Page 57

KNUCKLEBALL

JAXON

A pitch that’s thrown with no spin, causing it to flutter in the air.

Another Sun Devil reaches base—their third hit this inning. I jog out to the mound, but Jameson is already shaking his head before I get there.

“You’re shaking off everything but your curve’s staying up,” I start. “If we can?—”

“Get your ass behind the plate.” His voice is ice cold, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder.

“Jameson, listen?—”

“I said get back there.”

Fine. I whip the ball at his face, hard enough to make a point. He snags it with his bare hand, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.

Two pitches later, their cleanup hitter sends one screaming into the gap. Another run scores. Then another. The crowd’s going nuts, and Jameson is unraveling with each pitch. His slider hangs like laundry, and his fastball is all over the place.

“Time!” I call again, heading to the mound.

“I swear to God?—”

“Swear all you want, bitch. Shut up and listen,” I snap, getting in his face. The heat makes everything worse, tempers included. "Your front side’s flying open. Stay closed, trust the movement."

Even as I’m talking mechanics, flashes of Camdyn keep cutting in, uninvited.

I see her hunched in that soaked field, mascara running, eyes wide and full of betrayal.

Every time I blink, it’s like she’s there behind the pitcher’s mound, staring through me.

I’m saying the right words to Jameson, but my mind is somewhere else—back in that parking lot, back in her arms, back in the mess I made.

The way she looked at me, like I’m a stranger.

Like every secret we shared has been violated.

I try to snap back to the game, but her voice drifts through the static of the crowd, quieter than all the noise, but so much sharper. My mind races, caught between wanting to escape reality and running to her. The weight of my decisions and actions looms over me like a heavy fog.

I only have myself to blame.

Crouched behind the plate, I give the signal.

Jameson shakes me off and touches his glove to his cheek.

All right, I shift my stance for the changeup I know is coming.

Jameson nods, but he’s not listening either.

His next pitch sails wide, ball four. Coach signals to the bullpen, but they don’t make a change.

Jameson’s turned it around before so you never know.

I think about the article. Camdyn. Her parents if they read it. Mine. My coaches. I’ve let them all down and, worst of all, I hurt Camdyn in the process.

The Sun Devils’ cleanup hitter steps in, tapping his bat on the plate. Not the guy you want to throw a changeup to, but whatever. Nothing I say here will change Jameson’s mind.

The crowd’s on their feet. Everything’s too bright, too loud, too hot.

My mind wanders again. Back to Camdyn and what she’s doing right now.

I think about what pitch she’d want in this situation.

She’d never throw a four-hitter and a change.

If you let it hang too high, or anywhere in the zone, they’ll sit on it and hammer it.

But Jameson’s not thinking straight. He’s overcompensating and the adrenaline and heat are getting to him.

I breathe in and think of her again. Regretting the last month. Not the time spent with her, but the time I took for granted. For so long I tell myself I don't want or need a relationship because I need to focus on baseball.

I am better off on my own.

Relationships only complicate my life.

Another passed ball. Another run scores. Coach calls time, heading to the mound. I can barely focus on his words over the pounding in my head.

All things I tell myself, and look where I am now. Alone after destroying the only real relationship I’ve ever had.

I don’t know what Coach says to Jameson. I keep my ass behind the plate like he told me to. Whatever he says, we finish the inning with a strikeout and two popups to short.

Between innings, I sit in the dugout, staring at nothing, when Jameson kicks my foot as he passes, wiping Gatorade from his lips with his sweatshirt sleeve. “Get off your ass and do something.”

I stare at him, wondering what the fuck his problem is today. If anyone should be in a bad mood, it’s me.

The words hit differently than he probably means them to.

Maybe he’s talking about my head not being in the game, about needing to step up as a leader—and the same can be said about him.

But all I can think about is Camdyn, and how I let everything that mattered slip through my fingers without a fight.

Do something.

Maybe it’s not too late.

“Trust your stuff,” I tell Jameson when we take the field, trying to sound more confident than I feel. The late afternoon sun turns everything golden, casting long shadows across the infield. “We got this.”

But we don’t have this. Not even close. By the eighth inning, it’s 8-2 Sun Devils, and the only sound in our dugout is the hollow thunk of empty paper cups hitting the trash can.

“These umps are fucking blind,” Nash mutters as we trudge toward the bus. “That was a strike all day in the fourth.”

