Page 6

INTENTIONAL WALK

CAMDYN

Occurs when the defending team elects to walk a batter on purpose, putting them on first base instead of letting them try to hit.

I wake up to the blaring of my phone alarm and the patter of rain hitting the dorm window.

I move the curtain aside and stare at hundreds of raindrops on the glass and a blanket of gray beyond.

It rains in Seattle a lot, but not as much as people think.

Lately, the weather matches my mood perfectly—gloomy as fuck.

I roll over, unplug my phone, and stare at the screen flashing my alarm. I hate mornings. I was one of those kids you had to nag a million times to get out of bed, and even then, I wouldn’t move until someone dragged me.

I want to press snooze, but my dumb ass signed up for a 9:00 a.m. class. I can’t fail it—not when my softball scholarship depends on my GPA.

As I slide the lock screen open, I notice two things: I have ten minutes to get ready and I have zero notifications. Well, unless you count the UW alert about some dude with a machete on the loose. Totally normal around here.

The area around the University of Washington is... interesting. Between the Ave’s sketchy corners and tent cities that pop up faster than mushrooms after rain, we get these alerts almost every day. At least it’s rarely the students causing trouble.

My next thought? Jaxon and Inez. Of course my brain goes there. It’s like picking at a scab—you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help yourself.

I bet she woke up to a good morning text from him. The thought makes my stomach twist. I used to get those texts. “Morning beautiful” with that stupid heart emoji he always used. Now Inez probably gets them, and I get campus safety alerts about machete guy. Cool.

For so long I was afraid of Jaxon being with someone else because I thought the only thing keeping him holding on to me—his love—would fade if he moved on. Turns out I was right. Now I get to watch him fall for someone else from the front row, and it fucking sucks.

I don’t have time to wallow in Jaxon-induced misery.

I have to be in the training center by 6:00 a.m. for lifting and our morning run.

Welcome to the glamorous life of a D1 athlete—specifically, a softball pitcher.

Between workouts, practices, and three extra weekly sessions for pitching, strength, and mental prep, I barely have time to breathe, let alone obsess over my ex.

Yet somehow, I still manage both.

Yawning, I peel myself from bed, drag my sorry ass into the shower, and head into the Seattle drizzle toward the training center.

Campus is weirdly beautiful this early, all misty and quiet.

The cherry trees along the Quad are starting to bloom, pink petals falling like snow when the wind blows.

It would be romantic if I weren’t so busy being bitter.

For softball players, Division 1 seasons start the first day of fall quarter per NCAA rules. Usually September 1, you’re allowed to practice as a team. From there, it’s fall scrimmages against other D1 schools, but ground travel only.

Once February rolls around, the season starts with a few tournaments that don’t count against the Pac-12 playoffs but get things rolling.

Remember the morning I found out about Jaxon and Inez?

Yeah, that was right after we got back from Mexico, then hit the Clearwater Invitational in Florida.

Nothing like hearing your ex is moving on while you’re stuck on a team bus for twelve hours.

When it’s not game day or travel, my typical day is a morning workout, breakfast, classes, practice or specialty training, lunch, study hall, maybe another practice, dinner, and finally, “me time.” Lately, though, “me time” just means stalking Inez’s Instagram and hating myself for it.

I’d tell you all about my workouts, but honestly, they’re boring. Just know, I hate running. I freaking hate it. Lately, I’ve been doing extra laps, trying to tire myself out so I don’t lie awake at night wondering if Jaxon’s thinking about her.

After my workout, I swing by the athletes’ dining hall. It’s this fancy setup—smoothie bar, build-your-own acaí bowls, pastries from local bakeries, and a protein-packed menu from sports nutritionists.

Some athletes are on custom plans and might be forced to eat more or less. I’m supposed to watch my macros, but lately I’ve been stress-eating muffins like they’re going extinct. Sue me.

The dining hall is empty except for a handful of baseball, soccer, and softball players.

I’ve run into Jaxon here a few times, but his first class isn’t until ten, so he has more time in the mornings.

He’s not a morning person anyway, which explains why he didn’t take a 9:00 a.m. class, unlike my brilliant self.

Honestly? I kind of miss those awkward run-ins. Even if we barely spoke, at least I got to see him. Now he probably gets breakfast with Inez at some hipster coffee shop on the Ave, sharing avocado toast and talking about whatever journalism majors talk about.

Who eats avocado toast anyway? It looks like vomit.

God, I need to stop.

