Page 185 of Left on Base

King, ever the hype man, jumps in for a group selfie, nearly taking out a cameraman. In the background, Fork Guy is trying to convince a security guard to let him climb onto the dugout “for a better photo angle.”

Camdyn shakes her head, grinning, while her mom laughs and her dad mutters, “He’s not coming to Thanksgiving, is he?”

I have a feeling Fork Guy will invite himself either way.

The team gathers for a final group shot. Fork Guy somehow ends up in the front row, holding the trophy sideways and wearing three different hats.

I look around—at King, at Camdyn’s parents, at Fork Guy saluting the team with a hot dog like he’s christening a ship—and I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

I watch Camdyn in the spotlight that night, tears rolling down her cheeks. She finally achieved what she worked all year to do, and I can’t blame her for crying.

I think about where our relationship goes from here. I’ve confused her so many times she probably can’t tell my truths from my lies. I see the fear in her eyes. She wants to trust me, but isn’t sure if she can, or should.

I want to erase the bad memories she has of me. Deep down, I know whatever Camdyn and I have now will never look like what we had before. There’ll be pieces of me, pieces of her, pieces of us, but it won’t be the same.

And that’s okay.

Maybe that’s what being an ace is, really—not just being the best when everything’s perfect, but stepping up when it’s messy, when the pressure’s highest, when it matters most. Camdyn did it tonight. She owned the moment, shouldered the weight, and carried her team to the top. She was the ace, through and through.

Just like this game, there are seasons when nothing goes right. Sometimes you have to start over, focus on the process, and trust yourself to come through when it counts. Control what you can. Let go of what you can’t.

Tonight, I watched someone I love become the ace. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll figure out how to be one for her too.

CHAPTER 39

WALK-OFF

JAXON

A hit that ends a game.

The dorm is quiet except for the low hum of my computer, the faint, distant roar of students down the hall, and the weird little gremlin noises coming from under my bed—which, at this point, is either Mookie or the ghost of my GPA.

I got back late last night from Oklahoma and haven’t left my room today, unless you count the workout this morning. The season might be over, but the grind for next season already started.

Right now, I’m hunched over my keyboard, building a batting facility in Minecraft. Not just any batting facility—the Huskies’ home, pixel-perfect. I’m sweating the details: the faded logo, the dent in the outfield fence, the way the sun slices through the high windows before practice. It’s almost meditative, if you ignore that Mookie just launched himself off the mini fridge and skidded across my desk, scattering sticky notes and gnawing the corner of my phone charger. I don’t know why, but he’s obsessed with cords and electronics. It’s a miracle he hasn’t fried himself yet.

“Dude!” I hiss. “Chill the fuck out.”

Mookie blinks at me, totally unrepentant, then bolts full-tilt into my laundry pile, tail puffed up like a bottle brush. The only thing in this room more destructive than my anxiety is my cat.

I try to focus, muttering to my Minecraft character. “Alright, my guy, let’s get this right. No more crooked fences, no more glitchy nets. We’re building something solid.” My pixel avatar just stares back at me with dead eyes, like, ‘Bro, you need therapy.’

Some days, I wouldn’t disagree.

My phone vibrates on the desk. For a second, my heart leaps—Camdyn? Nah, just Fork Guy, who’s been texting me every twenty minutes since I got back.

FORK GUY

how’s post-championship existential crisis?

did u tell camdyn she should pitch for the yankees?

serious question

if i mail u a lock of my hair, will it help your batting average?

nvm

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