Page 79

WALK-OFF

JAXON

A hit that ends a game.

T he dorm is quiet except for the low hum of my computer, the faint, distant roar of students down the hall, and the weird little gremlin noises coming from under my bed—which, at this point, is either Mookie or the ghost of my GPA.

I got back late last night from Oklahoma and haven’t left my room today, unless you count the workout this morning. The season might be over, but the grind for next season already started.

Right now, I’m hunched over my keyboard, building a batting facility in Minecraft.

Not just any batting facility—the Huskies’ home, pixel-perfect.

I’m sweating the details: the faded logo, the dent in the outfield fence, the way the sun slices through the high windows before practice.

It’s almost meditative, if you ignore that Mookie just launched himself off the mini fridge and skidded across my desk, scattering sticky notes and gnawing the corner of my phone charger.

I don’t know why, but he’s obsessed with cords and electronics.

It’s a miracle he hasn’t fried himself yet.

“Dude!” I hiss. “Chill the fuck out.”

Mookie blinks at me, totally unrepentant, then bolts full-tilt into my laundry pile, tail puffed up like a bottle brush. The only thing in this room more destructive than my anxiety is my cat.

I try to focus, muttering to my Minecraft character. “Alright, my guy, let’s get this right. No more crooked fences, no more glitchy nets. We’re building something solid.” My pixel avatar just stares back at me with dead eyes, like, ‘Bro, you need therapy.’

Some days, I wouldn’t disagree.

My phone vibrates on the desk. For a second, my heart leaps—Camdyn? Nah, just Fork Guy, who’s been texting me every twenty minutes since I got back.

FORK GUY

how’s post-championship existential crisis?

did u tell camdyn she should pitch for the yankees?

serious question

if i mail u a lock of my hair, will it help your batting average?

nvm

emerald says no more using my hair for “emotional spells.”

mookie still alive?

send proof of cat

Every time my phone buzzes, my chest tightens with hope, then sags. Camdyn’s probably still getting mobbed by media, teammates, sponsors, the entire state of Washington. I’m a blip on her radar right now.

I type out a text to her:

Hey, you up for pizza this week?

Delete. Too casual.

Miss you

Delete. Sounds needy.

Heyyy whats suppp

Delete. I’m not a middle schooler.

I toss the phone onto my bed, where Mookie pounces on it like he’s helping.

Fork Guy again.

FORK GUY

want me to text her for you?

i can be subtle

“sup camdyn, jaxon is dying of heartbreak and malnutrition, pls respond”

jkjk

unless you want me to

do u want me to??

I’m about to block him for my own sanity when my phone buzzes again. My heart damn near breaks a rib as I lunge for it. But it’s not Camdyn. It’s Inez.

For a split second, I think about not opening it.

The last time Inez wrote about Camdyn, it torched everything between us.

That article was gasoline on a campfire—rumors, drama, Cam shutting me out.

We’ve gotten back to a good place, talking every day and finding ourselves as friends for now.

We’re not official, but it’s close. Closer than ever.

But curiosity wins. I tap the link, bracing for disaster.

CONFIDENCE IN THE CIRCLE

Camdyn O’Hara dominated the College World Series like few pitchers ever have, stepping into the circle in both championship games and striking out 18 batters across 14 grueling innings.

Not only was she untouchable in the circle with a mix of blazing fastballs and wicked curveballs, she also crushed it at the plate, homering three times in the series—a rare feat for a pitcher.

Her leadership and grit carried the Huskies through every tense moment, inspiring teammates and fans alike.

Her season stats are staggering: 188 innings pitched, an ERA of just .78, and a career-high 271 strikeouts. ESPN named her one of the 10 “Must Watch College Players,” praising her poise under pressure and her ability to redefine Washington’s softball legacy as a sophomore.

I read it again, slower. For once, Inez wrote something that felt true. Something that painted Camdyn the way I see her. Not some weak freshman who fell apart, but the best damn pitcher in the country. My stomach knots: proud, relieved, kind of jealous, and also terrified.

Mookie, now chewing my ethernet cable, is basically threatening to unplug me from the world. I shoo him away. He bounces off the wall like a furry pinball, then vanishes under Jameson’s bed, plotting his next attack on technology.

Fork Guy again.

FORK GUY

did u read that article?

i’m glad i didn’t date a journalist

too much power

tell camdyn she deserves to be on a cereal box

“wheaties, but for heartbreakers”

are u crying?

it’s okay if u are

actually i’m crying and i just dropped my ramen

I need to block him. There’s no other option.

I don’t remember deciding to go outside, but suddenly I’m in the hallway, sneakers half-tied, nerves jangling.

I spot Inez at the Starbucks cart near my dorm—tall and narrow-shouldered, her black hair in a lopsided ponytail, dark eyes squinting behind thick glasses as she hunches over her phone, thumbs flying.

Probably posting the article everywhere that matters.

“Hey.” My voice comes out embarrassingly quiet, but she jumps anyway, almost dropping her coffee. The lid wobbles before she grabs it with both hands, knuckles white. She looks up, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like she’s lost her words.

“Oh. Uh, hi, Jaxon.” She pushes her glasses up—smudged, I notice, with fingerprints—and shifts her weight from foot to foot, like she’s thinking about running. Her cheeks flush and she fiddles with the cardboard sleeve, peeling a corner with her thumbnail.

I hesitate. She’s still as awkward as I remember—maybe even more now, caught in a conversation she didn’t plan for. I pull out my phone, holding it up as some kind of peace offering. “Thank you for writing that,” I manage, and of course my voice cracks. Great. Super cool.

