Page 58

CHECKED SWING

CAMDYN

A batter checks a swing by stopping it before the bat crosses the front of home plate.

“ C an I get an iced white chocolate cold brew with salted caramel cold foam?”

There are a few Starbucks carts on campus, but this one is wedged between the brick walls of Kane Hall and some overgrown rhododendrons, their pink petals already littering the concrete. The smell of espresso mixes with the sweetness of late spring flowers, and honestly, it's perfect.

The barista—his name tag says “Brayden”—has that classic Seattle coffee guy vibe: flannel rolled to his elbows, vintage band tee underneath, showing off a tattoo that's probably meaningful but looks like a toddler drew it. He’s been trying to catch my eye since I walked up, making the espresso machine sound like a damn rocket launch.

“Coming right up,” he says, smiling a little too long. “Extra cold foam, on the house. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

Hmm. Is that code for “you look like shit”?

He's cute, in that indie-band-drummer way. A month ago, I might’ve flirted back, maybe even scribbled my number on a napkin I’d never answer.

But now? All I can think about is Jaxon, and how he’d bring me coffee before my 8 a.m. class, always with some dumb note on the cup.

Stick figure drawings of me striking out batters, complete with sound effects in his messy handwriting.

On days like this, that feels like forever ago, even if it was just weeks.

I slide my money across the counter.

Brayden keeps up the charm, making my drink like it’s performance art.

It’s just cold brew, but he’s making it complicated.

“So, you play softball?” He nods at my Husky softball shirt.

Can’t tell if he's checking out my chest or just making conversation. Maybe both. “I’m more of a chess guy, but I throw a mean frisbee.”

Part of me wonders if he read Inez’s blog post before she took it down. Now, every time someone’s nice, I wonder: Did you read it? Is this pity?

I manage a polite smile, but he lost me at “chess.” It’s sweet, his attempt at flirting, but it reminds me how Jaxon would’ve already dropped three terrible puns by now.

I watch Brayden drizzle caramel I didn’t ask for, but I appreciate it—especially since practice is gonna be brutal in this heat. I know I shouldn’t bitch about eighty degrees in May, but if you live here, you get it: one day it’s fifty, the next it’s summer.

There’s not a cloud in sight. Cherry blossoms carpet the quad in pink, and Drumheller Fountain throws crystals of water into the sunlight. Students sprawl everywhere, backpacks abandoned like deflated balloons. The air is fresh-cut grass and espresso from the line snake away from the cart.

A guy’s about to decapitate someone with a frisbee, and a group of tour guides are herding wide-eyed high schoolers past Red Square, shouting about “top-ranked programs” and “vibrant campus life.”

A few professors hurry by in wrinkled shirts, clutching their fourth coffee of the day. The HUB is buzzing—it’s that time of quarter when everyone pretends finals aren’t a thing.

There’s a couple in the grass, pretending to study. By the way he’s whispering in her ear, studying isn’t the plan.

A seagull swoops to steal a sandwich wrapper, chaos erupts, and a girl shrieks as the bird shits on her. Welcome to campus.

From the Music Building, someone’s practicing violin, notes floating across campus like the soundtrack to this perfect Seattle afternoon.

The sun’s hot on my face, already making my nose pink, but after months of rain, none of us can resist soaking it in.

My eyes slide to the couple again. I’m jealous, but only because I miss Jaxon. I miss the flirting, the sex, the friendship.

It’s been nine days since we last talked. Not that I’m counting.

“Ma’am, here’s your coffee,” Brayden says, sliding it over.

I sprinkle cinnamon on top, and then—of course—I hear the words I hoped I’d never hear again.

“BUSH GIRL!”

Yep, that dude.

My stomach flips. I’m not over that whole bush-diving incident, but also, the last time I saw Fork Guy was with Jaxon in the ER. And as he approaches, I wonder for the millionth time, did he read it? Does he know my secrets?

Fork Guy pirouettes into line, his bedazzled eye patch now covered in—are those tiny plastic spoons? Yes, yes they are.

You’re probably wondering this, but Fork Guy’s real name is Kody, but he doesn’t look like a Kody, so Fork Guy it is.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he announces, loud enough for everyone, “but Emerald let me borrow her rose quartz! Apparently it promotes love and healing. Or maybe that was amethyst.” He tilts his head, debating.

“I wasn’t really listening. She was doing this thing with her hair and—” He stops, squinting at my shirt. “Hold up. You play softball?”

“Yeah?” I sip my coffee.

