Page 212 of Left on Base

CHAPTER 45

CHOKE UP

CAMDYN

When a batter grips the bat handle higher to achieve greater control.

See that girl in the cute Mariners hat, boyfriend’s jersey open over her tiny white crop top, and those perfectly fitting jean shorts? Cute, sexy, holding the hand of a cranky toddler who wants nothing to do with an afternoon at T-Mobile Stadium.

That’s not me. That’s Callie.

Her boyfriend? Jameson. The Mariners’ starting pitcher.

The kid? Nolan. Her son. Strong-willed, stubborn as hell, but also the sweetest, kindest soul I know.

Where’s my boyfriend?

Oh, wait—I don’t have one.

Did you choke on your own spit?

Sorry. My bad. I don’t have a boyfriend—yes that bitchy little baseball player—because he’s my husband now, and the big-ass ring on my hand proves it. We’re never getting divorced, mostly because I can’t get the ring off. It’s almost ninety degrees and I’m so swollen I swear it’s permanently fused to my finger. Mightas well have welded itself to the bone. I’m basically a walking, sweating monument to marital commitment—and prenatal water retention.

Yeah, I skipped over the wedding and all the details you probably want. It was beautiful, everything I dreamed of marrying Jaxon. Why’d I gloss over it? For the dramatics, maybe.

I’ll give you some details though.

It’s funny, how the actual wedding itself feels like a fever dream now—blurry around the edges, everything too bright and too loud, every emotion turned up to eleven. I still remember the way Jaxon looked at me under those twinkle lights, his hair too long and his tie already a little crooked because he’d been nervously running his hands through it for an hour. The ceremony was in my parents’ backyard, nothing fancy, just folding chairs and wildflowers spilling out of old mason jars. The grass was still wet from the rain that morning, and I could hear my mom muttering about mud on my dress, but I didn’t give a shit.

Jaxon’s vows were exactly what you’d expect—equal parts sweet and cocky, making everyone laugh and cry at the same time. “I promise to always let you pick dinner,” he said, and everyone snorted except for me, because I was too busy trying not to ugly-cry my makeup off. When it was my turn, I nearly dropped the ring because my hands shook so bad. I told him he was my best friend, my home, and the only guy I’d ever let see me in my ratty college softball tee.

The kiss was over way too fast, and then there was confetti in my hair and cake smashed up my nose and Jaxon’s hands on my waist as he spun me around to “Come and Get Your Love.”

Fork Guy did a keg stand with Jaxon’s uncle Kellan (who’s still not allowed back at my parents’ house), and Callieaccidentally flashed the photographer. It was messy and loud and completely perfect.

If I close my eyes, I still feel Jaxon’s forehead pressed to mine in the dark, both of us barefoot and a little tipsy, whispering about how the best part hadn’t even started yet. Because the best part is this—real life, real love, swollen ankles and all.

Anyway, if you’d told me a year ago, as I was getting my sports management degree, that I’d be sweating my ass off, sporting a literal pool of water between my tits, and eight months pregnant, I’d have laughed so hard I’d pee myself.

Jaxon and I promised to wait for kids until he was up in the majors for good. But, you know, life doesn’t always follow your plans. Life gets you pregnant somewhere between Atlanta and Pittsburgh in a hotel room.

If you didn’t know, when a baseball player gets signed, he starts in the minors. Rookie Ball, Low-A, High-A, Double-A, Triple-A—the minor league system is like a baseball video game that never ends. Jaxon started in Double-A, which was lucky. Then he got bumped to Triple-A, and now here we are, two years after being drafted, and he’s been designated for assignment right before this series in Seattle. The Mariners, by the way, drafted a familiar face straight out of college—the guy who threw the fastest NCAA pitch on record at 105.5 mph.

And who’s that? Jameson Gomez.

Jameson Gomez, father of this little headstrong boy at our feet, telling us we don’t know where we’re going. He’s two. He doesn’t know, either. His best friend? A twenty-four-year-old guy with a beard that has its own personality, rocking a necklace of mini plastic forks on twine and a “Go everyone!” sign like it’s the Holy Grail of baseball fandom.

“How much farther?” I ask, stopping to catch my breath. I used to pitch seven-inning games without breaking a sweat. NowI can’t walk a few feet without wondering if my legs will give out. “I might need a snack stop.”

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Fork Guy asks, voice low, a little worried, wrestling Nolan, who’s flailing like a caffeinated tornado.

I bite back a wince as a Braxton Hicks contraction drops by uninvited. “I’m good.” I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Just… a little uncomfortable. Is it hot? It feels hot.” I fan my face. “I’m fine, though.”

Fork Guy raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Okay, but if you start glowing or something, I’m calling it. I can’t risk it.”

Glowing? What the hell? “Not helping,” I mutter, shifting from one swollen foot to the other, trying to ignore the pinch that feels like a tiny fist inside me.

Nolan sighs dramatically and points at the nearest concession stand. “Yummy?” The kid thinks snacks fix everything. Honestly? Can’t argue.

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