Page 17 of Left on Base

The projector hums overhead, casting shadows across my notebook where I should be taking notes about market equilibrium, but instead, I’m gripping my pen so hard it might snap.

Professor Blaine’s marker squeaks as she draws another curved line on the board. “Before we dig in, a quick reminder about your assignments.” She sets down her coffee, eyes sweeping the room to make sure everyone’s listening. “Your business economics case study is due next week. You’ll pick a real-world company and analyze how external market forces have shifted its supply and demand equilibrium. I want more than just a regurgitation of textbook theory—give me actual analysis. What happened when those forces hit? What did the company do right? What did they screw up? What would you have done differently?”

She pauses to let it sink in. “This is not a group project. You’re responsible for your own research and your own argument. A lazy summary gets you a lazy grade. I expect data, citations, and your own perspective. Think critically, not just like a student, but like a future manager—or an athlete who has to make split-second decisions when everything changes.”

A couple students groan quietly. I just stare at my laptop screen, trying to picture myself as anything other than a guy barely holding it together. Business economics feels about as farfrom my real life as it gets, but apparently, I have to fake it for another week.

“Questions?” Professor Blaine asks, but no one raises a hand. She nods, satisfied, and moves on to the first slide—supply and demand curves, the same ones I can’t seem to get out of my head.

Case study. Analysis. Data. Like I don’t have enough on my plate already.

I nudge Callie. “Will you help?—”

“No,” she snaps. She’s mad at me now and I don’t blame her. I’m pissed at myself.

I can’t stop thinking about Nathan wanting her number.

I know guys find Camdyn attractive. They always have. You don’t have to tell me she’s beautiful and that guys would literally kill to see her naked. Her body is unbelievable. Muscular from years of softball training, tits, thick as fuck ass, the prettiest, cutest face I’ve ever seen, and the personality to go with it. You’d think looking at her body and face, she’d be bitchy. She’s not, though. Maybe if you don’t know her, but once you do, you see how incredibly loyal she is to everyone around her and genuine to the ones she lets into her life.

Professor Blaine’s voice fades into background noise as my mind wanders to the first time I really noticed Camdyn—not as the pretty blonde in my middle school science class, but as someone who could change my whole world. The memory is so clear it could’ve been yesterday—her sitting at the table, bright green eyes staring back at me with both annoyance and curiosity because I stole her pencil. Who would’ve thought that stolen pencil would lead to three years of...everything?

The PowerPoint slides change, but I barely register the graphs and charts. Instead, it’s on Camdyn. I’ve watched her grow from that young, pretty little blonde into the beautifulwoman she is now. I’ve never met someone more loyal, forgiving, innocent, and unforgettable as Camdyn O’Hara.

“Mr. Ryan,” Professor Blaine’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Perhaps you’d like to explain how external market forces affect equilibrium price?”

The class turns to look at me, but all I can think about is how external forces are affecting my own equilibrium. How every decision I make seems to push me further from where I want to be.

“Sorry, Professor. I was…” I clear my throat, straightening in my seat. “Could you repeat the question?”

She sighs, probably adding another mental tally to her “distracted athlete” count. “Pay attention, please. This will be on the midterm.”

Right. The midterm. Another thing I need to worry about, another pressure point in this already overwhelming life. But honestly? The thought of failing this test doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the thought of failing Camdyn. Or this Nathan dude getting her number.

I also know, eventually, she’s going to move on from me if I don’t get my shit together.

And I can’t blame her if she does.

The rain picks up outside, drumming against the windows like it’s trying to match the rhythm of my racing thoughts. In baseball, you’re taught to control the controllable. Focus on what you can change, let go of what you can’t. But sitting here, watching the Seattle sky cry while my whole world feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, I realize I don’t know what’s controllable anymore.

Maybe that’s the problem. I’m trying to control everything—my future, my career, my relationships—when sometimes you have to let the game come to you. But the stakes feel so muchhigher when it’s not just a game on the line, but your whole heart.

I try to focus on Professor Blaine’s lecture, but the equations on the board blur together. Supply and demand. Market forces. Economic equilibrium. None of it makes sense when my own life feels so out of balance.

“For Thursday’s class,” Professor Blaine announces as students start packing up their laptops, the hour somehow already gone, “read chapter eight and complete the case study analysis. Remember, midterms are in two weeks.”

Two weeks. Same time as our road trip to Arizona State. Another test to study for, another series to prepare for, another chance to prove I deserve my starting spot. The weight of it all settles on my shoulders.

Callie’s already shoving her notebook into her backpack, but she pauses to give me one last look. There’s something different in her eyes now—not just anger, but maybe understanding. Or pity. I’m not sure which is worse.

“Just…” she starts, then shakes her head. “Don’t wait until it’s too late, Jax. Because Nathan isn’t the only one asking about her.”

The classroom empties around us, chairs scraping against linoleum, the shuffle of feet and murmur of conversations about market equilibrium and upcoming assignments. But I stay seated, staring at my blank notebook page where I should have been taking notes.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Inez, probably. Or maybe Coach about tonight’s practice schedule. Or my academic advisor reminding me about the study hall hours I need to log this week. Everyone wants something from me—time, attention, commitment.

Everyone except Camdyn. She only wanted me. The real me, not the starting catcher or the business major or the guy withMLB scouts watching his every move. Just Jaxon. The guy who stole pencils in seventh grade science and makes her laugh.

I finally pack up my stuff, the weight of my backpack nothing compared to the weight in my chest. Here’s the thing about being a catcher: you’re supposed to be the field general, the guy who sees the whole game and makes the right calls. You’re supposed to know when to call for a fastball and when to mix in the curve. When to settle your pitcher down and when to let him work through it.

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