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DEAD RED

JAXON

When a batter is waiting on, or expecting a fastball to be thrown.

I think about that night in the rain with Camdyn every day since then.

But it’s not just the rain. It’s her in my bed, tangled in my sheets and my arms, skin warm against mine while her hair fans across my chest. I can still taste her lips—soft, a little bit of vanilla chapstick, the way she kissed me slow like we had all the time in the world.

Sometimes I wake up reaching for her, desperate for the slide of her thigh over mine, the sleepy way she’d bite my jaw before pulling me closer and laughing into my neck.

I remember the way she’d look at me after, bare and open, like I was something she’d found instead of something she’d settled for.

In truth, she’s never far from my thoughts, even now, as my season comes to an end.

The field’s quieter than I expected after the last out.

Not silent—never that—but there’s this weird hush, like the whole stadium just exhaled now that our season’s officially over.

The scoreboard’s already gone dark, the stands are thinning, and someone in the press box is playing “Sweet Home Alabama” for what feels like the ninth time tonight.

I’m standing there, glove in hand, cleats sinking a little into the dirt, still trying to figure out why I feel so wrecked after this game.

It’s not just from the loss. Well, maybe it is.

Maybe it’s because this is it for the year and, once again, we didn’t make it to the PAC 12 tournament.

Maybe it’s because I know she’s not here.

Or maybe it’s because Fork Guy is on the field now, sprinting around with his plastic spork crown and shoving his phone at anyone in a Huskies jersey for a selfie.

Coach Allen appears next to me like he always does—silent, sudden, like a hawk. He’s got his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, his cap pulled low. The lines on his face are deeper tonight.

“Hell of a season, huh Ryan?” he says, not looking at me.

I shrug, scuffing the infield with my toe. “Felt longer than it was.”

He snorts. “That’s baseball. Every year feels like a prison sentence, but you miss it the second it’s over.”

“So, the Braves, huh?” He elbows me.

I laugh. “It was just a phone call.”

“Nah, they’ve been after you for a year. It’s not just a call.”

I knew the Braves were interested, but I never expected to get a call from them this morning.

Surprised the hell out of me. I’m only a sophomore, and yeah, I could enter the draft—a lot of guys do their junior year.

My parents are pushing me to wait and finish my degree because nothing’s guaranteed, and at least then I’d have something to fall back on.

I think about Camdyn and what she’d say. She’d be excited—and she’d tell me to trust my gut.

“Jaxon, listen up for a second.” He sighs and I know this is gonna be a long winded speech.

“I know you hear a lot of noise out there—stats, scouts, what you need to fix, what you did right. You’ve got talent.

That’s obvious. I saw it the first time you threw down to second when I couldn’t put you anywhere else on the field.

I saw it in the way you frame a pitch, the way you handle a your success and your failures.

But I’ve seen a lot of talented catchers make it to the college level.

And I’ll tell you straight: talent isn’t what separates them.

It’s obsession. Not the kind where you just “love” baseball, or you’re “passionate” about it.

Everybody says that. I’m talking about the kind of obsession that keeps you up at night replaying a play in your head, that makes you itch to get here before the sun’s up and stay long after everyone else is gone.

The kind that won’t let you rest after a loss, that makes you want to be the best catcher in the country, every single day.

That’s the difference between you and other players.

You can’t control how tall you are, or how fast your arm recovers, or whether some scout puts a checkmark by your name.

But you can control how hard you work. You can be the one who’s still in the cage when the lights go out, who studies film just a little longer, who hustles out every single ground ball like it’s the ninth inning of Omaha.

There’s always going to be someone with a quicker pop time, a harder swing, a better day.

But nobody—and I mean nobody—should ever outwork you.

That’s what you can own. That’s what makes you impossible for these scouts to ignore.

So don’t just play because you’re good at it.

Play because you can’t imagine doing anything else.

Play because you need it, because it eats at you.

That’s what obsession is, Jax. And that’s how you get from being just another talented guy to being the guy everyone remembers. ”

I nod, because he’s right. Baseball has always been more than a sport I play. It’s been an obsession since I first picked up a ball. Nothing else mattered. And you can see where that got me in the last year, but, it’s also making my dreams come true.

