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RUNNERS IN SCORING POSITION

JAXON

When there’s a runner at second and/or third, able to score on a single.

W e have a day off midweek thanks to two straight weeks of travel coming up. I skip class—not that anyone’s shocked—and spend the day holed up in my room, curtains yanked tight against the glare of a rare sunny Seattle afternoon. Outside, it’s all blue sky and cheery as fuck.

In my dorm, it’s gray and depressing as shit. The only light’s from my monitor, casting blocky shadows as I lose myself in Minecraft.

I start building a baseball field. It’s not perfect—nothing ever is in Minecraft—but I lay down dirt for the base paths, carve out a diamond, try to nail the pitcher’s mound.

I build out the stands, even add a dugout, stacking blocks like it’ll fill something inside my head.

I keep switching between grass and clay, never satisfied, deleting and rebuilding the outfield fence while the pixel sun rises and sets.

But my mind keeps drifting. She texted me the other day, but I chalked it up to her being high on Benadryl. It made me smile, but would she have texted me at all if she wasn’t having an allergic reaction?

I don’t know. Neither does my avatar. “You think she wants to talk to me?” I mutter at my Minecraft guy.

Nothing. “Well, you’re a lot of help.” I steer him into what’s supposed to be left field.

“Let’s see if you can make this infield look less like a potato patch.

” My blocky avatar looks up at me with dead pixel eyes, shovel in hand, waiting for instructions.

“You ever get tired of starting over?” I ask, sighing. “Yeah, me too.”

I saw her this morning, which explains why I’m hiding in my room now. We passed near the quad, not close enough to talk. She didn’t see me, or pretended not to. That’s somehow worse. Her absence presses in, thick as the stale air in my dark room.

I hate admitting when I’m wrong. Who doesn’t?

But I was wrong with Camdyn—spectacularly, irreversibly wrong.

I’m risky on the field. If I spot a chance to gun down a runner, I’ll take it, even if Coach is screaming not to.

But with her, I played it safe. Always careful, never making a move unless I could see the ending.

Look how that worked out.

I build the dugouts, make the fences taller, then tear them down again.

Try to fill the stands with NPCs, but they all look blank and empty.

I rebuild the stands, stacking blocks like it’ll fix something in my brain.

“Don’t mess up the third base line,” I grumble, but of course I do, and have to start over.

I try to hang a scoreboard in right field, but it reminds me of those games Camdyn and I watched together, late nights, early mornings, inside jokes that don’t land anymore.

When the world fades out, my mind snaps back to her.

I feel like I destroyed her—like I blew up the only bridge back to her without even noticing.

I keep replaying all the things I should’ve said, the way I should’ve fought for her, not against her.

I feel like a monster—too big, too loud, too much for her to ever want back.

Nothing feels right without her. The first time we broke up, we still texted, and that led to our situationship. Now, it’s just silence. I don’t know if she’s happy or hurting or moving on, and it’s killing me.

My stomach growls, but I can’t get up. I’m about to start building the bullpen when the door creaks and Jameson strolls in, dropping his bag with a thud.

“Where you been?” I mumble, eyes on my screen.

“Eating,” he says, flopping onto his bed.

“With who?” I ask, though I already know.

He stretches, glancing at me sideways. “Cam.”

The word lands like a stone in a pond, ripples spreading through all the places I’ve tried to keep undisturbed.

“Just Cam?” I ask, my Minecraft player frozen on second.

Jameson tosses his hat on his bed, stretching out with a groan. “Yup. We was hungry after class so we ate.”

He says it like him and Cam eating together is normal, which pisses me off too. “Oh.” My pixelated bat drops. “She say anything?”

He raises an eyebrow, propping up on one elbow. “About?”

I grit my teeth. “You know.”

“No I don’t,” Jameson says, voice flat, waiting me out.

“Yes, you do,” I mutter, jaw tight. My Minecraft guy stands still, game music suddenly grating.

He sighs, rolling onto his back, picking Mookie up off the floor. “Like what?” Jameson turns his head, smirking. “That she shoulda dated me,”

“Wait, what? Did she say that?” I try to sound casual and totally fail.

He starts talking to Mookie instead of answering.

I kick his leg and Mookie jumps down. I finally look at him, scowling. “Did she?”

“Nah, man. Chill.” He throws an arm over his eyes, voice softer. “She’s just, I don’t know. Confused.”

“About what?”

“You, my man. You got a good one, Jaxon—and you’re acting like you didn’t, or like there’s something better out there, and trust me, there isn’t. They lie, cheat on ya, talk to your friends, and act like you’re the asshole for calling them out.”

