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OPPOSITE FIELD

CAMDYN

The side of the outfield that is the opposite of the direction of the hitter’s natural swing (i.e., for a right-handed hitter, the opposite field is right field, because the swing is naturally directed to left).

“ W hat am I doing? Why did I agree to this?”

I’m standing in front of our full-length mirror. Our $19.99 Target mirror, duct-taped to the back of the door since we aren’t allowed to use nails per campus code. Duct tape—classy as hell. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.

Hanging next to it: the dress for tonight. It belongs in a Vegas club, not on a first date with UW’s most notorious soccer player.

It’s hot pink, friends.

Hot.

Freaking.

Pink.

I’m about to kill Callie for this. She picked it out. I didn’t.

“Girl, have you ever wondered who lived in these rooms before us?” Callie asks from her bed, rolling onto her stomach.

“Uh, not really.” I massacre my last bag of Swedish Fish—stress eating is basically an Olympic sport, and I’m going for gold—while scrolling through my phone for the hundredth time, checking if Jaxon read my last message from two days ago.

He has. No response. I get it, he’s busy.

But so am I. It takes two seconds to reply.

He manages it when he wants sex, but any other time? He’s a brat.

“I wonder what they did in here.”

I chew another gummy, eating it in sections like some kind of candy serial killer. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, what if they hooked up in our beds?”

“Pretty sure you’ve hooked up in yours.” The string lights above Callie’s bed cast a warm glow over our cramped space, mixing with the purple LEDs and making the room feel even smaller. “I’ve heard the evidence. Multiple times. These walls are thinner than Nathan’s excuse for facial hair.”

“Oh, yeah.” She giggles into her pillow, then sits up. “Speaking of Nathan…”

“We weren’t.”

“We were thinking about him.”

“No, YOU were thinking about him. I was thinking about whether I could eat enough Swedish Fish to put myself in a sugar coma and skip this date.”

I grab my shower caddy and towel, desperate to escape the conversation. The bathroom is my retreat lately, my break from Callie and her weird theories about dorm bed history. Honestly, considering these mattresses, I don’t want to know.

Hot water drums against my shoulders as I lean my forehead to the cool tile. My phone sits on the shelf outside the curtain, and I swear I can hear it mocking me with its silence. Like a tiny electronic cricket chirping: “Jax-on doesn’t care, Jax-on doesn’t care.”

I pick up my phone with wet hands, water droplets making the screen glitch as I pull up Nathan’s contact.

Sorry, not feeling well tonight

Delete.

Something came up.

Yeah, my common sense.

Delete.

I can’t

Delete.

My thumb hovers over Jaxon’s contact photo. I haven’t changed it—same thirteen-year-old boy, hood up, frowning at me.

“Why are you not texting me?” I whisper-yell at his contact, as if that’ll help. “What, your hands too sore from catching? They work fine when you want to hook up at 2 a.m.”

Three days of nothing. Is he talking to Inez again? The thought makes my stomach churn. Or maybe that’s the four pounds of Swedish Fish.

Back in our room, Callie’s on her bed, laptop balanced on her knees. The glow from the screen makes her squint.

“What are you googling?”

“How to... you know....”

I stare at her, blinking, water still dripping from my hair onto the carpet. “No, I don’t know.” I lean forward, catch a glimpse of her search, and snort. “Callie…”

She sighs and pushes her laptop away. It slides into her mountain of decorative pillows—she decorates like we live in an Anthropologie window. “I’m confused on how to... um, how to do it.”

She’s serious. I shift my weight against the bed, grateful for the distraction from my date-related panic. “Wait, what?”

“Don’t make me say it again. You heard me.”

I try not to laugh. “You’ve never…”

She shakes her head fast. “Nuh uh.”

“Oh.”

She turns to me, still embarrassed but honestly curious. The LED strip lights on our ceiling give her face a purple hue. “What if I choke?”

“Nah. You’re not going to choke on his dick.”

“I might.”

“You’ll gag—on his dick—before you choke.” It’s honestly wild I’m explaining this to a twenty-year-old. Shouldn’t she know by now? Then again, Callie didn’t lose her virginity until last year to Jameson. Also, don’t tell Jameson. I don’t think he knows.

“You’re not making it sound fun.” She looks down at her phone, blue light on her face. “Have you done it?”

“Sucked a dick?” I say it because she cringes every time I do, and it’s taking my mind off the whole ‘date with someone who isn’t Jaxon’ situation. My phone sits face-up on my desk, still silent. Judgy little rectangle.

“Okay, stop saying the D word, but yes.”

I can’t stop laughing. “Yes, I’ve sucked a?—”

She throws a pillow at me. “Stop saying it!”

