Page 64

IN THE HOLE

CAMDYN

An offensive player due up in the lineup after the on-deck batter, two behind the current hitter.

I ’m an idiot. Stupid idiot. Why the hell did I send all those damn messages?

Yeah, I’m still freaking out days later.

Why, you ask?

Because his response—an entire twenty-four hours later—was three damn words.

Jaxon

I miss you

So here I am, sitting in therapy. You have to admit, it’s where I should be.

The clock on the wall in the University of Washington counseling office is stuck at 2:43. I stare at it for a full minute, wondering if the batteries are dead or if time just freezes right before you spill your guts to a stranger in a soft cardigan.

“So, Camdyn,” my therapist, Dr. Melanie, says, crossing her legs and giving me that head-tilt you always see on TV, “what would you like to talk about today?”

I almost laugh. Should I say “life,” or just “Jaxon”? Maybe, “the fact my Spotify Wrapped is going to be nothing but sad-girl playlists if something doesn’t change soon”?

Instead, I clear my throat. “Uh, so… there was a blog post about me and what happened last year, and Jaxon and I aren’t talking anymore.

Like, at all. And now I’m sad because I can’t even say we broke up again…

because we weren’t really in a relationship.

If relationships were coloring books, ours was the one where someone lost the crayons. ”

Dr. Melanie smiles knowingly. She already knows all about Jaxon and last year, and how she warned me about the whole casual sleeping together thing. Did I listen?

Nope.

“I warned you how confusing a situationship would be after everything you went through,” she says.

I nod, regret burning. “I know.”

She scribbles something in her notebook. I imagine it says, “client doesn’t fucking listen” or maybe “classic Gen Z heartbreak.”

“So, how are you feeling about that?” she asks, voice calm.

I roll my eyes at myself. Obviously not good, Melanie.

“I keep telling myself, ‘Focus on you. Take a pause. Understand your worth,’ like I’m a motivational Pinterest board.

But then I check my phone every morning, hoping he’ll text.

And when he doesn’t, it feels like the world’s ending.

Except today, he finally did. Three words: ‘I miss you.’ And, okay, it might be because I sent him sixty texts during my allergic reaction.

But I don’t know. Maybe not.” All of it tumbles out in one breath.

Dr. Melanie’s lips twitch. I can’t tell if she wants to say “I told you so,” or if she’s trying not to laugh. “Everything you’re feeling is justified, Camdyn. You’re grieving something real, even if it didn’t have a label. Did you still feel like you lost yourself in it?”

I sigh, barely audible. “Honestly? Yeah. I spent so much time worrying if Jaxon would text, or if he’d decide to date me again, I forgot about my own happiness.”

She laughs softly. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t a fan of.

.. whatever you and Jaxon had. Do I think it could have worked?

Maybe. But the way you both went about it, it was going to end like this.

” Her gaze pins me. “Heartbreak from a situationship can be just as intense as a real breakup. Sometimes worse, because of all the uncertainty. Give yourself permission to feel it, Camdyn. And maybe block Jaxon’s number for a while. ”

I smile, knowing I’ll never block him. “You’re the first person who’s told me to do that.”

She grins. “I know you won’t.” She glances at my UW Huskies sweatshirt. “Can I ask—how are you feeling about super regionals?”

My stomach twists. There it is—the other thing. “Nervous,” I admit. “Obviously. It’s super regionals. But also… last year was a lot. Like, a lot, a lot.”

She nods softly. “I remember. That was when your coach suggested you see me, after everything at the World Series.”

My throat tightens. I lost more than a game that day.

She lets the silence sit. “You went through something hard and isolating. And you did it in public, even if no one knew the details.”

I shrug. “My teammates know now. Sort of. I think they’re scared to ask. There was a blog post, you know? Coach keeps telling me to ‘be a leader’ and ‘focus on the game.’ Sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to be fine by now. Like I shouldn’t have anxiety about the playoffs.”

She leans in. “It’s only natural to be anxious, especially after everything you’ve lost—and everything with Jaxon. If you want, we can talk about what you need as playoffs get closer. What would make you feel safe and supported?”

I nod, biting my lip. “Honestly, I just want to forget it all and play ball. I don’t want to think about last season or Jaxon. I want to win. Maybe break my strikeout record.”

She smiles, genuine. “That’s a good goal.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “I thought so.”

She glances at her notepad, then back at me. “When you think about stepping onto the field next week, what comes up? Fear? Excitement? Something else?”

