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BLOCKING

CAMDYN

When the catcher stops a pitch in the dirt with their body or mitt, they’re said to be blocking pitches.

T here’s something about walking onto the field on game day that always settles my nerves, even when everything else is a mess.

The air is brisk, the sky that perfect Pacific Northwest blue-grey, and the chain-link fences are already humming with the early energy of cleats on concrete and teammates yelling jokes across the grass.

I can smell fresh-cut turf and damp dirt—the kind of scent that means spring, sweat, and the possibility of making something right.

I sling my bat bag over my shoulder and head for the dugout.

The bleachers are empty—a few parents clutching travel mugs, our head coach talking to his clipboard like it might talk back.

A group of freshmen are stretching in left field, their laughter floating on the wind, and for a second, I actually feel okay.

The chaos of my life fades into the background, drowned out by the steady, familiar rhythm of team rituals and the thud of softballs in leather gloves.

Sitting in the bullpen, I stare at my phone in my lap as I wait for Brynn to wander over for warmups. I want to text Jaxon. I open our message thread and the last one sits there. The one he sent days ago saying he missed me.

I type a message out.

wyd???

Delete.

Too soon. I can’t send it because if he replies, I know me and I’m going to fall right back into wanting to text him every minute of the day.

I open Instagram and go straight to Jaxon’s feed, checking if he’s posted anything.

Jaxon and I both got Instagram our freshman year of high school, but we treat it like a stat sheet, not a scrapbook.

No cutesy couple selfies, no inside jokes, just pure sports.

He posts his catching stats and nukes he sends 400-plus feet; I throw up a photo after I hit a bomb or pitch a shutout.

Our feeds are basically running highlight reels.

I’ve liked every post he’s ever made—out of loyalty, superstition, or both—and I’ll keep doing it even when he’s playing in the MLB, because I believe with 100 percent certainty he’ll get there.

Like the shameless stalker I am, I check his feed again and refresh it.

Jaxon’s last post was a week ago: highlights from the California series.

I already liked it, obviously. But what catches my eye are the stats from the Nebraska game.

The guy went full JT Realmuto—caught all nine innings, threw out two runners stealing, and, oh yeah, homered twice.

Jaxon went 3-for-4 at the plate, drove in four runs, and basically carried his team on his back like it was just another day at the office.

I haven’t posted since the Penn State game, so I scroll through my camera roll and pick a shot where I look fierce and not like I’m about to collapse from nerves. I post it before we head out for warm-ups, captioning it with something generic but intense (“Eyes up. Next game. Next win.”).

Brynn shuffles into the bullpen with her catcher’s gear and mitt. She looks at my phone, then at me. “Girl, what are you doing?”

I haven’t forgiven her. Not really. But I can’t bring myself to hate her, either. That’s the thing about teammates—even when they fuck up, you still want to believe the best. Maybe it’s a flaw. Maybe it’s just who I am. It’s definitely who I am.

I tilt my phone away, acting casual. “Sending Olivia Rodrigo a message on Instagram.”

She snorts. “What? Again? That’s weird.” She lunges for my phone, but I whip it away. “Don’t do that.”

“I will do that,” I say, typing, glancing at her for dramatic effect before I hit send. “I’m a bad bish.”

She cracks up. “You cried when the flight attendant asked if you wanted nuts.”

“That was a lapse in mindset,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.

She arches an eyebrow. “You mean judgment?”

“Nope. Mindset.”

Brynn leans over, tightens her shin guards, and tosses me a ball. “You know she’s never going to reply, right?”

I grin, send the message anyway, catch the ball, and set my phone down on the bucket. “I don’t care. It’s tradition now.”

I know she wants to ask if we’re okay, but that’s not a pre-game conversation. I don’t want to think about how she betrayed me. I want to focus on shutting down this game and locking in a spot in the playoffs.

The game is a blur—pitches coming in hot, my arm burning, every muscle wound tight and ready.

I lose myself in the rhythm: windup, release, snap of the glove, the crack of a bat, the crowd roaring when I strike out the side.

By the time it’s over, I’ve thrown eleven strikeouts and hit my fifth home run in four games.

We win. Barely. But a win is a win, and I’ll take it because we clinched our spot in the Super Regionals.

After the game, the locker room is chaos.

The sharp tang of sweat and old turf, the whiff of industrial cleaner that never quite does its job, the faintest hint of someone’s vanilla body spray fighting a losing battle in the corner.

It’s a weird kind of home—a place where every emotion gets aired out alongside your socks.

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker with all the consistency of my emotional state.

I drop my gear bag at my usual spot—a patch of bench where the wood isn’t splintered—and collapse with a sigh.

My hair’s still damp from the world’s fastest shower, clinging to my neck, and my arms are streaked with turf burn and eye black that refuses to budge.

But it’s the good kind of tired—the kind you only get after you’ve left everything out on the field.

I’m half-listening to someone’s playlist blasting from a Bluetooth speaker and half-scrolling through the Husky baseball highlights. I know, it’s pathetic. I can’t stop myself from checking his stats.

Brynn finds me as I’m scrolling. She sits down, pulling her knees up to her chest. “You pitched good today.”

I nod, not looking at her. “Thanks.” My thumb hovers over the refresh button, eyes flicking to Jaxon’s most recent post, then back to the Nebraska game highlights.

Brynn is quiet for a second, then says, “Are we good?”

I sigh. I don’t want to forgive her, not yet. But I know myself—eventually, I always cave. People make mistakes. That doesn’t mean you let them hurt you again, but it doesn’t mean you write them off forever, either.

“B, I don’t know if I can forgive you that easily,” I say, finally meeting her eyes. “But you know me, and I know me, and I know people screw up. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. I respect you as a ballplayer, but our friendship is going to be different for a while.”

Brynn nods, mouth tight. “I get that. But Jaxon better pull his head out of his ass or I might start trying to date you myself.”

I bark a laugh, way too loud in the echoey room. “Honestly, you’d have better luck with Olivia Rodrigo at this point.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. There’s a jolt in my chest—always that hope it’s Jaxon, even if I know better by now. It’s not a text, but it’s close: Instagram notification. jaxonryan99 liked my post.

And…

Wait.

He commented.

I scramble to my profile, hands clumsy from nerves. He didn’t write anything, just left a fire emoji.

Is he saying I’m hot? Or is it because I’ve hit five home runs in four games? Probably the second one. Honestly, knowing Jaxon, it’s probably both, but he’ll never admit it.

You know what’s actually disappointing, though? Still no message from Olivia Rodrigo. I swear, today felt like the day she’d slide into my DMs and tell me I’m her soul twin or whatever. I guess even pop stars don’t appreciate true bad bish energy.

The rest of the team is laughing and whipping towels, the sound echoing off the old cinderblock walls.

For a second, I let myself belong to the chaos.

I’m not just a player or a stat line tonight.

I’m a girl with bruised knees, turf-burned arms, a future that isn’t completely fucked, and friends who are still here, in all their messy glory.

Maybe things aren’t fixed. Maybe I’m not ready to forgive or forget.

But tonight, I get to feel the fire—on the field, in my chest, buzzing in my phone with one stupid little emoji that means more than I’ll ever admit.

Something is still burning. It’s the hope that none of this is finished, that everything can still get better.

Maybe I can block out the bullshit and let myself believe in new beginnings.

One day, maybe Jaxon will say what he really means. Maybe Brynn and I will laugh about this the way we laugh about everything else. Maybe Olivia Rodrigo will finally DM me back and realize we’re soul sisters.

But for now? I’ll take the fire emoji, the wild noise of the locker room, and the feeling that—just for a moment—I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.