Page 63

Dad leans back, coffee mug in hand. The same mug he’s had since I was a kid, Seattle FD logo faded to nothing. He doesn’t say anything, just waits. Classic Dad move—the silence that makes you want to fill it.

I trace a water ring on the table with my finger.

He nods. “You know I’m here for you.”

“I know.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Not really in a talking mood lately.”

“It might help.”

I let out a breath. “Yeah.”

The station’s quiet now. Only the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant crash of Probie dropping every pot in the kitchen.

Dad sips his coffee, studies me over the rim. “You know, your mom and I broke up before I could step up to the plate.”

I look up. “Really?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t ready for a relationship and couldn’t handle drama or myself. And her dad hated me.”

I laugh. “Grandpa Wes seems so chill now.” I could—though I haven’t seen it—imagine Weston Wellington as a hard-ass. He owns a bunch of hotels, but I’ve only seen the guy who sends me fat “college cash” checks and has my last high school home run ball in his office.

Dad stares at his coffee. “He didn’t think I was good enough for your mom, and I wasn’t, but it didn’t stop me from loving her.”

I eye his chief’s uniform and slump in my chair. “This is different.”

“Is it?”

The question hangs there, mixing with dish soap and the echo of laughter. I think about Camdyn having pizza with Jameson. Think about how much I miss making her laugh like he probably did.

“I don't know if she wants?—”

“I saw her the other day. I know how that girl looks when your name comes up.” He raises an eyebrow. “She still loves you. Always will.”

From the kitchen, there’s a crash followed by Probie’s muffled “I’m okay!”

Dad shakes his head, smiling. “Listen. I don’t know what happened, and that’s your business. But if you want that girl, you have to forgive yourself for your mistakes and let her in to make plenty more. That’s a relationship. You mess up, you learn, and you grow together.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

He leans in, arms crossed. There’s a coffee stain shaped like Texas between us. I stare at it for a while before I can say anything.

“I messed up,” I say finally. “Bad.”

Dad doesn’t flinch. He’s seen worse—midnight calls, burned-out houses, screaming people. “What happened?”

I swallow. The words feel heavy and sharp. I rub my hands over my face. “She got pregnant. Last year. Then lost the baby, and a week later, days before her World Series game, I broke up with her because I didn’t know how to be there for her and still give what I needed to baseball.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. The station’s even quieter. I hear the fridge and a dispatcher’s radio.

“Well,” he says, steady and soft. “How are you gonna fix it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think—” My voice cracks. “I don’t think I can.”

Dad lets that settle. He’s always been good at silence.

“I feel like I let her down. I let myself down. I just—” My breath hitches. “I don’t know how to fix anything anymore, but I miss her.”

Dad leans in, voice low. “You can’t fix everything, Jax. Sometimes all you can do is be there. For her. For yourself.”

I nod, but it feels impossible. “I keep thinking if I’d done something different?—”

He cuts me off, gentle but firm. “You loved her. You still do. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, but it’s not enough. I hurt her. Over and over.”

“She’s forgiving. She’s a lot like her dad that way, and Dalton is the most loyal man I know. And Camdyn’s spitting image of him.”

He’s right. She is. Everything about her comes from Dalton and her mom. They raised her to put others first, to give grace before greed.

The next morning, I’m still thinking about Jameson having pizza with her. Unfortunately for me, before we head out to South Carolina, Jameson, Ollie, King, and I end up on a sun-baked field behind the rec center, wrangling a herd of seven-year-olds in oversized jerseys.

Jameson’s got the clipboard, King’s handing out neon-orange Gatorade, and Ollie’s in sunglasses so big he looks like he’s hiding from the paparazzi. I don’t know how we got roped into this—something about “giving back” and “character building”—but here we are.

I’ll admit, every time Jameson checks his phone, I worry Camdyn’s texting him. I doubt it, but I’m jealous as fuck.

The kids swarm us, all elbows and shoelaces and a thousand questions at once. Part of me wishes Fork Guy was here.

“Coach Jaxon, can I slide into home if there’s a dog on the field?”

“Coach King, do I have to wear the helmet if it’s itchy?”

Jameson tries to explain the rules, but halfway through, one kid’s picking dandelions at first, another’s got his glove on his head, and Ollie’s corralling a left fielder doing cartwheels.

“Alright, listen up!” Jameson shouts, holding the clipboard like it’ll save him. “No eating dirt, no chasing squirrels, and?—”

A pop fly heads to second and every kid sprints after it, including the batter, who drops the bat and starts whooping.

King’s doubled over laughing. “That’s hustle! Can we get that in our infield next game?”

A chorus of “I got it! I got it!” turns into a dog pile.

Ollie finally gets them in a semi-line. “Let’s try again, yeah?” A girl tugs his sleeve. “Coach, my shoe’s untied.” He drops to one knee. “No problem, kiddo.” She steps on his hand. “Ow—yep, that’s one way to do it.”

