Page 46 of Left on Base

But Coach Allen’s about to ruin those dreams. He’s been my coach since I was twelve—back when I held the record for strikeouts from the batter’s box, not the pitcher’s mound. Not the kind of record anyone wants, but I owned it.

The smell of hot dogs and popcorn drifts down from the concession stands, mixing with the leather-and-dirt scent that’s permanently embedded in my gear. My stomach growls, reminding me I’m fucking starving.

I should be focused on the game, on earning back my starting spot, on proving I belong here. Instead, I’m thinking about her on my dick—yeah, I admit it—and how I’m probably screwing everything up by trying not to screw anything up.

Welcome to college baseball: games are long, seasons are longer, and trying to balance your heart between the diamond and everything else feels impossible. At least the bench is warm—though in Texas, that’s less a perk and more a punishment.

“I don’t care what you do off the field,” Coach continues, “but when you’re here, playing for me, you work your ass off and give me everything you’ve got.”

“Yes, sir.” I give him the answer he wants, watching as two scorpions near the dugout fence engage in what looks like either an intense turf war or the world’s tiniest baseball game. They’re showing more coordination than I did in warm-ups.

“Listen, Jax.” He leans back, his gray Husky T-shirt looking like he just went for a swim. The man’s staring at his Gatorade bottle like it’ll reveal the secret to fixing my batting average.

The silence stretches. Finally, he sighs. “You need to take this seriously.”

Great advice.

I drop my eyes, suddenly fascinated by the sunflower seed graveyard at my feet. My jaw clenches as I spot Jameson dancing on the mound during his warm-up. “Like that fool?”

Coach Allen squints and chuckles. “No, not like him. What I mean is, I know what you and that girl went through last season.” He keeps his voice low, because in a dugout, nothing travels faster than drama—except maybe a foul ball to the dome. “It’s stressful, and the last thing you want is me harping on your dating life, son.”

His hand lands on my shoulder, heavy with experience and what he thinks is wisdom. “But take it from a man who’s been there. I know what it’s like. You want to be a twenty-year-old kid. You want to party and have all the bitches you want.”

I resist the urge to tell him the only “bitches” I’m interested in are pitches that hang over the plate. And Camdyn. Not that I’d ever call her that. I value my life.

“And that part’s fine,” he continues. “Live it up, because once you’re in the big leagues, you have even less freedom than now.”

My pulse quickens, blood rushing in my ears. He’s wrong. Dead wrong. I don’t want all the options. I wantonegirl. The same girl who texts me random penguin facts at 2 AM because she knows I’ll laugh. The same girl this man beside me convinced me to push away.

“What you don’t need is a relationship in this game.” He waves at the field like he’s showing off a new car. “Go out, have fun. But that’s where it ends. Your mind stays on baseball. Relationships don’t fit in college sports.”

I force my face to stay neutral. “I’m not in a relationship.”

Because of you.

He shrugs. “You say that, but I know you better than you think.”

Well, he’s got me there. He’s known me since I was the kid who couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat. Back when my biggest concern was whether my helmet made my ears look big.

“The only thing standing between you and greatness is yourself. Get out of your own head.”

Déjà vu. He told me this at sixteen when Camdyn and I first got serious. Again at seventeen, when I chose her over a Florida recruiting camp where they probably would’ve told me what I already knew—I had what it took. Then at eighteen, when I picked UW to be closer to her (though my mom and sister going there gave me a solid cover story).

He hammered it in after the miscarriage last season. Coach Allen’s still the only one who knows about that. I listened to him, ended things with Camdyn when she needed me most. Some days I think my biggest error wasn’t any of those missed throws—it was walking away from her.

Jameson storms into the dugout after his inning, having struck out the side but looking like someone just pissed in his Gatorade. He throws his glove down next to me and grumbles something.

Kingston tilts his chin at Jameson. “Damn, his calls are terrible.”

None of us are sure if he means the ump’s calls or the fact that Ollie’s already down 0-2 at the plate. Knowing Kingston, he probably doesn’t either.

Jameson and I look up at him, and he shrugs. “He’s an umpy with a dumpy.” He nods toward home plate like we might’ve missed which ump he’s talking about.

Jameson grabs someone’s glove and chucks it at Kingston. It hits his thigh and clatters to the concrete. “Shut the fuck up.”

Kingston adjusts his batting gloves like he’s about to step into a boxing ring, not a batter’s box. “What’s up? The umpy with a dumpy or a girl?”

Jameson’s jaw clenches. “Fuck off.”

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