remember her angling her phone away, all those messages, her giggling.

I grab my phone:

Why’d you say Jaxon texted you

He said he didn’t

I wait, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear the rain. Butter and garlic from dinner sit bitter in my stomach.

Bubbles. Stop. Start. Stop.

Brynn

Oh noooo

I meant King texted me abt it

Sorry abt that

She did that shit on purpose. I toss my phone aside, annoyance trumping confusion. Rain keeps on, indifferent to the way truth and lies get tangled up in my dorm, one as slippery as the other.

The door opens. Callie walks in, shower caddy banging her hip, curls in a Huskies-purple towel. Steam follows her in, smelling like coconut shampoo. She takes one look at me and sighs.

“What’s wrong, babes?”

I grunt into my pillow. “Brynn lied about Jax texting her.”

“She did?” Callie’s bed creaks as she sits. “Why would she lie about that?”

I roll over. “I don’t know, but he never texted her. She said, ‘Oh, no, King texted me,’ but she was weird at brunch.”

“Yeah, she was weird.” Callie’s voice is steady, like always. “Look, I know you’re in your head, but Jax isn’t trying to hurt you. He’s probably… processing.”

“Processing what? His nose or me?”

“Both, maybe?” She works leave-in conditioner through her curls. “Think about it. Remember the World Series? How upset you were when your shoulder was hurting?”

I flinch. The World Series. She thinks it was my shoulder, but it was the miscarriage. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t talk to anyone for three days.”

“That was different,” I mumble, but even as I say it, I know she’s not wrong, even if she doesn’t know the whole story.

Callie raises an eyebrow. “Postseason’s weeks away. He’s probably freaking out about letting his team down and his face. You know how Jaxon gets. He carries the weight of the whole damn infield.”

I hug my knees. She’s not wrong. The relationship between a pitcher and catcher is sacred in baseball, built on trust and silent signals.

One missed sign, everything falls apart.

Maybe that’s why this hurts—because Jax and I have that kind of connection.

Different fields, different teams, same language.

“Plus,” Callie grins, “he’s a boy. Boys are shit at feelings.”

I throw my pillow at her, laughing. “Says the girl who cried when she was benched for one quarter.”

“Hey! That was Oregon! You know how I feel about their ball handlers. And it was bullshit that he didn’t put me back in!”

I stare. “It was a scrimmage.”

“Details.” She tosses my pillow back. “Maybe cut him some slack. Not everyone overthinks like you do, Miss I-Watch-My-Pitching-Motion-A-Hundred-Times.”

“I do not—” I start, but my open laptop with the paused game footage betrays me.

“Uh-huh.” Callie’s voice is knowing but kind. “Look, I’m not saying Brynn isn’t shady—girl’s got more stories than the library. But Jax? He’s a dude with a broken nose, trying to figure out if he can still play. Sound familiar?”

It does. God, it does. I know what it’s like to see your season, your future, flash before your eyes. To worry that one injury could ruin everything you worked for. That fear weighs more than any trophy.

I look at his last message again. Maybe ‘Thanks’ isn’t a dismissal. Maybe it’s all he can manage, stuck in a hotel room with a broken nose and broken dreams, watching his own highlight reel on repeat.

“You’re right,” I admit.

“I know.” Callie grins, tossing her towel into the hamper. “Now can we watch something else? If I see one more foul tip, I’m gonna lose it.”

I close my laptop. Rain fills the quiet. Outside, it keeps pouring—steady and relentless, like hope, like trust.

My thumb hovers over my messages, landing on one from Nathan. I never replied after Jaxon pocketed my phone at that party. Now guilt and anxiety mix in my gut like a bad pitch combo.

“What are you thinking about now?” Callie asks, reading that familiar crease between my brows.

“Nathan texted after the party.” I roll over. “Should I… maybe try going on a date with him?”

Callie sits up straighter, face careful. “Is that what you want, or what you think you should want?”

“I don’t know.” I bury my face in my pillow, words muffled. “Mom says I matter, that I deserve someone who chooses me. And Nathan’s nice. He’s…”

“Not Jaxon,” Callie finishes.

“Yeah.” That sick feeling rises, familiar as pregame nerves. “Every time I think about going out with someone else, I feel like I’m gonna puke. Like I’m betraying Jaxon. Which is stupid, because there’s nothing to betray. We’re not dating. And he talked to Inez, so I don’t know.”

“He’s not talking to her anymore, though. But what if…”

I sit up. “What if I keep it casual? Just one date? Maybe if Jax sees me moving on…”

“I mean, it might work.”

Maybe. But the thought of sitting across from Nathan, pretending to be into it while my heart sits in the dugout with someone else, just makes me feel worse.

“I think,” Callie says, “there comes a point where you have to do something or walk away. But ‘doing something’ doesn’t mean dating someone else to prove a point.”

She’s smarter than she looks sometimes. I stare out at the rain. “What if he does want more?” The words come out small, like a rookie asking for signs. “What if I go out with Nathan and ruin everything?”

“Cam.” Callie’s voice softens. “If Jax wants more, he needs to step up to the plate. You can’t keep warming up in the bullpen forever, waiting for a game that might never start.”

Not gonna lie, I’m impressed she came up with that one. The baseball metaphor hits hard. She’s right. I’ve been sitting in the bullpen of Jaxon’s life for a year, always ready, never actually in the game. Maybe that’s the problem.

It feels like I’m watching a slow roller in softball—one of those ground balls that drags along the infield, taking forever.

Jaxon and I keep inching forward, nobody making the big move, everything dragging out.

I’m stuck in limbo, not sure if I’m supposed to run or hold back, hoping someone finally picks up the ball and decides where this play goes.