Page 174 of Left on Base

The Uber smells like fried chicken and a gym bag that finally tapped out. We’re rolling past the flat sprawl of Oklahoma City—chain restaurants, gas stations, strip malls that look like they’ve seen every flavor of regret. There’s a Sonic on every other corner, and the sky’s a washed-out blue that makes you feel like you’re living inside a faded Polaroid.

Fork Guy’s in the front seat because, of course, he called shotgun before I even opened the app. He’s wearing sunglasses inside, somehow looking even less trustworthy, and already chatting up our Uber driver like they’re old friends.

“So here’s the deal, man,” the driver says, hands gripping the wheel at ten and two like he’s bracing for turbulence. “My baby mama—she’s threatening to text my girlfriend and blow up my whole life. I never should’ve hooked up with her again, but you know how it is, right?”

I do not, in fact, know how it is, but Fork Guy is nodding like he’s got a PhD in Baby Mama Studies. “Dude, you need answers. Lucky for you, I read tarot. My ex, Emerald, taught me.She said I have ‘an aura of emotional chaos’—which is actually a compliment if you know her.”

“Wait, you and Emerald aren’t dating?” I ask, as if they’ll pay attention, but Fork Guy just waves me off.

“Not important right now, Baseball Boy.”

The Uber driver glances over, skeptical but desperate. “You got cards?”

Fork Guy pops the glove box and, somehow, actually pulls out a deck of sticky Uno cards. “Improvisation is the soul of divination,” he says, like that explains anything.

I sink lower in my seat, watching Oklahoma blur by—red dirt lots, a “Jesus Saves” billboard, cows ignoring traffic. My nerves are crawling. I’m about to try to win back the girl I screwed up with in a hotel full of athletes, and Fork Guy is giving a psychic reading with Uno cards that still have a Cheez-It crumb stuck between the reds and greens.

Fork Guy fans out the cards. “Pick three. Don’t overthink it, man. The cards always know.”

The driver draws a red seven, a blue skip, and a wild card. Fork Guy closes his eyes. “Red seven: passion, but danger. Blue skip: you need to let something go—probably the sneaky texts. Wild card? You’ve got options, but only if you tell the truth. Also, maybe stop hooking up with your baby mama.”

The driver exhales, like it’s the best advice he’s heard in weeks. “Damn. That’s deep, bro.”

Fork Guy shrugs. “Tarot never lies.”

I’m half hoping the car takes a wrong turn and dumps me at the nearest bus station, but instead we pull up at a bland high-rise crawling with people in matching team gear.

Fork Guy turns, grinning at me over the headrest. “You ready, Baseball Boy?”

“Sure,” I say, but my stomach is flipping. I hand the driver a tip, mumble, “Good luck, man,” and stumble out into the sunlight, blinking.

Inside, the lobby is packed with softball teams and parents, echoing with the shrieks of girls in visors. Fork Guy is already adjusting his forked-up sunglasses and flashing his “suave” smile.

The desk clerk’s maybe nineteen, hair in a messy bun, eyeing us like she’s seen it all and is over it. She looks like she could vaporize me with a single sigh.

“Hey there, fellow scholar of the hospitality arts,” Fork Guy says, leaning on the counter and nearly knocking over a stack of sightseeing brochures. If he pulls out a “Haunted Corn Maze Adventure” pamphlet, we’ll be kicked out before we start. “My associate here”—he throws an arm around my shoulders, squeezing hard—“has traveled long and far, fueled only by heartbreak, hope, and two pints of gas station ice cream. We’re on a sacred quest. Any chance, for the sake of true love and sportsmanship, you could tell us which room Camdyn Rowe is in?”

She doesn’t blink. “I can’t give out room numbers.”

Fork Guy nods, like he expected that. My palms are so sweaty I could probably slide down the hallway. “I respect the code. But what if I told you”—he lowers his voice, sliding a tiny glittery fork across the counter—“that I possess a limited-edition commemorative utensil? They only made, like, twelve. Probably because of a safety recall. But it brings good luck, especially to people who help star-crossed lovers.”

She picks up the fork, fighting a smile. “Is this plastic?”

He leans in. “Not just plastic. It’s emotionally charged. It’s seen things. It’s been through TSA.”

I cough. “Sorry about him. We just—uh—my ex is here for the softball championships, and—” God, I sound pathetic. I’m one stammer away from offering to mop the lobby for clues.

Fork Guy cuts me off, flapping his hands in my face. “Don’t mind Baseball Boy. He’s love-struck and tragically inarticulate. I, however, speak fluent romance. Also, bribery.”

He produces a second fork, this one bedazzled, and slides it next to the first. Then, like unveiling a national treasure, he offers the pint of chocolate ice cream. “And for your troubles. May all your future guests be this entertaining.”

The clerk laughs, finally giving in. “This is the weirdest thing all tournament, and yesterday I caught a third baseman doing yoga in the laundry room.”

Fork Guy claps. “Love makes us all do downward dog, my friend.”

She glances around, then keys something in, lowering her voice. “Room 414. But if you get me in trouble, I’m telling security you threatened me with the fork.”

Fork Guy gasps, scandalized. “Never! Except once. But it was consensual.”

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