She blinks, startled, gaze darting from my phone to my face and back, like she’s searching for a script she misplaced. “She earned it,” Inez whispers, voice so soft I almost miss it, like we’re sharing a secret in a library.

“She did. But… so did her performance last year.” I swallow, trying to keep my own nerves down. “She was a freshman and she earned every right to be in that circle.”

Inez nods, but the motion is jerky, anxious. She wraps both hands around her cup, anchoring herself. “I know, and I—I’m really, really sorry for the harm I caused her. I hope she…” She trails off, staring into the steam rising from her coffee. “I hope she reads it.”

“She might not,” I admit, protective of Camdyn. “Not after what was written before.”

There’s a beat. Inez bites her lip, worrying the chapped skin. “Can I—um, can I ask you something?” Her voice wobbles, and she pulls her sleeve over her hand, hiding behind it.

“Yeah.”

She exhales, then blurts, “Did you ever actually like me?” The question just hangs there, heavy and awkward, and she immediately looks away, focusing hard on the recycling logo on her cup.

I want to lie, but the urge to be honest is stronger. “I did. I just… my feelings for Camdyn were always there. I can’t pretend you and I would’ve been more than friends, because we wouldn’t have, and leading you to believe otherwise isn’t fair.”

She nods, swallowing hard, her glasses sliding down her nose again. She doesn’t bother to push them up. “Yeah, I figured,” she mumbles. “I saw the way you looked at her at the party and I… I think that’s when I knew.” She glances up, for a second, then looks away again. “Didn’t stand a chance.”

I wince. She’s not wrong. Probably everyone saw it before I did.

Inez manages a shaky little smile, more apology than anything. “She’s an amazing person, Jaxon.”

“She is,” I say, and mean it. I want to add, so are you, but the words stick, because I’m not sure I believe it—not yet, not after what she did to Camdyn.

Inez glances over her shoulder, hugging her coffee to her chest. “I, um, I should go. I have a thing.” She steps backward, almost bumps the recycling bin, recovers, cheeks flaming. “See you around, Jaxon.”

She disappears into the streetlight glow, her tall, slender frame swallowed by the night. Campus settles into its late-night hush. My phone buzzes.

Fork Guy again.

FORK GUY

dude are u okay?

need me to come over with emergency ice cream?

i have a pint of rocky road and zero dignity

text her

don’t be a coward

channel your inner fork

Back in my room, Mookie has finally collapsed in a heap of purrs on my pillow, exhausted from his reign of terror. I flop down next to him, staring at the ceiling. I stopped fighting it a long time ago. With Camdyn, it’s different. There’s no one else—never was.

The door slams open and Jameson storms in, pissed at the world. He chucks his backpack at the closet, misses, and it lands in the laundry basket. He’s muttering, jaw clenched.

“Hey,” I say, glancing over, but he doesn’t answer. He’s pacing now, fists balled, phone in hand, thumb flying across the screen.

Mookie lifts his head, ears back, watching Jameson like he’s the world’s worst nature documentary.

“You good?” I try again.

He stops, breathing hard. “Fine.”

He’s not fine. He’s about as calm as a shaken soda. I spot Callie’s name glowing on his phone screen a second before he turns away, thumb hovering. Whatever’s happening, it’s bad.

“Want to talk?” I offer, though I already know the answer.

He shakes his head, presses his lips together, and suddenly, with zero warning, hurls his laptop against the wall. It explodes into three pieces, skittering under the desk.

Mookie vanishes under the bed.

I sit up, startled. “Dude—Jameson—what the hell?”

He rakes his hands through his hair, breathing like he sprinted a mile. “Don’t. Just—don’t ask.”

He sits on his bed, head in his hands, silent. I want to help, but I know better. Some days, all you can do is let the people you care about implode in peace.

My phone buzzes—Fork Guy, again, because of course.

FORK GUY

bro just do it

what would mookie do?

mookie would probably eat the phone but you get my point

#sendit

I pick up my phone. My fingers hover above the screen and the block button. I think about all the almost-texts, all the times I chickened out or tried to play it cool. But the article, the conversation with Inez, the wild hope in my chest—they shove me forward.

I type:

Heyyy

I know you’re probably busy being famous, but… would you want to go out with me?

One date

No media, no softball, no baseball… just us

I stare at the message a long second. My thumb hovers over send. Mookie opens one eye, as if to say, Really, dude? Now or never.

I hit send.

The message whooshes away, out into the world. My heart’s pounding, but it’s the good kind of terror. I set the phone down, feeling lighter and heavier at the same time, and let myself hope—really hope—for the first time in a while.

My phone buzzes again.

FORK GUY

did you do it?????

YES

stop texting me

proud of you, baseball boy

now go eat something green.

kidding

except pizza

if it’s green it’s moldy

For once, I actually laugh—out loud, the sound bouncing off the dorm walls. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe relief. Maybe it’s just Fork Guy being Fork Guy.

I tap out a reply:

bro if I keel over from stress it’s your fault

Actually, you know what?

I think you and Jameson would vibe

Here’s his number

Please for the love of god do your worst

I shoot Fork Guy Jameson’s number, then glance up.

Jameson’s phone buzzes instantly. He’s glaring at me from his bed, still half-fuming, like he’s not sure if he should be mad or afraid for the future of his phone privileges. He narrows his eyes. “What did you just do?”

I shrug, going for innocent. “Shared the love, man.”

He groans, flops backward onto his pillow, and mutters, “Who the fuck is this dude?”

“He’s… Fork Guy.”

And that’s all that needs to be said.