Page 89

“Cam, what if they kick me off the team? What if they take my scholarship and I lose everything?”

I shake my head and reach for her hand. “That’s not how it works.

I looked it up after… well, my scare freshman year.

The NCAA can’t kick you off the team or pull your scholarship just for being pregnant.

Seriously. You’re protected. They have to work with you.

” She looks skeptical, so I keep going. “You don’t have to quit basketball forever.

You might be able to take a season off—take a medical redshirt for the year.

You’d sit out the season, and as long as you’re in good standing, you keep your eligibility and your scholarship.

You can come back and play after the baby’s born.

As soon as you’re cleared by your doctor, you can lace up again. ”

Callie lets out a shaky breath, some tension melting from her shoulders. “So I could… pause? Not just give up my dream?”

I squeeze her fingers. “Exactly. You don’t have to lose everything. You just have to take a detour. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll help. The team will help. You’ve got options, Babes. Don’t let fear talk you out of them.”

She nods, wiping her eyes, a tiny bit of hope creeping in. “Medical redshirt. I like the sound of that. Maybe this isn’t the end of the world.”

I give her a gentle nudge. “Nope. Just the start of a new play. And don’t forget, you’ve got the best donut delivery service in the NCAA on your side.”

She laughs, for real this time.

See that girl walking into the cozy little Thai spot near the University of Washington campus?

The one with that quiet confidence, like she’s meeting her boyfriend for dinner and not surviving an 8 a.m. Sports Media class she definitely regrets signing up for?

That’s her. No longer confused about her love life, though the 8 a.m. lecture? Still a mystery.

And look who’s already waiting for her at their usual booth—Jaxon, hunched over his phone, dark hair falling into those intense blue eyes, looking like he’s tracking the stock market when he’s really scrolling ESPN.

The restaurant is a warm little haven, lanterns hanging low, casting flickering shadows on the teak wood walls.

The air is thick with lemongrass, coconut milk, and sizzling chili peppers.

The hum of quiet chatter mixes with the occasional clang from the open kitchen where woks sing their fiery songs.

I slide in across from Jaxon, already eyeing the crispy spring rolls and the steaming bowl of tom yum soup between us. Before he can protest, I snag a spring roll. “I need food. I need something to soak up the emotional whiplash of today.”

He grins, tired but genuine. “You and me both, girl. How’s Callie holding up?”

I sigh, picking at the fresh basil garnish on my pad thai. “Better, I think. We talked through some stuff. She’s still scared, but at least she ate half a maple bar and let me open the curtains. Progress.”

“Good.” Jaxon nods, eyes softening. “She’s lucky to have you.”

I nudge his foot under the table. “I know. I charge for emotional labor in donuts.”

We settle into a comfortable silence, the clinking of chopsticks and soft Thai music filling the space. After a few bites, I ask, “So… how’s Jameson holding up?”

Jaxon snorts, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “Dude’s been playing Minecraft like it’s a full-time job. Built an entire compound—walls, moat, tower, the works. Says he’s ‘training for a life of total isolation.’ I think he’s trying to out-hermit the Unabomber, minus the manifestos.”

I laugh. “Is he at least letting anyone into his Minecraft lair?”

“Nope. Put up a sign: ‘No girls, no drama, no babies allowed.’ Tried joining his server, got kicked out for ‘emotional baggage.’”

I snort soup through my nose and grab a napkin. “That’s kinda sad.”

“Honestly, I felt left out. He wouldn’t play with me.

” He fake-cries and I laugh, raising an eyebrow and he shrugs.

“He’s being a bitch. He plans his entire life and didn’t see this coming, you know?

Bro even plans what he’s eating for the week.

He’ll come around. Just needs to dig a few more tunnels. ”

I laugh, but he’s right. Maybe Jameson needs Minecraft and isolation. We lapse into quiet again, just the two of us, the low buzz of the restaurant, the comforting scent of coconut and chili, the knowledge that no matter how messy things get, we’re still here—spring rolls, pixels, and all.

