Page 166 of Left on Base

After the game, when the thrill of the win fades and I’m left with my thoughts—my very scattered thoughts—I stare at the hairline crack in our ceiling, counting the chips in the old paint. One, two, three, like I could tally up the shit I actually understand about my own life. Spoiler: not a long list.

Callie’s sprawled on the other twin bed, scrolling her phone, her voice floating across the room as she vents about Sawyer ghosting her again. Relatable, honestly. But with Callie and Sawyer? That’s a different species of heartbreak. I swear she wears mirrored sunglasses when she looks at him and only sees her own reflection. The rumor mill has Sawyer with every girl on campus except her, and somehow she still thinks he’s her endgame. I don’t get it—maybe she’s auditioning for a Taylor Swift song, but the bridge would be denial on repeat.

I groan and grab my phone, the screen lighting up my face in the dark. I scroll past a dozen blurry memes and land onthe photo: me and Jaxon, freshman year, at the field in our purple and gold Husky uniforms, dirt on our knees, sunburn bright as war paint. He’s got his arm flung around my shoulders, that crooked, lopsided grin splitting his face. I’m laughing, eyes practically shut, like I believed nothing could touch us. Back then, the start of the season was all hope and adrenaline. The way it ended—well, nothing unravels faster than a secret.

I stare at our faces. I wish someone could’ve warned those two idiots to stay strong. To trust their love, even when everything started to shake. Olivia Rodrigo would’ve written three albums about us by now. I wonder if she’d call it “Freshman Year, Track Three: Strikeout.”

Jaxon. My phone still glows in my hand like it holds answers. There are parts of him most people never see, locked away under all that easy confidence. He thinks he’s unlovable. Like he doesn’t deserve that raw, natural talent for the game. I’ve spent entire nights trying to decode it—bugged his mom, dissected it with his sister Emerson. All roads lead back to his dad. Not that Caleb or Mila did anything wrong, but it’s like Jaxon’s convinced being undeserving is in his DNA. His father carries the same weight.

But there’s something else, too. Whatever burns in Caleb burns in Jaxon. The need to prove himself, to be the best damn player to ever stand on that dirt diamond. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the fire that makes him run, or the fear that makes him stay away.

Callie launches a pillow across the room, snapping me out of my spiral. It bounces off my shin, nearly knocking my phone from my hand.

“Brynn wants to hit up Dim Sum tonight… Ya wanna go?” she asks, eyes hopeful, thumb still scrolling.

I roll onto my side, hugging my phone to my chest, that old photo of Jaxon and me shining faintly. “Oh, no thanks,” I mumble into the comforter.

Callie sits up, messy ponytail falling over one eye. “What’s up? You never pass up Dim Sum.”

“Nothing.” I turn away, flipping my phone face down on the mattress. “Just tired from the game. And I don’t want to hang out with her right now.”

She raises one eyebrow, half teasing, half serious. “Are we mad at her?”

The way she says we makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. Girl code. Something Brynn never read the manual for.

“She’s the one who told Inez all that shit. Not Jaxon,” I say, voice flat, throat tight.

Callie blinks, lost. “Told her what?”

I almost laugh. Callie can’t remember what she ate for breakfast, let alone what I told her two weeks ago while hiding from reality in a blanket fort.

“That she thought I had a miscarriage and that’s why I blew the World Series for us,” I say quietly, picking at a loose thread on my sheet.

Callie’s eyes go wide, mouth dropped open. “She did what?”

I wasn’t lying before—I didn’t tell anyone about the baby. Not even Coach Drew. He found out when he took me to the ER and I had to explain it all, like I was reading lines from someone else’s script. I didn’t tell Callie, because, well, how do you say it out loud when you can barely say it to yourself? I wanted to get through the World Series and worry about the aftermath later.

“It’s nothing. I just don’t want to go,” I say, almost whispering now.

She stands in the doorway, clutching her phone to her chest. “Okay.”

I peek over my shoulder. “Wait, are you going?”

Callie glances away, sheepish. “Oh, uh, no. I’m going to dinner with Sawyer.”

A real laugh escapes me. “If you had plans already, why’d you ask if I wanted to go out with Brynn?”

She grins, suddenly unapologetic. “I knew you’d say no so I didn’t have to look like a bad friend.”

Sometimes, Callie is too honest for her own good. I almost want to hug her for it.

She grins, that crooked Callie grin, and grabs her jacket. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

When the door clicks shut behind her, silence slams back in. The only sound is the mini fridge humming and the old pipes rattling in the walls, like the building itself is sighing. I roll onto my back, clutching my phone, thinking about Jaxon and wishing I could go to his dorm, knock on his door, and just sit with him in the dark. Breathing the same air, not needing to say a word.

But I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, hoping the ache will fade by morning. I know it won’t.

I flip my phone over and look at that photo again. Jaxon’s arm around my shoulders—both of us sweaty and sunburned, smiling like we were untouchable. I want to text him. Ask if he’s okay. Ask if he ever thinks about what we lost, or if he’s already moved on, too tired to care.

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