Page 7 of Left on Base

“Why?” I choked out, knowing it was about us.

“This is too much. My coaches... I... I think we should take a break.”

His coaches? The words hit my chest hard, like taking a line drive to the ribs.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I’m confused.”

I didn’t want to ask my next question but I needed to. Silence surrounded us, my heartbeat thudding in my ears, every other sound drowned out. “About us?”

He shrugged, making the bed creak. “I don’t know. Yeah.”

“Is it because I got pregnant?” I certainly never planned on getting pregnant at nineteen. We were both college athletes. Having a baby was the last thing we needed or wanted. Before we could wrap our minds around it, I miscarried at twelve weeks, in the middle of a game. And as much as I didn’t want to say it, we were both relieved. We weren’t ready to be parents. We still had three years of college left.

The air conditioner rattled to life. The curtains began to move, displaced by the vents. Someone’s music thumped through the wall—oblivious to my world falling apart.

Jaxon sighed, running a hand through his hair—longer now than when we’d met, but still that same sandy brown that turned gold in summer. “No. You know I would have supported you.” He meant it. “I just been thinking about it. All of it. Us, you know?”

“Oh.” I couldn’t understand where this was coming from, but maybe I had seen the signs: the unanswered texts, the missed FaceTimes. “For how long?”

“I don’t know. A while.” His eyes darted to the photo on his nightstand—us at the beach last summer, his arms around my waist, both of us sun-kissed and laughing. Before everything got complicated.

Anger hit me like a wave, pulling me under. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in. I tried to breathe, but I felt the blood rush to my face. My cheeks burned and I knew I was about to burst into tears. The same tears I’d held back during that game after the miscarriage. “Whatever, Jaxon.” I stood up, ready to walk away, my legs shaking. “Do whatever you want.”

He reached for my hand but I shook him off, his callouses grazing my skin one last time. “What do you want, Camdyn?”

“What do I want? I want us. I want you. Jaxon, I thought we were happy and now you’re doing this right before the most important game of my life.” My throat tightened, words forced out like trying to speak after running poles. “I... don’t understand.” I knew something was wrong when he wasn’t picking up, but I never thought he didn’t want to be with me.

Jaxon blinked rapidly, regret flashing in his eyes. His posture crumbled. “I... I should have waited.”

“Or you should have been honest when you started losing feelings.” My hands trembled like before a big game, but this wasn’t the kind of nervous energy I could shake off in the bullpen.

“I didn’t want to hurt you. And it’s not that I lost feelings. I just think we need a break from all this pressure.”

Pressure? I was pressure for him?

Tears slipped down my cheeks, blurring my vision. I tried to sweep them away but they only came faster. I was losing it. The urge to escape grew, like wanting to flee the batter’s box when a rise ball comes at your head. I needed to get out of this room but I couldn’t make myself leave. It was as if I was frozen. Caught in a rundown with nowhere to go. “I don’t know what to say.”

He slipped off the bed and knelt in front of me, holding my face in his hands—hands that had wiped away my tears after every loss, every bad game, every doubt about whether I was good enough for D1. My tears rolled down my cheeks and ontohis knuckles. “I still want you in my life, Camdyn.” His words were honest, but him struggling with this too didn’t help. It didn’t make me feel better about him ending it. “I still love you, that will never change.”

“Yeah.” I nodded a few times, the movement making more tears fall onto his Washington Baseball hoodie—the one I’d stolen so many times it smelled more like my perfume than his cologne. Not that I agreed with anything he was saying. “Just not as your girlfriend.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by distant bass thumping in the room across the hall.

I walked away after that.I got on a plane to Oklahoma for the Women’s College World Series. Days later, I lost the biggest game of my life because all I could think about was after. Jaxon didn’t feel the same about me any longer, and the one constant outside softball for the last six years was gone.

When I had a bad game, I talked to Jaxon. Who would break down my plays, my pitches, my at bats with me? Who would talk me through why I couldn’t hit the inside corner? Or why my screwball was breaking late?

Since freshman year of high school, two things have been consistent: Jaxon and softball. If I didn’t have him, would I still love the game?

If I didn’t have Jaxon, would the game still love me?

Would it challenge me and push me to become the best version of myself?

I wasn’t sure, because so much of that came from Jaxon’s unwavering love of the game. The boy who taught me how to chart pitches, who explained ERA calculations, who made me fall in love with not just him, but the sport.

As I stand in the bathroom eating the chocolates Jameson gave Callie, I turn on the shower. The pipes groan, a sound as familiar as the ping of a bat or the smack of a ball in leather. Maybe washing away the tears will help. Maybe the steam will clear my head like morning fog lifting off the field.

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