Page 209 of Left on Base

When a batter hits a single, double, triple and homer in the same game.

If you’d told me Fork Guy would be the reason I finally stopped sweating over proposing to Camdyn as our junior year comes to a close, I would’ve laughed so hard you’d think I was choking on a sunflower seed. But that’s just how he rolls: one minute, he’s supergluing mini forks to his eyebrow “for luck” during the postseason; the next, he’s dropping advice that only makes sense after midnight and three cups of questionable coffee.

I’d been sitting on the idea for months. Life changed a hell of a lot in our junior year. Camdyn—well, she crushed it again. Pac-12 Pitcher of the Year, All Pac-12 First Team, USA Softball Player of the Year—she shattered the NCAA record for strikeouts in a season and got an offer to play in the WPF pro leagues. But now she’s all about that sports management degree. She was originally going for a sports medicine degree but not she’s adapting with the times and how social media controls how athletes are seen.

And me? My junior year was my best yet. I smashed 33 home runs—just dropping that number—and snagged the Johnny Bench Award, First Team All-Pac 12, Pac-12 Defensive Player of the Year, and the Rawlings Gold Glove as a catcher. I was on every scout’s radar when the dust settled.

That same day, I got the call from the Braves. NCAA technically says no agents before you’re done with college, but my advisers and coaches helped me navigate that mess. They asked if I wanted to be drafted, if I’d accept, or if I wanted to stick around for my senior year.

I wanted to finish school. I did. But when that call came, it just felt right. I knew what I wanted. I signed with the Braves a month ago. Officially a pro, headed to Atlanta in a few weeks.

That’s when the panic hit. Not about what I’d gained, but what I might lose.

Biggest worry? Camdyn. I couldn’t leave without her knowing this was serious. Dating’s one thing. I needed to make it official before I left.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Bro, you’re twenty-one and want to get married?”

Yeah. I do. I want to be tied to that green-eyed, blonde-haired girl more than I want to play in the majors. And that’s saying something.

But I had no clue how to pull it off.

And that’s where Fork Guy comes in. Of course.

“Listen, Baseball Boy,” he says, showing up at my dorm with a duffel bag full of candles, half a box of discount sparklers, and three battery-powered pineapple lanterns. At midnight. Freaking midnight. Then he drops this gem: “Romance is chaos with better lighting. You want her to say yes, you gotta go big. Full field. No bunting.”

I blink. “Is that a metaphor, or are you suggesting we break into the softball stadium?”

He grins like it’s obvious. “Why not both?”

Jameson throws a ball at the door. “If you two don’t shut up, I’m gonna kill both of you.”

Jameson’s running on zero sleep these days. Having a newborn will do that to you.

Oh, yeah, about those two. Callie was definitely pregnant—five months along when we found out in August, while we were in Dubai. She gave birth to a boy, Nolan, three days after Christmas. And yeah, turns out it was Jameson’s kid. Callie took a redshirt year from basketball because, well, she literally had her own basketball in her stomach. Jameson kept playing baseball that spring while helping with the baby. Junior year’s huge for ballplayers, so it made sense, especially with Callie’s parents helping a lot.

Jameson’s parents stepped up too, and while Callie and Jameson moved off-campus to an apartment near her folks, Jameson still sneaks back to the dorm to crash sometimes. Not gonna lie, it’s not as often as it should be, and yeah, you might call him an ass for that. But hey, the kid’s cute, cries a lot, and honestly, I still don’t know if those two are together or just tolerating each other.

One thing Idoknow? Fork Guy is convinced Nolan is his best friend. Like, literally. The guy tries to read the baby’s energy like he’s some kind of miniature, screaming tarot client.

“Jameson,” Fork Guy whispers, leaning into the cracked door like a secret agent. “Is Nolan in there? I need to prepare his aura for greatness.”

Right on cue, a glove rockets from behind the door and slams against the wall like a missile.

“If you two don’t shut up, I swear I’m gonna lose it!” Jameson’s voice, rough and sleep-deprived, yells through the door. “I haven’t slept in days!”

Fork Guy shrugs, totally unfazed. “Okay, okay. I can babysit later if you want. You know, help balance those baby chakras.” No response. “Think about it. Sleep on it. Or, you know, whatever.”

A baseball thuds against the door. “Leave!”

I peek out, half-dressed in shorts and no shirt, hair sticking up like I just woke from a nap I desperately needed. “We should probably go.”

Fork Guy stares at the door, genuinely concerned. “He should really get some sleep. He’s so cranky. I’m worried about his energy.”

I pat Fork Guy on the back, grinning. “He’ll survive. Probably. Hopefully. He’ll be fine.”

Fork Guy textsCamdyn pretending there’s a “team emergency” at the field. If you ask me, she caught on right then—or maybe she just knows anything is possible with Fork Guy involved. You remember Dubai, right? Exactly.

And it’s midnight. She had to know something was up.

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