I stare at my shoes. “Both? I love softball. Always have. But lately, every time I put on my cleats, it feels like armor. Like everyone’s watching, waiting to see if I’ll crack. Especially after the blog post. Or if I’ll be ‘normal’ again. I keep wondering… what if I’m not?”

She scribbles. “Do you ever miss when it was just a game?”

“All the time,” I snap, sharper than I mean to.

I don’t think anyone but the ones who’ve played at this level understand the pressure on D1 athletes.

“I used to play because it was fun. Now every pitch feels like it’s about my future, my past, whether I’m mentally tough enough.

Like the softball gods are judging me, and I’m just trying not to fall apart. ”

She smiles gently. “That’s a lot of pressure. Has anyone on the team checked in with you since the blog post?”

I think of Brynn and Coach Drew. “Yeah, Brynn—my catcher—and Coach Drew. My mom, though she doesn’t know most of it, keeps telling me to stay strong like it’s a magic spell.

My dad sends inspirational quotes before games.

I know they mean well, but sometimes I wish someone would say, ‘Hey, that sucked. Wanna get pancakes and not talk about it?’”

She laughs. “Pancakes are underrated therapy.”

I grin. “Seriously. Syrup fixes a lot.”

She shifts, thoughtful, crossing one leg over the other. The leather chair creaks, swallowed up by the hum of campus life outside. Fluorescent light glints off her framed diplomas and the stubborn little jade plant in the window.

“When’s the last time you did something for yourself? Not for the team, Coach, or Jaxon—just for you?” Dr. Melanie asks, gentle but direct.

I read people’s emotions on their faces and draw my own conclusions—about me, about the situation, about everything. I did it with Jaxon for years, always obsessed with making him happy because I thought if I did, he’d want me.

Well, no. And thinking like that got me here. The time I spent with him became my whole world, and that’s where the people-pleasing started.

Maybe it started even earlier. I remember telling my parents whenever I messed up, “Please don’t be mad at me.”

Punishment never mattered. Their opinions did. If they were mad or disappointed, I couldn’t handle it. Ground me for years, I didn’t care. Look at me with disappointment or sadness and it destroyed me.

I stare down at my hands, picking at a thread on my jeans. The silence feels padded, safe. “I… can’t remember.”

“That worries me.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees, gold bracelet catching the light. There’s a softness in her eyes that makes honesty easier. “You’re allowed to be a person before you’re an athlete, a teammate, or someone’s girlfriend.”

Her words settle over me—warm and scary at once.

There’s a poster on the wall: brEATHE, blue block letters over a mountain sunrise.

I can’t seem to take enough air. “It feels selfish. Like if I’m not holding everything together, I’m letting people down.

I’m a people pleaser, afraid of disappointing anyone. ”

She nods, thinking, then leans back. “Selfish isn’t always a bad word.

Sometimes it means self-care. You can’t pitch a shutout if your arm’s broken, right?

Same with your heart. If you keep patching things up, eventually the tape fails, and you’re left with more hurt than before.

You can’t help anyone—not the team, not Jaxon—if you’re running on empty. ”

I exhale, shoulders dropping, lighter but fragile—like a balloon tied with too many knots. “I feel like I’m patched up with duct tape and double knots, ready to unravel.”

She gives a small, encouraging smile. “That’s possible.

But duct tape can hold a lot, especially if you reinforce it.

And you don’t have to do it alone. Keep journaling, meditating, visualizing success.

Next time you close your eyes, picture that duct tape getting stronger—woven into your foundation, not slapped over cracks.

Even if it tears, you’re not falling apart.

We’ll work on it together. And maybe next time, bring me pancakes. ”

Sunlight catches the edge of her glasses as she grins. For a moment, the office feels less like a therapist’s room and more like a safe place to start over. “Deal.” I laugh, lighter than I’ve felt in weeks. “But no judgment on my syrup-to-pancake ratio.”

“No judgment here,” she says. “That’s what therapy’s for.”

I glance at the clock. Still 2:43.

After my session, I step into the hallway, the air sharp with that weird campus smell—half coffee, half rain-soaked concrete. My brain feels wrung out, like someone opened a window and let fresh air in.

I head for the athletics hall, backpack slung over one shoulder, moving on muscle memory.

That’s when I see him. Jaxon, in full baseball gear, just out of practice, laughing at something a teammate says as they spill out of the building. The old ache hits, but I keep walking. I tell myself not to look—and of course, I look.