Page 169 of Left on Base

Jaxon

I’m always here for you

That’s it. No pressure, no demands. Just what I need—what I’ll always need, even if I can’t reach for it right now.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, rain soaking through my hair, and stare at the screen until my vision blurs. The words are a promise, and a lifeline. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but there’s nothing I can say that won’t make things messier, so I just tuck my phone close to my heart and keep walking.

Maybe I’ll find my way back to him one day. But for now, I let his words echo inside me, a soft, stubborn hope against the storm.

CHAPTER 34

DEAD RED

JAXON

When a batter is waiting on, or expecting a fastball to be thrown.

Ithink about that night in the rain with Camdyn every day since then. But it’s not just the rain. It’s her in my bed, tangled in my sheets and my arms, skin warm against mine while her hair fans across my chest. I can still taste her lips—soft, a little bit of vanilla chapstick, the way she kissed me slow like we had all the time in the world. Sometimes I wake up reaching for her, desperate for the slide of her thigh over mine, the sleepy way she’d bite my jaw before pulling me closer and laughing into my neck. I remember the way she’d look at me after, bare and open, like I was something she’d found instead of something she’d settled for.

In truth, she’s never far from my thoughts, even now, as my season comes to an end.

The field’s quieter than I expected after the last out. Not silent—never that—but there’s this weird hush, like the whole stadium just exhaled now that our season’s officially over. The scoreboard’s already gone dark, the stands are thinning, andsomeone in the press box is playing “Sweet Home Alabama” for what feels like the ninth time tonight.

I’m standing there, glove in hand, cleats sinking a little into the dirt, still trying to figure out why I feel so wrecked after this game. It’s not just from the loss. Well, maybe it is. Maybe it’s because this is it for the year and, once again, we didn’t make it to the PAC 12 tournament. Maybe it’s because I knowshe’snot here. Or maybe it’s because Fork Guy is on the field now, sprinting around with his plastic spork crown and shoving his phone at anyone in a Huskies jersey for a selfie.

Coach Allen appears next to me like he always does—silent, sudden, like a hawk. He’s got his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, his cap pulled low. The lines on his face are deeper tonight.

“Hell of a season, huh Ryan?” he says, not looking at me.

I shrug, scuffing the infield with my toe. “Felt longer than it was.”

He snorts. “That’s baseball. Every year feels like a prison sentence, but you miss it the second it’s over.”

“So, the Braves, huh?” He elbows me.

I laugh. “It was just a phone call.”

“Nah, they’ve been after you for a year. It’s notjusta call.”

I knew the Braves were interested, but I never expected to get a call from them this morning. Surprised the hell out of me. I’m only a sophomore, and yeah, I could enter the draft—a lot of guys do their junior year. My parents are pushing me to wait and finish my degree because nothing’s guaranteed, and at least then I’d have something to fall back on.

I think about Camdyn and what she’d say. She’d be excited—and she’d tell me to trust my gut.

“Jaxon, listen up for a second.” He sighs and I know this is gonna be a long winded speech. “I know you hear a lot of noise out there—stats, scouts, what you need to fix, what youdid right. You’ve got talent. That’s obvious. I saw it the first time you threw down to second when I couldn’t put you anywhere else on the field. I saw it in the way you frame a pitch, the way you handle a your success and your failures. But I’ve seen a lot of talented catchers make it to the college level. And I’ll tell you straight: talent isn’t what separates them. It’s obsession. Not the kind where you just “love” baseball, or you’re “passionate” about it. Everybody says that. I’m talking about the kind of obsession that keeps you up at night replaying a play in your head, that makes you itch to get here before the sun’s up and stay long after everyone else is gone. The kind that won’t let you rest after a loss, that makes you want to be the best catcher in the country, every single day. That’s the difference between you and other players. You can’t control how tall you are, or how fast your arm recovers, or whether some scout puts a checkmark by your name. But you can control how hard you work. You can be the one who’s still in the cage when the lights go out, who studies film just a little longer, who hustles out every single ground ball like it’s the ninth inning of Omaha. There’s always going to be someone with a quicker pop time, a harder swing, a better day. But nobody—and I mean nobody—should ever outwork you. That’s what you can own. That’s what makesyouimpossible for these scouts to ignore. So don’t just play because you’re good at it. Play because you can’t imagine doing anything else. Play because you need it, because it eats at you. That’s what obsession is, Jax. And that’s how you get from being just another talented guy to being the guy everyone remembers.”

I nod, because he’s right. Baseball has always been more than a sport I play. It’s been an obsession since I first picked up a ball. Nothing else mattered. And you can see where that got me in the last year, but, it’s also making my dreams come true.

Now I just need the girl back to make it all worth it.

“What the fuck is he doing?”

I follow Coach Allen’s stare. Fork Guy’s trying to climb the outfield fence for a panoramic shot, and Jameson is halfheartedly pretending not to know him. I watch as Fork Guy nearly wipes out, then gives the camera a thumbs-up like he just saved the game.

Coach sighs. “I swear, every year there’s a new idiot. Remind me to check who’s handing out media passes.”

I almost grin, but it fades fast. “I think he promised to clean up trash in the stands for a media pass.”

He nods, still watching the mess in left field.

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