We both lose it for a minute, then Callie sighs. “Um, have you though?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“Jaxon’s?”

My cheeks flush. Not embarrassed, just... whatever. “Uhh.”

“Wait, is he, you know, big?”

“Callie, that’s weird to ask.” I fidget with my towel, picturing how mortified Jaxon would be if he knew we were having this conversation. He hates people knowing anything about him. Unless it’s Inez, who gets to post their study sessions on Instagram.

“Oh, is it?”

“Yes, you know him! He’d hate it if you knew his size.”

She starts laughing again and hides her face. “He looks like he’s big. Must be all that squatting behind the plate.”

I fight a smile—memories of Jaxon’s size flood in, unwelcome. “Mhm.” Not telling her. Jaxon keeps things private, among other things. Hint, hint.

I get dressed, tugging on a revealing pink mini dress that makes me look like Elle Woods if she shopped at Fashion Nova. It’s too much. I should change.

“You look gorgeous.”

“Callie, I don’t know how to date or even talk to people.” I check my phone again. Nothing.

“What? You dated someone for six years. You know how it works.”

“That was Jaxon. We were friends first, then more. I’ve only ever wanted to know him. What if Nathan expects me to care about soccer? What do I even say? ‘Nice goal kick?’ ‘Way to, uh... kick the ball?’”

“Oh, uh, be supportive?”

Supportive. Great. That’s her advice?

Maybe I should fake being sick. Food poisoning? No, because karma would guarantee I actually get food poisoning for a week. But at least I wouldn’t have to pretend I’m interested in Nathan, because I’m not.

“I can’t do this.” Fourth time today I’ve said that. My phone lights up and my heart jumps—just a professor’s email about the assignment I haven’t started.

“Yes, you can.”

“Nope.” I tug at my dress, trying to make the hot pink fabric longer. Maybe if I pull hard enough, it’ll reach my knees. “I can’t.” I care what I look like, but honestly? I don’t. The only person I want to notice won’t even text me. Probably too busy with Inez.

“I’m not letting you back out.”

I yank the hem again. “The pink is too much.”

“Not possible. Pink is never too much.”

“Why am I doing this?”

“Because you need to make him jealous. Jaxon will never know how he feels or what it’s like to lose you if you don’t try.”

I hear her, but do I really want Jaxon to think he’s lost me? Do I want him jealous and obsessed? What if it backfires? What if he... lets me go?

What if I go on this date and it doesn’t even matter to him?

Let me tell you a story while Callie digs for another pair of heels, rummaging through our closet like she’s searching for Narnia.

I went to high school with a girl named Astro Aimes.

Not a joke. Her parents were hippies and their home was part Halloween store, part Whole Foods.

All black everything, purple curtains, and enough crystals to start a jewelry shop.

The place reeked of lavender and patchouli so strong it clung to your clothes. I went once. Never again.

She was obsessed with this guy in our chemistry class named Tollen. Yeah, Tollen. Like someone looked at their baby and thought, “He needs a name that sounds like a toll booth.”

Tollen was... different. Not in a quirky indie movie way.

More like a “future true crime doc” way.

He wore chains. Not as jewelry. Actual handcuffs.

Try being his lab partner when he can’t hold a beaker because he’s cosplaying Houdini.

I did all the work while he stared at the clock with ice-blue eyes that made you feel like you were falling into the void.

Every day—EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.—at 9:40 a.m. sharp, he’d stand up, chains rattling, and storm out like the bell had personally insulted him.

The school tried to ban the chains, but—Seattle being Seattle—he got it approved as a religious thing. Apparently there’s a whole “escaped from Azkaban” religion. Whatever.

So Astro, obsessed, decides to cast a love spell. An obsession spell. Because apparently dating apps weren’t dramatic enough.

Wanna guess how that turned out?

Oh, he got obsessed all right. Started handcuffing himself to her desk. Set her friend’s car on fire. Stole her panties. Carved her name into his chest. During class. With a razor blade. While the teacher explained covalent bonds.

I haven’t checked, but I’m betting he’s in a psych ward or started a niche metal band. Astro probably changed her name and moved to Montana.

Moral of the story? Don’t trust a guy who brings his own restraints to school.

Be careful what you wish for.

Speaking of terrifying things… Callie’s waving shoes at me that look like medieval torture devices. But you know what scares me more than shattering my ankle in those?

What if I actually like Nathan? Unlikely, but life’s full of surprises. What if he’s funny and sweet and doesn’t handcuff himself to furniture? What if I start falling out of love with Jaxon?

That thought drops my stomach.

Losing Jaxon? That’s scarier than any horror story. Scarier than Tollen’s stare. Scarier than these heels Callie wants me to wear.