Page 214 of Left on Base

They catch each other’s eyes, and I swear even from here you can feel the electricity. Jaxon throws a quick fist bump, Jameson grins, then pulls him into a brief hug. The announcer’s talking about how they were college roommates, drafted the same year.

Callie blinks fast, dabbing at her eyes. I feel that prick behind my own lids, swallowing hard as the anthem plays. When you watch people you know make it pro, it hits different. I can’t explain it.

Fork Guy reappears, balancing a new tray of questionable food, oblivious to the moment. “Anthem’s over. Who’s ready for round two of snack sampling?”

We laugh, tension easing, but I know this is one of those moments we’ll remember—raw, real, full of hope. And maybe a surprise baby appearance.

The game starts, the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd blending into a soundtrack I find both familiar and comforting. I’ve watched hundreds of games, but nothing this big with Jaxon in it. I wasn’t prepared for how nervous—or how emotional—I’d be. There’s a lump in my throat, always threatening tears.

By the second inning I settle into the suite chair, feeling the heat pressing down but refusing to let it steal my focus.Contractions have started—definitely not gentle Braxton Hicks now—but spaced out enough I can manage, for now.

Mariners fans are loud as hell. Jameson’s on the mound, calm and collected, pitching heat like he owns the air. Fastballs, sliders, curveballs—a dance he and Jaxon have known since college, now playing out in front of thousands.

The game is mostly a pitchers’ duel, the kind that makes your palms sweat and heart race. Scoreless innings tick by, tension building like a coiled spring. Callie and I are nervous wrecks, and I’m afraid to say it but I’m pretty positive I’m in labor. I want to ask Callie what hers was like, even though I was with her at Starbucks when it happened, but all I remember is screaming for help when some lady slipped on Callie’s water breaking in line.

Anyway, back to the game. The sixth inning is where everything changes.

Jaxon steps into the batter’s box, eyes locked on Jameson. I hold my breath, same as Callie. Jameson knows Jaxon—knows to stay out of his zone or Jaxon will smoke one to any side of the field.

First pitch—a fastball—whizzes by, a blur, inside. 104 mph. Jesus.

Jaxon smiles, they put him on the big screen, and Jameson’s got the same grin. Second pitch, a curve that dips out of reach. Then, with a flick of his wrists, Jaxon connects. The crack echoes like thunder.

The ball rockets into left-center, soaring past the outfielder’s desperate leap. Double—off his college roommate and best friend.

The suite erupts. Nolan cheers, no clue it’s for “Jaz” as he calls him, waving his mini slider like a flag.

My chest tightens again—this time pride, not pain. Okay, maybe some pain.

Jameson and Jaxon lock eyes—old friends turned rivals, now sharing a moment bigger than baseball. A slow, knowing nod between them, all respect and history.

Callie squeezes my hand, eyes shining. “Well, I’m crying now.”

I nod, swallowing that lump in my throat. “Me too.”

Fork Guy hugs us both. “Me three.”

The game goes on, but for a moment, everything else fades away. Just the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and two players making their mark—on the field, and in life.

The sun’s dipping lower, painting the stadium gold. I’m riding the waves of contractions—still spaced out, but definitely not subtle. My breathing’s heavier, hands on my bump, like maybe I can get the baby to chill out for a few more innings and I’ll calmly say, I should go to the hospital. Easy, right?

I look around the suite and notice Fork Guy making his way back in, juggling a snack skyscraper. He sits next to Nolan, who’s demolishing a pile of mini pretzels. Nolan eyes Fork Guy’s new haul and grins. “Have some?”

“Oh my god,” Callie groans. “Don’t let him eat all that. He’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

Too late. He’s already shoveling it in by the handful.

The Mariners are two outs from a win when a contraction hits me hard. I grit my teeth and squeeze the chair.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

There’s cheering in the suite—another strikeout by Jameson. One out away.

Which is exactly when I realize this baby is not waiting, because I peed myself.

“Uh, guys… I think this baby’s ready to make an appearance,” I say, my voice a mix of amusement and panic as I stare down at the wet seat.

“Wait, what?” Fork Guy’s eyes go wide. “Like,now? We’re not even in the ninth!”

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