Now I just need the girl back to make it all worth it.

“What the fuck is he doing?”

I follow Coach Allen’s stare. Fork Guy’s trying to climb the outfield fence for a panoramic shot, and Jameson is halfheartedly pretending not to know him. I watch as Fork Guy nearly wipes out, then gives the camera a thumbs-up like he just saved the game.

Coach sighs. “I swear, every year there’s a new idiot. Remind me to check who’s handing out media passes.”

I almost grin, but it fades fast. “I think he promised to clean up trash in the stands for a media pass.”

He nods, still watching the mess in left field.

“Do you ever regret it?” I ask. “The stuff you gave up for baseball?”

He turns to me, and for once he’s not squinting at me like I’m an idiot. “You mean relationships?”

I nod.

He scratches his jaw. “You know, I used to tell guys—hell, I told you—relationships don’t belong in college sports.

Not at this level. Too many distractions, too many ways to mess up your head right when you need it clear.

I believed it, too. Thought love was something you did in the off-season, if at all. ”

I remember. He said it the first day of fall ball: “You want to be great? Don’t let anyone get close enough to mess with your swing.”

“But you were wrong?” I ask, softer than I mean to.

Coach laughs, dry and tired. “Yeah, I was wrong. Sometimes the stuff you think will distract you is actually what keeps you grounded.” He glances at me. “You were better with her, Jaxon. On and off the field.”

My heart does this weird skip-hop thing that would probably concern a cardiologist. “But you said?—”

He cuts me off, waving his hand like he’s brushing away his own advice. “Yeah, I know what I said. I was an ass. Sometimes it’s easier to believe you can just cut yourself off from the world and be better for it. Truth is, you play better when you let people in. Even if it hurts sometimes.”

I think about Camdyn and all the games she waited after, in high school and last year, the texts before, the way she always brought me a cookie—celebration or consolation, didn’t matter.

How she never tried to fix my bad days, just sat with me until they didn’t feel so heavy.

She’s been there for me, season after season, and when was I ever there for her?

I’ve missed so many of her games because I was playing myself, but honestly, sometimes I didn’t make her a priority and I should have.

I close my eyes, hating the images that surface.

I can’t get her out of my mind. My thoughts are always on that day at the field in the rain and the pain I left in her eyes.

I hurt her over and over again and for what?

She didn’t deserve that. I know what I did to hurt her, and I carry that pain in my chest every day. Can she ever forgive me?

I’m bombarded by memories of a life I shared with her, and the reality that I might not get that back.

The truth is, I’m terrified to see her in person now. Scared of the look in her eyes. Scared of her disappointment.

I haven’t stopped thinking about her since that day at the field and it got worse after the night in my dorm when she showed up.

Fork Guy is now trying to organize the infielders for a “candid” shot. Coach eyes him like he’s inventing a new strength-and-conditioning drill called “Chase Fork Guy.”

“The game’s hard enough,” Coach says, his voice dropping. “Don’t make it harder by fighting yourself.”

I glance up at him, sheepish. “Is this your way of telling me to get my head out of my ass?”

He grins. “Among other things. Maybe pull your heart out of it, too. See where it leads you.”

I watch as Fork Guy tries to hand King his spork crown for a selfie. Jameson looks ready to tackle him. I kind of wish he would.

“So what now?” I ask, both to Coach and to myself.

Coach stretches like he’s about to sub himself in, looks at the team in the dugout, the emptying stands, the whole mess of it.

“Now you figure out what matters most. And you stop letting other people—including me—tell you what that should be.” He gives Fork Guy a death glare. “Who the hell let him down here?”

I almost laugh, but it comes out as a shaky breath. I know what I want. I know who matters.

Two options: let her go, or tell her how I feel. Make a grand gesture? Both terrify me.

I close my eyes, draw in a breath that tastes like wet grass and stale hot dogs, and finally let it all out.

I think about Camdyn and what she’s doing right now.

They’re one game into the College World Series.

They made it through Super Regionals, and now they’re in the final three games at Devon Park in Oklahoma City—best of three, so if they win tomorrow, they win the national championship.

This might be the stupidest, or the smartest, decision of my life, but I’m going to Oklahoma.