Page 76

WHEELHOUSE

CAMDYN

A hitter's power zone.

T he hotel lobby is a mess of duffel bags, coffee cups, and nervous energy. We’re in travel sweats, hair pulled back, eyes bleary but buzzing. Coach Drew stands by the doors with her clipboard, radiating that calm, terrifying optimism only coaches have on game day.

Brynn sits across from me, scrolling her phone. There’s still heaviness between us, but today, we shove it aside and focus on the bigger picture—bringing home a championship.

Coach Drew claps. “Alright, let’s move, ladies! Bus leaves in ten. Hydrate, check your gear, be accountable.”

Someone groans. Bags clatter. I down my protein shake and try to steady my hands. My body is buzzing—part nerves, part adrenaline, part relief from actually sleeping for once.

Brynn glances over, tentative. “You good?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’m good.” And for once, I mean it.

We’re halfway out the door when the lobby doors slide open and in walks Jaxon, flanked by King, Fork Guy trailing behind—wearing swim trunks, a Hawaiian shirt, and a neck pillow still covered in tiny plastic forks to match his eye patch.

Jaxon’s got a duffel over his shoulder, King’s eating a donut he probably stole from the buffet, and Fork Guy is juggling three bananas, humming the Rocky theme.

Coach Drew’s eyes narrow. “Friends of yours, Cam?”

I try not to smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Jaxon spots me, gives a head nod, that familiar half-grin lighting up his face. King salutes me with his donut. Fork Guy yells, “GO FIGHT WIN!” and launches a banana that lands with a splat near the check-in desk. The woman behind the counter looks like she’s rethinking her life choices.

Before anyone can react, there’s a flash of orange swim trunks—Brody, the vending machine kid from last night, barrels in, pool noodle in hand.

“FORK GUY!” he shouts, like he’s seeing a celebrity.

Fork Guy beams, arms outstretched. “Brody! My dude! Ready to dominate the croissant-stacking contest?”

Brody nods, serious as a heart attack. “But first, can you tie my shoes? My mom says I’m not allowed to use the elevator alone again.”

Coach Drew pinches the bridge of his nose. “Does that kid have parents here?”

I start to answer, but Fork Guy’s already kneeling, tying Brody’s shoes with bomb-defusing precision.

“Somewhere.” Jaxon shrugs, grinning. The team watches, half in disbelief, tension loosening as Brody proudly shows off his bunny-ear laces.

Fork Guy stands, surveying the lobby like he owns it. “Alright, Camdyn’s Crew, let’s do this! Who’s ready to crush dreams and eat carbs?”

Coach Drew claps, voice slicing through the chaos. “Everyone not on the roster, out of the way. Athletes, on the bus.”

Jaxon steps forward and squeezes my hand. Quick, but it settles me. His eyes say it all: I’m here. I’m all in.

King mock-salutes as we file out. Fork Guy tries to follow us onto the bus but gets intercepted by the assistant coach, who steers him toward the buffet. Brody waves from the lobby, already halfway through a cinnamon roll.

As the doors close, Brynn nudges me, nodding toward Jaxon, Fork Guy, and King looking stunned by their own group. “That’s your circus.”

“Yeah.” I laugh, nerves morphing into excitement. “But they’re my people.”

We file out into the morning and for once, I can breathe.

The bus engine rumbles as we pull away, the city waking up beyond the windows.

The team is a mix of chatter, yawns, nervous energy—someone blasts a hype playlist, Brynn braids someone’s hair two seats up.

Coach Drew sits at the front, quietly scrolling scouting notes, probably plotting how to psych out the opposing pitcher with a single glare.

I press my forehead to the glass, watching Oklahoma’s flat sprawl roll by. Devon Park is somewhere out there, tucked between strip malls and chain restaurants, but today it might as well be the center of the universe.

My brain is a mess—half game plan, half daydream, half “what if I forget how to throw a curveball?” I run through my pitches: fastball, rise, drop, screw, change. I could throw them in my sleep, but suddenly I’m convinced I’ll plant my foot and launch the ball into orbit.

I picture the field—how the dirt smells after they water it, how stadium noise bounces off the dugout roof. Last year, I could barely breathe on this bus. I felt like a fraud, like everyone would realize I didn’t belong. But the truth is, I do. I always did.

Brynn leans over my seat, chewing a Twizzler. “You good?”

I nod, mouth dry. “Think so. You?”

She grins. “Only had to pee twice this morning, so yeah, crushing it.”

We both laugh, and I sink back, letting myself feel it all—the nerves, hope, and that weird, giddy joy that I get to do this one more time.

Devon Park comes into view, stadium lights still on even though it’s daylight.

The bus pulls up, brakes squeal, and suddenly it’s real.

The painted arch, NCAA banners flapping, the crowd already trickling in—parents with folding chairs, kids in oversized jerseys, some poor intern in a foam mascot head.

As we file off, Coach Drew gives us his “no-nonsense, let’s-go” look. “Keep your heads, ladies. Play our game. The rest takes care of itself.”

My cleats click on the sidewalk as we head to the field. The air smells like sunscreen, fresh-cut grass, and too many breakfast burritos. I spot teammates practicing their “tough faces” in the snack bar window. Brynn does her pregame ritual—three hops, one deep breath, a muttered curse for luck.

I follow the team down the tunnel and out onto the field. The stands loom above, the scoreboard blinking like a dare. My glove’s warm in my hand, and for a second, I grin. This is my field now. I belong here.

I stretch my arm and think about my first pitch. Please don’t hit anyone. Please don’t trip. Please remember how to throw a softball and not, like, a loaf of bread.

