Page 189 of Left on Base

I stare at the message a long second. My thumb hovers over send. Mookie opens one eye, as if to say, Really, dude? Now or never.

I hit send.

The message whooshes away, out into the world. My heart’s pounding, but it’s the good kind of terror. I set the phone down, feeling lighter and heavier at the same time, and let myself hope—really hope—for the first time in a while.

My phone buzzes again.

FORK GUY

did you do it?????

YES

stop texting me

proud of you, baseball boy

now go eat something green.

kidding

except pizza

if it’s green it’s moldy

For once, I actually laugh—out loud, the sound bouncing off the dorm walls. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe relief. Maybe it’s just Fork Guy being Fork Guy.

I tap out a reply:

bro if I keel over from stress it’s your fault

Actually, you know what?

I think you and Jameson would vibe

Here’s his number

Please for the love of god do your worst

I shoot Fork Guy Jameson’s number, then glance up.

Jameson’s phone buzzes instantly. He’s glaring at me from his bed, still half-fuming, like he’s not sure if he should be mad or afraid for the future of his phone privileges. He narrows his eyes. “What did you just do?”

I shrug, going for innocent. “Shared the love, man.”

He groans, flops backward onto his pillow, and mutters, “Who the fuck is this dude?”

“He’s… Fork Guy.”

And that’s all that needs to be said.

CHAPTER 40

LEATHER

CAMDYN

The glove. When a player makes a great fielding play, he is said to have “flashed the leather.”

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