Page 90

CYCLE

JAXON

When a batter hits a single, double, triple and homer in the same game.

I f you’d told me Fork Guy would be the reason I finally stopped sweating over proposing to Camdyn as our junior year comes to a close, I would’ve laughed so hard you’d think I was choking on a sunflower seed.

But that’s just how he rolls: one minute, he’s supergluing mini forks to his eyebrow “for luck” during the postseason; the next, he’s dropping advice that only makes sense after midnight and three cups of questionable coffee.

I’d been sitting on the idea for months.

Life changed a hell of a lot in our junior year.

Camdyn—well, she crushed it again. Pac-12 Pitcher of the Year, All Pac-12 First Team, USA Softball Player of the Year—she shattered the NCAA record for strikeouts in a season and got an offer to play in the WPF pro leagues.

But now she’s all about that sports management degree.

She was originally going for a sports medicine degree but not she’s adapting with the times and how social media controls how athletes are seen.

And me? My junior year was my best yet. I smashed 33 home runs—just dropping that number—and snagged the Johnny Bench Award, First Team All-Pac 12, Pac-12 Defensive Player of the Year, and the Rawlings Gold Glove as a catcher. I was on every scout’s radar when the dust settled.

That same day, I got the call from the Braves. NCAA technically says no agents before you’re done with college, but my advisers and coaches helped me navigate that mess. They asked if I wanted to be drafted, if I’d accept, or if I wanted to stick around for my senior year.

I wanted to finish school. I did. But when that call came, it just felt right. I knew what I wanted. I signed with the Braves a month ago. Officially a pro, headed to Atlanta in a few weeks.

That’s when the panic hit. Not about what I’d gained, but what I might lose.

Biggest worry? Camdyn. I couldn’t leave without her knowing this was serious. Dating’s one thing. I needed to make it official before I left.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Bro, you’re twenty-one and want to get married?”

Yeah. I do. I want to be tied to that green-eyed, blonde-haired girl more than I want to play in the majors. And that’s saying something.

But I had no clue how to pull it off.

And that’s where Fork Guy comes in. Of course.

“Listen, Baseball Boy,” he says, showing up at my dorm with a duffel bag full of candles, half a box of discount sparklers, and three battery-powered pineapple lanterns.

At midnight. Freaking midnight. Then he drops this gem: “Romance is chaos with better lighting. You want her to say yes, you gotta go big. Full field. No bunting.”

I blink. “Is that a metaphor, or are you suggesting we break into the softball stadium?”

He grins like it’s obvious. “Why not both?”

Jameson throws a ball at the door. “If you two don’t shut up, I’m gonna kill both of you.”

Jameson’s running on zero sleep these days. Having a newborn will do that to you.

Oh, yeah, about those two. Callie was definitely pregnant—five months along when we found out in August, while we were in Dubai.

She gave birth to a boy, Nolan, three days after Christmas.

And yeah, turns out it was Jameson’s kid.

Callie took a redshirt year from basketball because, well, she literally had her own basketball in her stomach.

Jameson kept playing baseball that spring while helping with the baby.

Junior year’s huge for ballplayers, so it made sense, especially with Callie’s parents helping a lot.

Jameson’s parents stepped up too, and while Callie and Jameson moved off-campus to an apartment near her folks, Jameson still sneaks back to the dorm to crash sometimes.

Not gonna lie, it’s not as often as it should be, and yeah, you might call him an ass for that.

But hey, the kid’s cute, cries a lot, and honestly, I still don’t know if those two are together or just tolerating each other.

One thing I do know? Fork Guy is convinced Nolan is his best friend. Like, literally. The guy tries to read the baby’s energy like he’s some kind of miniature, screaming tarot client.

“Jameson,” Fork Guy whispers, leaning into the cracked door like a secret agent. “Is Nolan in there? I need to prepare his aura for greatness.”

Right on cue, a glove rockets from behind the door and slams against the wall like a missile.

“If you two don’t shut up, I swear I’m gonna lose it!” Jameson’s voice, rough and sleep-deprived, yells through the door. “I haven’t slept in days!”

Fork Guy shrugs, totally unfazed. “Okay, okay. I can babysit later if you want. You know, help balance those baby chakras.” No response. “Think about it. Sleep on it. Or, you know, whatever.”