I’m on first base, where a kid named Mason is more interested in his pet turtle than the batter. “He’s really fast,” Mason assures me. “Sometimes he moves across the tank in, like, an hour.”

“That’s wild,” I say, trying to keep him from building a dirt castle at his feet.

At the plate, the batter finally makes contact—sort of—sending a slow roller to third, where King and Jameson dodge a stampede. Third baseman scoops it up, holds it over his head like a trophy, and yells, “I FOUND THE BALL!”

By inning’s end, Ollie’s sunglasses are crooked, King’s covered in Gatorade, and Jameson’s notebook is full of tally marks labeled “Chaos.”

Still, when the kids group up on the mound for a huddle, faces shiny with sweat and dirt, it’s impossible not to smile. Even Jameson, who pretends to be all business, has a soft spot for the kid who runs the wrong way around the bases, arms out like an airplane.

As we walk off, sweat prickling under our shirts, King wipes his brow and groans, “I think we lost to the under-six T-ball team.”

Ollie grins, cheeks streaked with dirt and sunscreen. “Maybe next week we teach them not to eat the bases.” He pops another fruit snack, wrapper crinkling.

Jameson sighs, but he’s almost smiling. “That’s your job, Coach Ollie,” he says, fanning himself with his cap. The late sun bounces off the bleachers, turning the air into rippling waves. My shirt sticks to my back, and the grass stains itch.

A swarm of kids trails after us, sticky-fingered and sunburned, begging for high-fives and more turtle stories. Their laughter echoes off the fence as King does his “signature high five”—basically a missed slap and a goofy dance, earning a chorus of giggles.

When we finally break away and head to Ollie’s battered truck, Jameson finds me. He bumps my shoulder, squinting. “Where’d you disappear to last night?”

I realize I never told anyone. The heat and dust make it hard to look at him, so I shrug. “Went to see my dad.”

Jameson nods, runs a hand over his buzzed hair, sweat shining. “You mad?” he asks, low.

I try to play dumb, kicking at a clump of crabgrass. “About?”

He glances sideways, a smirk flickering. “Me having pizza with Camdyn.”

I force a laugh, too tight. “I’m not happy about it, but she’s allowed to have friends, and so are you.” I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling that familiar twist in my gut.

He nods, then tosses his bag in the truck bed. The metal’s already hot enough to fry an egg. Ollie and King catch up, munching fruit snacks I’m sure they stole from the kids. King offers me one, but I wave it off.

Jameson leans in, lowers his voice. “I think she just needed someone to talk to who wasn’t Callie, or you.”

I sigh, squint into the sun. “I know, man. It’s just—” My throat closes up.

“You miss her, and her friendship,” he says, not unkind, just honest.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the sting of sunscreen. “I do. So much.”

He claps my shoulder, heavy and reassuring. “She asked about you,” Jameson says quietly. “She misses you too.”

I nod, not trusting myself to answer, letting the heat and laughter wash over me. For a second, it almost feels like forgiveness, like maybe I’ll figure out how to fix things. But my nerves buzz in my chest, restless, because missing her is one thing—finding my way back is something else entirely.

Later, as we’re loading gear onto the team bus, the late sun slants gold across the quad.

Guys are shouting, laughing, tossing bags, but it all fades when I spot her.

Camdyn, by the athletic hall, talking to Fork Guy and Brynn.

She’s laughing—head tipped back, hair lit up like a halo in the sunlight.

I freeze, hands full of nothing, heart thudding stupidly in my chest. I can’t hear her, but I know that laugh. God, I know it. I remember when it belonged to me—when I was the reason her mouth curled, her eyes lit up, her entire body shook with joy.

Now I’m just another face in the crowd, some background extra in her life. I want to go over, to say something—anything— but my feet stay glued to the pavement. I don’t know if I’d make things better or just fuck it up all over again.

I stand there, watching her. The world tilts, and for a second, I feel everything I lost pressing down on me, heavy and sharp and impossibly real.

I want to tell her I’m sorry, that I’d do anything to make it right.

That I’d burn every bridge, tear down every fence, start over a thousand times if it means I get one more shot.

But I don’t move. I just watch her laugh, the sound echoing in my head, filling up all the empty spaces she left behind.

Eventually, I turn away, shoulders hunched, ache blooming in my chest. I climb onto the bus, shove my bag under the seat, and stare out the window as the city slides by in a blur.

My phone’s heavy in my hand. I stare at our old texts—her words, her smile, the little digital pieces of what we had. My thumb hovers, trembling.

I type it anyway.

I miss you

I hit send, and for a long moment, the world holds its breath. I wait, stupid and hopeful, for a reply that may never come.

But I can’t stop hoping. Not now. Not when there’s still a runner in scoring position, and I’m the only one who knows how much the game matters .