Page 19 of Left on Base

“And we’re not dating. We’re just talking,” I add.

“Mhm.”

Thankfully Jameson is pulled away for arm care and stretching, as our pitchers don’t hit in our league. I’m left to hit off the machines.

Being in the cages usually helps my mood, but today it doesn’t provide the relief I’m looking for. All I can think about is Camdyn and how sad she is. Because of me. It’s always because of me.

As I’m leaving practice and heading back to the dining hall, I think about texting her. We haven’t spoken in almost two weeks, and we’ve never gone that long without talking. Ever. Hell, I don’t even know if she wants to hear from me. She could hate me now.

I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

It’s weird, but ending things with her kind of feels like one of those fielder’s choice plays in baseball. You know, where the guy with the ball could just throw to first and get the easy out, but instead tries for something else—maybe goes for second, or home—hoping it’s the smarter move.

That’s what I did, I think. I could’ve just stayed with her, played it safe, but I convinced myself there was some other play I needed to make. I told myself it was the right decision. NowI’m not even sure what “right” means. All I know is, I threw it to a different base and now I’m standing out here, missing her, wondering if I just overcomplicated everything.

And now I’m stuck second-guessing myself, not even sure if I got the “out” I wanted. Maybe I was just trying too hard to control the game, and now I’m not sure what play comes next.

I’m reckless with her love. Always thinking it’s going to be there waiting.

I disappoint her.

I fail her.

I fail myself.

Inning after inning.

CHAPTER 5

FOUL TIP

CAMDYN

A batted foul that goes directly from the bat to the catcher's hands and is legally caught. It’s considered a strike if the ball remains in play.

“Holy hell. Why don’t baseball players stretch like this?”

I stare at the man in front of us, his leg practically wrapped around his neck while he’s warming up.

The sharp smell of fresh ice mingles with popcorn and overpriced beer. Climate Pledge Arena always has this distinct scent—like winter, even in the middle of spring.

Callie, Brynn, and I love going to professional sporting events in Seattle. Forget nightclubs and bars. For one, we’re not old enough. For two, we love athletes.

We go to Seahawks games, practically live at the baseball stadium cheering on the Mariners, and now—our newfound entertainment?

Hockey.

If you know, you know. Hockey players are on another level. And hello, their stretches? The way they glide across the iceduring warmups, muscles rippling under those jerseys, every movement precise and powerful.

Gawdamnnnn.

Maybe I should date a hockey player.

You have to admit—it’s tempting.

Seriously, if you haven’t watched a game, do it. You won’t regret it.

Callie’s basketball coach hooked us up with four glass seats, and we didn’t hesitate to ditch our usual Tuesday night of doing nothing. The seats are so close I can hear the scrape of skates, feel the boards vibrate with every hit. Each collision echoes through my chest like a bass drum.

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