A baseball thuds against the door. “Leave!”

I peek out, half-dressed in shorts and no shirt, hair sticking up like I just woke from a nap I desperately needed. “We should probably go.”

Fork Guy stares at the door, genuinely concerned. “He should really get some sleep. He’s so cranky. I’m worried about his energy.”

I pat Fork Guy on the back, grinning. “He’ll survive. Probably. Hopefully. He’ll be fine.”

Fork Guy texts Camdyn pretending there’s a “team emergency” at the field. If you ask me, she caught on right then—or maybe she just knows anything is possible with Fork Guy involved. You remember Dubai, right? Exactly.

And it’s midnight. She had to know something was up.

So here we are, me and my weirdest friend hustling across campus, hauling a wagon loaded with candles and lanterns through the back gate of the softball field.

I glance at him as we hop the fence. He’s got a headlamp strapped on, casting a narrow beam that bounces off his fanny pack stuffed with spare batteries, matches, and what he swears are two applesauce pouches and one Rice Krispies treat we can share if hunger strikes.

“You know, if we get caught, I’m blaming you,” I mutter, lining up jars along the baseline, trying not to trip over the uneven ground.

He shrugs, unfazed. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He tosses the duffel bag over the fence. “Also, I bribed the security guard with a burrito. We’ve got an hour.”

I blink. “Where the hell did you even get a burrito? You brought him a burrito, but all I get is an applesauce pouch and a Rice Krispies treat?”

“Half a Rice Krispies treat,” he corrects. “You share.”

“Oh, yeah.” I chuckle, shaking my head, and dig out the lanterns from the cart.

We go to work like lunatics, setting candles along the edges of the infield and outfield fence, creating a double ring around home plate.

Fork Guy insists on arranging the lanterns in a heart behind the pitcher’s circle.

I let him—he’s the only one who can get those pineapple-shaped lanterns to stand without toppling over. Did I mention we lit them?

Fire and Fork Guy. Can you imagine? It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

I know it’s going to come back to haunt me.

By the time we finish, the field glows like something out of a dream—uneven and a little ragged, sure, but magical as fuck.

Fork Guy stands beside me, chest puffed out. “We did good, Baseball Boy.”

“Yeah, we did,” I reply, nerves twisting my gut.

Suddenly, Camdyn’s voice cuts across the quiet parking lot. “Fork Guy, if this is about your ‘emotional support raccoon’ again, I’m leaving. That thing tried to bite me.”

He spins toward me, eyes wide. “Act normal.” Then he bolts to meet her, waving his phone like it’s the winning lottery ticket. “You gotta see this. Trust me. It’s… um… an emergency of the heart?”

I duck behind the dugout, hands trembling, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. Did I mention I’m shirtless? Yeah, just remembered. Maybe that’ll work in my favor.

Camdyn steps onto the field and stops dead, eyes narrowing as she takes in the scene—the flickering candlelight, empty stands, heart-shaped lanterns glowing, and Fork Guy, grinning like he just hit the jackpot.

He’s pacing like a kid hyped on sugar.

She turns slowly toward home plate, where I’m waiting, ring box burning a hole in my pocket.

Every step feels unreal. There’s a moment when doubt creeps in—maybe this isn’t the right time—but I can’t wait any longer.

My future with baseball is uncertain, but this one thing I want crystal clear: no questions, no what-ifs. I want her, always, forever.

She smiles and motions at the candles. “I’m all for romantic gestures, but how’d you pull this off in the middle of the night?”

“He doesn’t get to take all the credit,” Fork Guy shouts. “I helped!”

“Um, yeah. He helped.” I swallow over the nerves, and it’s then I think she realizes what this is. A proposal she didn’t see coming. Literally.

“Jaxon?” Her voice is small in the vast, candlelit field. “What is…?” She trails off when she spots the ball in my hand. The rings are still in my pocket, but first, the ball.

I smile, twirling it. “I got something for you.”

Her eyes flicker to my chest, then to the ball. “Jaxon, we just… you…”

I hold up the ball, stepping closer. “Lemme get this out.”

She glances at the candles lining the field behind me, and draws in a shaky breath, covering her mouth with her hand.

I hand her the ball, and she reads the words scrawled on it.