“Yeah, and what about the check swing call?” King adds, kicking at the pavement. “Complete bullshit.”

But Jameson’s ahead of us, shoulders tight, walking like he’s trying to put out fires with each step. His equipment bag swings violently in his hand.

“Hey, James—” Coach starts, but Jameson’s already at the bus.

BANG. His bag hits the storage compartment so hard the whole bus seems to shake. He storms up the steps, shouldering past King without a word, and throws himself into a seat near the back. When Thompson tries to sit next to him, Jameson jams his AirPods in and turns to the window.

The rest of us file in quietly. Nobody wants to poke the bear.

The walk to the bus feels like a funeral procession.

Cleats scrape concrete, equipment bags drag.

Nobody talks. Nobody needs to. Conference losses always hurt, but this one—this one feels personal.

Maybe my pitch calling was off. Maybe… I don’t know, but it feels personal, like I’m part of the reason we can’t get it done today.

On the bus to Sky Harbor, I dig out my phone. I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. I pull up the softball scores from today’s games. There it is: Washington vs. Oregon. My thumb hovers over the link for a second before I tap it.

Final Score: Washington 2, Oregon 0

O’Hara (W, 18-3): 7.0 IP, 0 H, 0 R, 11 K

HR: O'Hara (9)

A no-hitter. Of course she throws a no-hitter. And goes yard. My chest aches with a weird mix of pride and loss. I start typing out a text:

Congratulations on the no-no

Delete.

Type it again.

Delete it again.

She doesn’t need me texting her and messing with her head again.

The desert darkness rushes past our bus windows. Most of the guys are sleeping or have their AirPods in, trying to forget this afternoon. I’m still staring at my phone, at the blinking cursor in an empty text message to Camdyn.

She doesn’t want to hear from me. Not after everything. Maybe she’s better off focusing on her season, breaking records and throwing no-hitters. Being the star she was always meant to be, before I complicated everything.

I close the messaging app and lean my head against the window. The glass is cool against my forehead, a small mercy after the brutal Arizona heat. Somewhere out there, Camdyn’s probably celebrating with her teammates, that smile lighting up her whole face the way it used to when we’d?—

No. Don’t go there.

The bus hits a bump, and Kingston drops into the seat next to me. He’s quiet for a minute, watching the desert darkness rush by.

“Ya know why Jameson’s off his game?” he finally asks, voice low enough that only I can hear.

“No idea.” I turn from the window. “But his slider was trash today.”

“I’d agree.” He nods. “But Callie’s back with that soccer player. Sawyer.” King shakes his head. “Found out this morning. Guess they’ve been hooking up again for a couple weeks and she’s been double dipping with our man here.”

“Fuck, man, that’s dumb.”

The pieces click into place—Jameson’s wild pitches, the anger, the way he can’t focus. Suddenly I see my own reflection in his mess of a game.

No wonder Coach is always preaching about keeping relationships out of baseball.

When King leaves, I stare at my phone again. I usually text Camdyn after games and talk about how they went, both of us confiding in one another. I can’t do that anymore, and in a lot of ways, I feel like I lost my best friend in all this and it sucks. I miss her and our friendship.

When King leaves, I stare at my phone again, the empty message to Camdyn still open. The ache in my chest twists, but this time it’s not just for her—it’s for Jameson too. I get it now. He’s not the only one spiraling. We’re both carrying shit that’s bleeding into everything we do.

I pocket my phone and stand, weaving down the aisle to where Jameson sits with his head pressed against the window, AirPods in and jaw clenched tight. For a second, I just hover there, not sure what to say. I want to tell him I know how it feels, that it’s not just him fighting ghosts out there.

“Hey,” I say, low enough so nobody else hears. “If ya wanna talk—about Callie, or the game, or whatever—I’m here.”

Jameson doesn’t look at me. He slides an AirPod out, glances up, and his eyes are flat and cold. “I’m good,” he mutters, then jams the AirPod back in and turns away, shoulder pressed hard to the glass.

I stand there aa beat, waiting like maybe he’ll change his mind. He doesn’t. Well, I tried.

I head back to my seat, the weight of everything pressing down. It’s too much to carry alone, but that’s what we do, I guess. That’s what we’ve always done.

I stare out into the darkness, wishing things were different. Wishing I hadn’t blown it with Camdyn, wishing I knew how to fix things with Jameson—but all I have is this empty seat, this silence, and a bus full of ghosts.