But under the nerves, there’s a steady hum—muscle memory, all those early mornings and late nights, every failure, every comeback. I know exactly what I came here to do.

The bullpen is alive with that weird, electric pregame energy—half sacred ritual, half chaos. Brynn and I toss underhand to start, trading easy spins, letting our arms loosen, our minds settle. My glove pops with each catch, and the world shrinks to the space between us: ball, breath, repeat.

Coach Drew floats by, sunglasses on, scribbling in her notebook. “You two dialed in?” she asks—not really a question.

Brynn grins, tossing me a dirty look. “Cam’s gonna throw so many strikeouts, they’ll name a street after her. Or at least a Taco Bell menu item.”

I roll my eyes but smile. “Only if you actually catch them this time.”

She sticks her tongue out and fires a perfect bullet back, the ball snapping into my glove. I run through my pitches—fastball, drop, rise—tuning out everything but my own rhythm.

Then, as I wind up for a screwball, something catches my eye in the stands. At first I think I’m seeing things. Nope. There they are.

Jaxon, King, and Fork Guy, second row, making a spectacle of themselves.

Jaxon’s in a team hoodie, sunglasses on his head, hat backward, hands cupped as he shouts something I can’t hear.

King is waving a gigantic foam finger he must’ve mugged a kid for, and Fork Guy—oh God—dual-wields plastic clappers, wearing a homemade sign: “CAMDYN’S CREW” in neon marker, with glittery fork stickers.

Brynn notices and smirks. “Who let your circus in here?”

I snort. “Security’s slacking.”

As I wind up, Fork Guy stands on his seat and starts a cheer with Brody—the vending machine kid, now waving a team pennant and double-fisting blue raspberry slushies like he’s been training for this.

King tries to start the wave, but it’s just him, Fork Guy, Brody, and some dad in a poncho, so it looks more like a confused flash mob than school spirit.

Jaxon catches my eye, gives a thumbs-up, mouths, “Good luck!”

He’s trying to act chill, but his knee’s bouncing so hard I can see it from the bullpen. I shake my head, grinning—my people are chaos, but they’re mine.

Brynn bumps my shoulder, eyes fierce. “We got this. This year’s ours.”

“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. For the first time all week, I actually believe it. The nerves aren’t heavy anymore—they’re spark plugs. For once, I’m not scared of the pressure. I’m hungry for it.

We settle into routine, crowd noise fading into a low hum, like the stadium’s holding its breath. The game’s minutes away. I look up at my crew—my team in the dugout, my circus in the stands—and I know, win or lose, this is where I’m supposed to be.

I’m human. I make mistakes. I fail. I succeed.

I fail again, and then—when I least expect it—I succeed.

That’s how it works for athletes. The way forward is seeing every failure for what it is: a chance to learn and keep pushing.

You don’t get better pretending you’re perfect. You get better by surviving the mess.

Focus on the process, not the outcome.

Dominate your attitude.

The game doesn’t care about your feelings. The moment I made peace with that, it was… weirdly freeing. The game doesn’t care. But I do. That’s enough.

Focus on what you can control.

I remember what my dad told me in high school before state, when my hands shook so bad I could barely tie my shoes. He pulled me aside, looked me dead in the eye, and said: “You have everything you need to succeed. Believe in your ability, your coaches, and stay committed to what you want.”

That’s what I’m carrying out here. Not the fear. Not the pressure. Just the belief that I get to do this, that I belong here, win or not.

“You good?” Coach Drew asks after warmups, clipboard in hand. He looks like he’s about to give a speech or ask if I remembered my allergy meds.

“No,” I say, taking a long drink of water. “It’s hotter than demon dick out here. And I feel sick. I might puke.”

Coach Drew blinks, eyebrows shooting up. He’s super religious, and I just said dick in front of him. “Uh, okay.” He pats my back, awkward. “Don’t puke. I don’t want to clean that up.”

“I’ll try not to.” I wrap my arms around my stomach, swallowing hard, trying to convince my body it doesn’t want to turn inside out on national TV.

Don’t puke on ESPN. Please, for the love of God, don’t puke.

Nothing says pressure like the College World Series. Music blares—something with a bassline that rattles my teeth. The crowd is a wall of noise and color. My heart hammers so loud, I swear the ump can hear it echoing off the dugout.

Each step toward the circle feels heavier, but also lighter, if that makes sense. I know the game plan Coach Drew and I mapped out—pitch sequences looping in my head like a song I can’t turn off. Fastball up and in, changeup away, rise to finish. I run it over and over like a prayer.

In front of me, a sellout crowd of three thousand, every one of them staring at the girl in the circle.

The one told she’d never play college softball—not tall enough, not fast enough, not enough spin, couldn’t take criticism.

But here I am, standing in the same dirt as hundreds of girls before me at Devon Park, all of us hoping our best is good enough.

As I step into the circle, there’s a breeze, but the humidity is as clingy as a bad ex.

I draw in a deep breath, scrape my cleat into the dirt, covering the trench Oklahoma’s pitcher left from her drag foot.

I press my glove to my chest, feeling my heartbeat, and let everything else—expectations, predictions, doubts—fade into the background.

This is my wheelhouse. Right here, with the game on the line, the world watching, the pressure thick enough to choke on.

Some hitters wait for their pitch—wait for their perfect moment, right in their sweet spot.

I don’t wait. I step up and claim it. This circle, this dirt, this sky—all of it is mine.

I know what I want, and I’m ready to swing.

Game time.