I told her I loved her for the first time by writing it on my home run ball.

“Something special for someone special,” I said, giving her my first-ever home run ball back in high school.

The ball she’s holding now? The last home run I hit in college.

“Jaxon,” she gasps, voice cracking.

Marry me.

Two words.

She shakes her head, disbelief washing over her face. “I’m not saying we have to get married right now, but so much of my future with baseball is undecided. I want to know I at least have you.”

“You always will,” she promises, and when she says that, I feel tears prick my eyes. “You don’t have to?—”

I reach for her, hands a little shaky, desperate to close the space between us. My throat tightens, words nearly stuck on the way out. “I want to. I want us. Forever.”

She looks at me and something in her eyes makes my chest ache. Admiration, love, pure fucking beauty. I’d do anything to burn the way she looks right now into my memory, to keep it safe where nothing can touch it.

My palms are sweating. I notice even as I hold her, and I hope she doesn’t. My heart’s hammering so loud I half-expect her to hear it, to call me out for how nervous I am, but all she does is smile, a little wobbly, and blink away tears.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispers, voice trembling with something close to wonder.

“Well,” I try to joke, but my voice cracks, so I pause, swallowing hard. I manage a shaky smile. “I think you should say yes.”

She laughs—soft and real—and brushes at her wet cheeks. For a second, she’s too overcome to speak, and I think my heart might actually stop. Then she nods, breathing out a laugh that sounds like relief and promise all at once.

“Of course my answer is yes.”

“Okay, well, ima make it official here.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

My hands are trembling as I reach into my pocket, the little velvet box digging into my palm.

I drop to one knee on home plate, dust kicking up around me, gritty against my knee.

My heart is pounding hard—so loud it drowns out Fork Guy’s quiet whisper: “Please say yes,” in the background.

I pull out the ring I bought with my signing bonus. God, I spent hours picking it out, picturing this moment, sweating over whether she’d love it or think it was too much. Now it catches the candlelight and flashes, bright and perfect, a promise made solid.

For a split second, I look up at her and everything just… stills. The nerves dissolve. Everything sharpens. There’s only her—eyes wide, breath caught, hands flying to her mouth in shock and hope and love. Suddenly, I’m not nervous. I’m sure. I’ve never been more certain.

“Marry me?” The words leave my lips clear and strong, no hesitation left.

She laughs—a sound that cracks something open in my chest—and before I can process her answer, she drops to her knees beside me. She throws her arms around me, hugging me so hard I almost topple. I can feel her heartbeat against mine, wild and real.

“Yes!” she chokes out, and it’s like the whole world exhales with us.

Fork Guy’s already spinning, waving sparklers, screaming, “SHE SAID YES!”

He tries to set off a confetti popper, but it fizzles. He shrugs like it’s no big deal and throws handfuls of confetti in the air instead.

That’s when I start to smell something… off. Like burnt marshmallows and panic.

“Uh, guys?” Fork Guy looks down. “Is it supposed to do that?”

We all turn. Somehow, in the excitement, he’s knocked over a cluster of candles at the edge of the outfield. The dry infield grass is starting to smolder, a thin wisp of smoke curling into the night.

“Oh my God!” Camdyn yells, scrambling to her feet. “Water! Get water!”

Fork Guy sprints for the dugout, flapping his arms. “I GOT IT! EMERGENCY!”

He grabs a half-empty Gatorade bottle and races back, sloshing blue liquid everywhere, managing to douse the tiny fire—mostly. The spot is a muddy, sticky mess, and the whole field smells like fruit punch and melted plastic.

There’s a long silence. Camdyn and I stare at him. Fork Guy, hands on his knees, grins sheepishly. “See? Nothing brings people together like arson and engagement rings.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. Camdyn wipes tears from her face, half crying, half laughing.

“Congratulations,” Fork Guy says, raising his Gatorade triumphantly. “And welcome to the first of many emergencies.”

As Camdyn slides the ring onto her finger, she smiles warmly. “Nothing in our life will ever go as planned with him around.”

I press a kiss to her temple and pull her close. “Imagine when we have kids,” I tease, already bracing myself.

And that’s how we got engaged—on home plate, by candlelight, with Fork Guy nearly burning down the outfield.