Later, staring at my bowl of green curry, I ask, voice low, “Do you ever think about how life would’ve been if I hadn’t miscarried the baby?”

Jaxon blinks, surprised by the weight in my question, then sighs. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

I nod, swirling the last bit of sauce around my spoon. “What do you think about?”

He bites his lip. “I don’t know. Like, what life woulda been like.”

“Do you think it would have messed your life up?”

“No. I could’ve still played baseball eventually, and I think you could’ve still played softball. We would’ve maybe taken some time off, taken a redshirt year or something, and focused on the kid. I think we would’ve figured out a new way of doing things, and the baby would’ve been our new future.”

Did you fall in love with him? I smile. “I think I just fell in love with you again.”

“I know, right?” He dips his spring roll in peanut sauce. “I’m impressing myself right now.”

I smile, feeling that familiar warmth of someone who gets it. We went through the worst together and had some rough patches—you saw them—but here we are at this little Thai place.

Just then, the door swings open and Fork Guy storms in, tiara slightly crooked, eyes wild with purpose. “Ah-ha! Found you!” he declares, plopping down beside us and juggling three napkins like they’re sacred relics. “Listen up, comrades. We need to talk about Jameson.”

Jaxon raises an eyebrow. “What now?”

“He’s spiraling. The Minecraft fortress, ghosting, ‘No babies allowed’ signs—it’s a cry for help. I’m organizing an intervention. Full-on, emotional support siege.”

I blink. “An intervention?”

“Yes. Pay attention. No time here!” Fork Guy nods, eyes gleaming. “I need warriors of the heart and wielders of the fork. You in?”

Jaxon shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I’m in. Someone’s gotta drag him out of that pixelated prison. And he needs to do laundry. He’s been wearing the same clothes for three days.”

I glance at Fork Guy. He’s waiting for my approval. “Count me in too. Someone’s gotta remind him there’s a real world outside the game.”

“Excellent!” Fork Guy clasps our hands triumphantly. “The ‘Save Jameson from Himself’ campaign is underway.”

Right as Fork Guy’s energy hits its peak, Jaxon raises a hand, cutting him off mid-juggle.

“Hold on,” Jaxon says, voice steady. “With Jameson, you can’t just barge in with a fork and a marching band. He needs to come to terms with this on his own. You know how he is—pushes people away until he’s ready.”

“But intervention!” Fork Guy blinks, napkins slipping from his fingers. “Support! Community! Emotional forks!”

Jaxon shakes his head. “Chill, he’s not going to listen to you.”

I nod, knowing how stubborn Jameson is. “He’s right. Jameson’s not going to listen to us right now.”

Fork Guy sighs dramatically. “Fine.” He reaches for the last spring roll. “Anyone gonna eat this? No? Mine now.”

Jaxon laughs. “How did you even find us?”

Fork Guy grins. “I track both your locations.”

Of course he does.

Jaxon lays his head on my shoulder and sticks out his bottom lip. “Can I steal home yet?”

I smirk and poke him. “Only if you promise not to build a Minecraft fortress the size of the Space Needle.”

Fork Guy chimes in, mouth full of spring roll, “And if he does, I’m launching a full-scale spoon invasion.”

I laugh. “Great. Just what we need. A digital war with forks and noodles.”

Jaxon groans. “At least it’s better than real life drama.”

Fork Guy raises an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself. I’m still negotiating with a mongoose.”

We all burst out laughing, the weird little family we’ve become somehow making the chaos a little more bearable.

“Alright,” I say, “It’s time I let Jaxon score home.”

Jaxon stands. Instantly. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Fork Guy’s eyes light up, and he suddenly stands, wobbling slightly from all the curry. “Wait! I’ll come too!”

Jaxon groans, pulling me closer. “Nope. This is a ‘just us’ thing. No tarot readings in the bedroom, okay?”

Fork Guy waves a napkin like a white flag. “Fine, fine. But if you change your mind...”

“We won’t,” Jaxon says, tugging me out the door.