“This is perfect!” He’s vibrating with excitement. “Can I throw the first pitch at your next home game? I’ve been practicing. Watch?—”

“Sir,” Brayden interrupts, “your matcha oat milk lavender honey rose petal CBD spiral latte with extra foam art is ready.”

What the fuck did he order?

“One sec,” Fork Guy says, then turns to Brayden. “Did you stir it counterclockwise? It’s important for my chakras. Emerald says?—”

“I stirred it in the shape of infinity,” Brayden deadpans. “Your third eye’s fine.”

Fork Guy grabs his ridiculous drink and turns back, suddenly serious—as serious as someone with a utensil-studded eye patch can be. “Hey, what’s with you and Baseball Boy? He’s moodier than usual. Wouldn’t even let me bedazzle his hat.”

Great. Just what I need. More reminders that everything’s weird and broken. Nine days of nothing between us, and here’s Fork Guy, trying to bedazzle the silence.

I want to text Jaxon so bad. I hate not knowing how baseball’s going (even though I check every score), but with him it’s worse.

My phone feels heavy in my pocket. I haven’t reached out since that day, and he hasn’t either.

“So about that pitch—” Fork Guy starts, and then he must see something in my face, because he stops. “Oh. Oh no. Are you and Baseball Boy still doing the emotional utensil avoidance dance?”

I stare at my cup. “We’re not doing any kind of dance,” I mutter. “We’re not doing anything.”

“Ah.” He nods, sipping his infinite latte. “The classic ‘we hooked up until feelings got real and now we pretend not to see each other’ situation. Been there. Well, not exactly. My thing with Rebecca was more ‘she got a restraining order, and now I walk the long way to Spanish class.’”

“Oh.” I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. “How’s that going?”

“Restraining order got lifted!” He beams. “Turns out if you wait long enough and promise not to climb fire escapes, they let you back on the north side. Speaking of—” He ducks behind me, spilling latte everywhere.

“Ah, my bad.” He wipes coffee off my shirt, but makes it worse.

“Is that Rebecca? No, wait. False alarm. Just someone else with excellent conjugation posture.”

Forgetting the coffee on me, I pull out my phone before I can stop myself—this is exactly the kind of thing I’d have texted Jaxon about. My thumbs hover, but I can’t.

“Don’t do it,” Fork Guy warns, somehow reading my mind. “Nothing good comes from telling someone their friend spilled chakra coffee on you while hiding from his ex.”

“I wasn’t going to?—”

“Please.” He scoffs. “You had that look I get before doing something Emerald warned me not to do. Like that time I tried juggling her healing stones and summoned what she claims was a demon, but I’m pretty sure was her cat.”

He’s right. God help me, Fork Guy is right.

I put my phone away.

“You know what you need?” He straightens up, apparently deciding Rebecca's gone. “A dramatic gesture. Something to help you move on. Like throwing the first pitch at our next game!”

“Our?”

“I’ve been manifesting my softball career. Emerald’s helping me cleanse my aura. Or maybe just telling me to shower. The vibes were unclear.”

“Fork Guy.”

He waves his hand, spilling more lavender rose nonsense. “Think about it! You, behind the plate, showing Baseball Boy what he’s missing. Me, first pitch, emotional support and possible interpretive dance?—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—while Emerald reads tarot between innings?—”

“Still no.”

“What if I promise to wear both eyes?”

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s not a no!” He grins. “Also, move. I think I did see Rebecca. I need to hide. But think about the pitch! And remember—sometimes love is like a plastic fork to the eye. Unexpected, painful, but eventually you get a cool eye patch.”

He sprints away, almost taking out a mug display. I pull out my phone again. Open my messages with Jaxon.

I type:

Your friend just compared our relationship to his fork incident

Weirdly accurate

My thumb hovers.

Delete.

I know one thing: when a guy with a bedazzled eye patch offers to fix your love life in exchange for a crystal-infused first pitch, maybe just say yes. It can’t be worse than bush-diving, right?

Also, when you want to text the guy who broke your heart about his friend’s metaphors, maybe remember some forks are better left in the past.

Even if they still make you laugh.

The red dirt of the pitcher’s circle feels like home under my cleats. I dig my toe into my landing spot, testing the ground like always. Top of the sixth, we’re up 3-1 against Utah, and their lineup looks frustrated. Good. That’s where I want them.

I adjust my face mask, squinting into the late afternoon sun. Shadows stretch across the infield, and there’s this perfect stillness—you know, that breath before everything happens. Behind me, our shortstop calls out instructions.