Thinking there’s something better is a fucking lie. I never said that. Never thought I’d find better. I … needed something different.

I grunt, breaking a block in the infield with more force than necessary. “Yeah.”

Jameson sits up, tossing a pillow at my chair. “Well, Camdyn’s never been like that. Guys try, but she doesn’t care. She still isn’t.”

My heart stutters. “What do you mean?” My voice is tight, Minecraft guy motionless by home plate.

He shrugs, watching me. “She’s not talking to anyone.”

I don’t answer. My mind’s already spinning, dredging up last year—Jameson and Camdyn working together, laughing over some dumb Spanish project.

Him leaning in, grinning, whispering “?Quién es tu papi?” just to make her blush.

The way she glowed red, the way she looked at him, even if it was only for a second.

It was the first time I saw her look at another guy.

Even now, I can see them—happy, laughing, making sense in a way that scares the shit out of me.

My hands tighten on the mouse. Jameson’s a good guy. Funny, loyal, probably a better boyfriend than I’ll ever be. I hate what Callie did to him, but if I’m honest, I’m doing the same thing to Camdyn. That shame sits heavy in my chest.

Did I want her to be with someone else? Fuck no. The thought alone makes me want to punch my monitor. I hate how much they have in common, how easy it’d be for her to fall for him. If she did, I couldn’t blame her.

I stare at my blocky field, not really seeing it.

I see her face. Camdyn O’Hara—she’s everything.

Beautiful, crazy-athletic, charismatic, funny, cute, sexy…

That smile floors me every time, and her laugh makes me want to do something stupid just to hear it again.

Around her, I’m holding my breath, barely keeping my head above water. Let go, and I’d drown.

Yeah, it’s cheesy—but it’s true. That’s why I can’t walk away, why I can’t let her go even when I know I should.

So why can’t I commit? Why can’t I give her what she deserves? I honestly don’t know. All I know is, I’m scared of losing her, but even more scared of screwing it up again.

Until me, Camdyn didn’t know what it was like to love selflessly and get nothing in return. Now she does, and it’s my fault. I didn’t make her better—I made her hurt. Now all I feel is useless. Helpless. Completely unworthy of her.

I slam the mouse down, plastic cracking against my desk. “I gotta get out of here.” The door bangs shut behind me as I take the stairs two at a time, trying to outrun the truth.

Yeah, I’m pissed Jameson went for pizza with her. There. I said it. I know I shouldn’t be, and I have no right, but fucking sue me. I am.

Not wanting to stay at school and be reminded of her, I take the bus to my dad’s work because I know he’s on a tour this week. He’s a firefighter. I’ve probably mentioned that once or twice. He just made chief at Station 25.

Rain streaks down the bus windshield, wipers beating a frantic rhythm as we crawl through downtown Seattle, past Pike Place crowds and neon bars. By the time I get to Station 25, it’s almost dark, red bay doors glowing like beacons in the gloom.

Thank God Camdyn’s dad doesn’t work here anymore. He’s chief at Station 17 now. I still have a good relationship with Dalton, but I don’t know if he read that blog post before it was taken down, and if he wants to cut my balls off. He might. I wouldn’t blame him.

I spot Dad in back, clipboard in hand, barking orders.

Authority looks good on him—not gonna lie.

Caleb Ryan, my dad, is what I imagine Kevin Costner would be like in Yellowstone if he wore turnout gear.

He demands respect and gets it. If there’s anyone I trust with my life, it’s him.

He taught me respect and trust are earned, not given.

Success only comes to those who work for it; failure is feedback.

Maybe he was disappointed I didn’t become a firefighter, but he’s done everything he could to make my baseball dream real.

Dad sees me before I can wave, tips his chin, finishes up with his guys. The smell hits me—diesel, old coffee, the sharp tang of wet turnout gear, and something scorched from the kitchen. It’s comfort and memory, the kind of scent that sticks to your clothes and somehow makes you feel safe.

Growing up, when Camdyn and I weren’t causing trouble at my mom’s hotel, we spent Friday nights here with our dads, eating spaghetti with the guys, learning cards, listening to stories about blazing fires and rookie screwups.

Dad glances at me, reads my face. “Firehouse on a Tuesday?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “Just needed a change of scenery.”

Owen, my dad’s best friend and still a captain here, grins when he sees me, ruffling my shoulders. I won’t bother describing Owen. Just picture Thor from Avengers. Twins, maybe. I don’t know.