Page 112 of Left on Base

Kingston’s snoring like he’s trying to start a chainsaw. Coach Lou’s up front watching film like we didn’t just finish playing. Highway lights flash across faces in regular intervals, making everything feel like a weird dream. I watch the headlights of passing cars, counting them like sheep, trying to ignore how each swallow feels like someone’s jabbing a knife into my sinuses. The team trainer gave me more painkillers before we left, but they’re not doing shit.

After a minute-long assessment—he’s been staring at me longer than I like—Jameson drops into the seat next to me. I’m still staring at my phone. No texts from Camdyn. Just the blue light burning my eyes and the constant temptation to check her location. A semi passes, spraying water across our window. The windshield wipers keep time with my pulse, which I can feel pounding in my swollen face.

“Look.” Jameson’s still got eye black smeared on his face, looking like a raccoon who pitched nine innings. He squares his shoulders like he’s about to give me a life lesson. “If you see yourself being with her again, you need to do something before she gets serious about this joker.”

“Like what?” I mumble, watching the Oregon countryside blur past. My reflection in the window looks like shit—nose and eyes a mess of blues, greens and purples. “We agreed to see other people. It’s her choice.”

“Nah, man, it ain’t. But she’s not gonna wait around forever.”

I have to think about what he said, because I’m not sure what he means but it ain’t her choice. “I’m not expecting her to wait.”

“Doesn’t seem like that to me, since your mood changed when Ollie said she went on a date.”

He’s right. It did. I’m curious if she fucked him, and even the thought has my heart racing and my stomach twisted. But I play it off and sit up straighter, shaking my head. The bus hits a pothole and my nose reminds me it’s broken with a jolt of pain that makes my eyes water. “What are you talking about?”

He’s holding a bag of Skittles in one hand and a water bottle in the other. “I know when you’re in a mood. Something made you mad.”

“Whatever. How am I being moody?”

“Bitch, I live with you.” He opens the Skittles and tosses a few in his mouth, chewing before saying, “I know.”

“She don’t belong to me anymore, bro.” I shift in the seat and flip my phone over in my lap, my head against the seat. “She can date whoever she wants.”

“Mhm.” He tosses his water bottle to his bag with six empty Red Bulls and a pile of sunflower seed shells. He rolls his eyes. “I think you’re saying that, but it ain’t true.”

I stand, hunched under the low ceiling, and shoulder-check him. “I hope you choke on your Skittles. Stop fucking talking.” The movement makes Kingston stir in the seat ahead, but he mutters something in Spanish and goes back to sleep. The sudden movement makes my head spin, and I have to grab the seat to steady myself. These painkillers suck.

Yeah, I’m pissed she went out with another guy, but I can’t blame her. It’s because of me she did. I'm not even sure I know what that means anymore. Somewhere in the blur of me avoiding reality, I might have lost her this time. For real. And that terrifies me more than one of Jameson’s hundred-and-four mile-per-hour fastballs.

I lean my forehead against the cool window, watching raindrops race down the glass. A car with California plates passes, some girl in the passenger seat dancing to music I can't hear. We’ve got another four hours to Seattle. Four hours of sitting here thinking about Camdyn, about Nathan, about all the ways I’m fucking this up. Four hours of trying to find a position where my face doesn’t feel like it’s getting hit by a pitch all over again. The bus rumbles north, and I want to text her but she’s probably sleeping. Or maybe she’s with him.

The thought makes me want to punch something, but there’s nowhere to go on a bus full of sleeping baseball players. So I sit, watching Oregon disappear, wondering if I'm leaving more than a rivalry win behind. Another semi passes, its wake rocking the bus. The motion makes my stomach turn, but I can’t tell if it’s from the broken nose, the painkillers, or the thought of Camdyn with someone else.

I’m stretchedacross two seats around hour four of the ride, still awake, staring at my phone with my AirPods in. My legs are cramped from trying to fit my six-foot-two frame in a space meant for middle schoolers. Metro Boomin is supposed to be distracting me, but “Superhero” hits different when I’m thinking about someone else holding her.

She hasn’t said a word to me all day. I caved and checked her location—she’s in her dorm. My thumb hovers over her profile picture too long.

Wait. What if she’s texting him?

Fuck. I hate even thinking that.

Maybe she’s lying in bed, but I’m not the one she’s talking to. The thought sits like cement in my stomach. Damn. This feeling sucks. I should have blocked his number when I had her phone.

I should text her.

Nah. Don’t. She didn’t say anything all day. I should give her space.

Me giving her space lasts fifteen minutes, if that, and I pick up my phone. The blue light feels harsh on the dark bus, making my eyes sting. Or maybe that’s something else.

I type out:

Did you fuck him?

Delete.

Don’t send that ya Dick.

Still, I think about sending it.

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