I grab a protein bar, banana, and a premade shake for after class. And then I stand in line for Starbucks, because I can’t skip coffee—especially not when I’m this deep in my feelings.

Rain comes down in heavy mist as I rush toward class, coffee in hand.

With a half-eaten protein bar in my mouth and my books clutched to my chest, I struggle not to drop anything as I dodge people in the quad.

The rain clings to my black hoodie, leaving it covered in what looks like lint.

I try to brush it off, but that just makes it worse.

You might be thinking, girl, use an umbrella.

Okay, well, nobody in Washington uses an umbrella.

I’m sorry, but you’re fucking weird if you do.

No offense. That’s how we know you’re not from here.

If you’re carrying an umbrella, you’re not a Washington native, and we’re judging you.

Inez carries one of those clear bubble umbrellas, which should tell you she’s not from here. Not that I’ve noticed. Or care.

When I walk into Human Anatomy in Kane Hall, Jameson is right behind me. “Dang.” He frowns at his soaked socks, water dripping from his UW Baseball hat. “A raindrop got through my Croc holes.”

I glance down at his white Crocs. “Maybe wear normal shoes and that won’t happen.”

“Neverrrr,” he says, sitting next to me.

Jameson Gomez is a pitcher from Alabama who got a full ride to UW because his ninety-nine-mile-per-hour fastball is untouchable.

He wears Crocs, a cowboy hat, and makes anyone laugh with his randomness.

He’s also hot as fuck. I have no idea why Callie won’t date him—other than she can’t even commit to a Chick-fil-A sauce.

There’s only three. How can you not remember?

Jameson has bright green eyes, unusually tan skin for Washington, dark brown hair that lightens in summer, and a southern charm when he wants.

I thought about dating him to make Jaxon jealous, but that’s not me.

And Jameson is Jaxon’s best friend. That would be like Jaxon dating Callie. Revenge dating never ends well.

“You know.” Jameson bumps my shoulder as he sits, the wet ends of his hair poking out from under his hat.

He’s not wearing his cowboy hat today—just his black Huskies baseball one, the same one Jaxon wears almost every day.

My chest tightens. “When I signed up”—he glances at his book—“for Survey of Human Anatomy, I figured I’d be looking at titties all class. ”

“Bro.” I laugh and sip my coffee, grateful for the distraction. “I’m just glad we moved on from the digestive system.”

“Oh, for real.” He shudders and pulls off his sweatshirt, leaving a gray T-shirt with water spots. “I was seriously thinking about going vegan.”

“I couldn’t do it. I like meat.”

He grins and sticks his pen in his mouth suggestively. “Yeah ya do. Jaxon’s meat.”

I roll my eyes, but the comment hits different now. “Shut up.” Because yeah, I did like Jaxon’s... everything. But now someone else probably does too.

Jameson’s quiet for a few minutes. Most people think he’s shy when they meet him. He’s not. He just hates quiet moments and is totally random.

“What’s going on with you and Jaxon?”

See what I mean? He asks a lot of questions for a guy. “It’s complicated.” That doesn’t even begin to cover the mess of feelings inside me.

“It’s been complicated for a while.” He adjusts his hat and stares at me. “Explain.”

“I don’t know how to. You’re his roommate. You should know this already.” I hate explaining what’s going on with Jaxon. I don’t even get it myself, and to everyone else, it looks like he’s using me. Which... maybe he is. Maybe I’m letting him. “But he’s talking to Inez DeLuca.”

Jameson whips his head around, green eyes sharp. “Who the fuck is that?”

My heart flutters. Maybe Jaxon is keeping it quiet. Or he doesn’t like her enough to tell anyone? I know that’s probably not true, but denial is all I’ve got sometimes. “The girl always writing articles about everything at this school. She wrote that piece about the baseball team last week.”

His brow scrunches. “What’s she look like?”

“Black hair, kinda wavy but she curls it, thick black glasses. She wears jeans with paint splatters almost every day, and Converse.” I hate that I can describe her perfectly. Hate that I’ve memorized her look, her clothes, how she takes her coffee at Starbucks (oat milk latte, extra shot).

“Uh, be specific.” He leans closer. “It’s Seattle. You’re describing half the girls here.”

“Always has a notebook and tea. I’m pretty sure she’s interviewed you.”

“Still not narrowing it down.” He gestures to a row of girls in the lecture hall with Starbucks and notebooks. “All girls here have a drink. Unless she had some big ass titties while interviewing me, I’m not gonna remember her.”