Page 62 of Left on Base

My eyes go back to Jaxon. He’s still looking this way, but I keep watching Inez. She’s probably excited to see him play. I hate not knowing if she’s been to a game yet. She might have. The thought of her sitting here, in these seats, makes my stomach twist.

Jameson’s on the field. I’m not paying attention to him. I can’t stop staring at Jaxon in his catcher’s gear. It fits him perfectly, like he was born to wear it. The confidence, the way he moves behind the plate, completely in control.

Even from a distance, he glances at me under his mask. I blush hard, thinking about how he moaned my name earlier.

Damn it. Stop. Focus. You’re in public. This is not the time or place to relive how his hands felt on my skin or how he—nope.

Stop it, dumbass. Baseball. Watch baseball.

“Wait.” Callie stares at Jameson, thankfully interrupting my increasingly dirty thoughts. “Is Jameson pitching?”

“I would think so, since Jaxon’s catching tonight.” I glance at her, still licking ‘real’ nacho cheese like a five-year-old. “He was warming up when we got here.”

“Oh. I didn’t notice.”

Of course not. She was distracted by food. The girl could miss the apocalypse if someone waved a fry in front of her. “Have you talked to him lately?”

She leans in, the stadium music drowning her words. “We texted the other day.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.” She does that indecisive head tilt, eyes glazed, the same look she gets when Coach explains a new defense. “It’s always weird.”

I look at Jaxon, crouched behind the plate, ready for warmups. “You always say it’s weird with him. But you keep texting.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t like him, why text?”

She sighs, staring at her nachos like they’ll give her life answers. “I don’t know what it means.”

She probably doesn’t. But when Jameson takes the mound, his eyes find Callie and her cheeks flush. Every time she watcheshim pitch, she goes right back to texting and then they hook up. Most predictable game of baseball ever—you always know what pitch is coming.

“Yeah, but it’s confusing for him when you text randomly,” I point out. I feel bad for the guy—he clearly likes her. The way he looks at her reminds me of how Jaxon used to look at me. Before everything got complicated.

“Nooo. It’s not like that.” She sets down her nachos—another half-eaten snack for the trash. “We’re just friends.”

I gesture at Jameson on the mound. “Does he know that?”

“Yesss.” She rolls her eyes.

“Mhm.” I don’t think he does. Just like I don’t think Jaxon knows what we are. Or maybe he does and I’m the one left in the dark. Story of my life lately.

The top of the first flies by—three straight batters gone, victims of Jameson’s nasty knuckleball and change-up. His pitches have insane movement on them. The batters don’t stand a chance.

Jaxon’s hitting leadoff tonight, which is rare. He’s usually three or four, but coaches mix it up for certain games. WSU’s got a stacked lineup and bullpen, so you put your best at the top.

Jaxon’s walk-up song starts—and it’s the same as mine.

Did he know? He had to. My walk-up was in my last home run video, posted on Instagram. Jaxon liked it, commented with an ice emoji.

He looks over his shoulder as he goes to the plate, but no eye contact. My heart speeds up and I want him to look at me, but he doesn’t. He’s locked in. Game mode. All business, no distractions. Not even for the girl in his hoodie.

As he stands at the plate, I remember the first time he told me he loved me. I smile.

We weren’t careless with those words. Even in the end, never careless or vindictive. Maybe that’s what makes this harder. Noclean break, no villain. Just two people who couldn’t make it work but can’t let go.

In fact, Jaxon didn’t tell me he loved me until freshman year of high school. We’d been together over a year before he said it. I remember it like it was yesterday.

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