Page 153 of Left on Base

“No shit,” Owen says, grinning.

At the end of the counter, the newest recruit—Probie, which is what they call every newbie until the next one comes along—is hunched over a salad bowl, eyebrows knit together like he’s defusing a bomb. He’s got the job nobody wants: tossing my grandma’s salad without flinging half of it on the floor.

“Careful, Probie!” someone yells as a tomato escapes and bounces across the tile. “That bowl’s a family heirloom.”

Dad, fueling the chaos, leans over and stage-whispers, “You know, Probie, last time someone dropped that bowl, my mom said the whole station was cursed for a year.”

Probie looks genuinely rattled, hands shaking as he stabs at a rogue olive. “You serious?”

Dad grins. “Oh yeah. Last Probie got stuck on toilet-cleaning for six months.”

Owen scoops up the runaway tomato, pops it in his mouth, and pats Probie on the back. “Relax, kid. If you break it, you just have to tell Jaxon’s grandma.” He winks at me. Probie notices me then.

I shrug, like, good luck. I remember this guy from high school. Used to set fires in the bathrooms just for chaos. Fitting he became a firefighter.

I can’t help but smile. I miss this. Camdyn and I used to sit right here, watching these same guys rib each other, betting on who’d mess up the salad or burn the bread. Some things never change.

A shout goes up when Probie finally gets the salad to the table with only a handful of croutons lost. “Not bad, Probie! Gordon Ramsay material,” Owen calls, earning another round of laughter.

The kitchen’s a mess—flour on the counter, sauce on the stove, a rookie with butter on his shirt—but it’s alive, all sound and heat and the smell of dinner. Someone rips open a bag of pre-shredded parmesan with their teeth. Someone else sneezes from the pepper, setting off a chain groan.

Dad shakes his head, grinning. “Every Tuesday,” he says, not needing to say more.

And for a second, in the middle of all the racket, I remember why this place always felt like home.

We finally wrangle enough chairs around the battered table, everyone fighting for breadsticks. Owen dumps a mountain ofspaghetti on each plate, Jay drowns it in sauce. Breadsticks vanish before they hit the table—Probie swears he only took two, but he’s got marinara on both hands.

Dad sits at the head, watching the circus with his fire chief face, pretending to be in charge. “Alright, gentlemen, let’s not burn the place down before dessert.”

As soon as I sit, the questions start.

“So, Jaxon,” Jay says through a mouthful, “gonna make us proud this season or should we start rooting for the Cougs?”

“Careful,” Dad pipes up, “I’ll make you run laps for saying Cougs in this house.”

I shrug, twirling spaghetti. “We’ll see.” I keep it simple. With a 27-22 record, anything can happen. No clue if we’ll snag a playoff spot.

“Hey,” someone calls, “where’s your other half? I thought she’d be here stealing breadsticks.”

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. Dad raises an eyebrow, just a twitch, but I see it. He knows what happened, and he knows I’m about to get grilled.

“Yeah, man, where’s Cam?” Jay asks. “Heard she’s got ten no-hitters this season.”

I know all Camdyn’s stats. ERA of .86, 24 wins, 5 losses. 245 strikeouts, three no-hitters, two perfect games. Thirteen home runs, one of the only pitchers to hit a homer and throw a no-hitter in the same game.

“She could out-eat any of you,” I mutter, and the table erupts. Someone starts in with an impression of Camdyn smuggling breadsticks in her backpack—okay, true, but she always said she was “saving them for later.”

Jay elbows me. “She dump you, Jax? ‘Cause if so, you tell her my number’s still the same.”

“Better chance of her dating Probie,” Owen snorts, and everyone howls because Probie’s wearing his salad as a tie and looks ready to switch careers or ask me for her number.

I shake my head, trying to play it cool. “She’s busy. It’s the middle of the season.”

Dad gives me a look that says: If you want to talk, I’ll listen. But he doesn’t push. He knows better than to ask in front of the peanut gallery.

“Hey, Jax,” Jay says, “remember last year when you and Camdyn tried to teach us that card game and Owen lost twenty bucks in five minutes?”

Owen groans. “Scam, and you know it. Dalton taught her to hustle as soon as she was born. Face of an angel, poker instincts of a shark.”

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