Page 76 of Left on Base

I raise an eyebrow. “His blood?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

I stare at Jameson, thinking how random that is—but then again, it’s not for King. Kingston’s the kind of dude where you’re never sure what the hell his personal life looks like. I have no idea what he’s doing off the field, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to know. The dude is a little crazy. He fucks around a lot, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a drug dealer on speed dial during the off-season.

“Jaxon?” I hear someone call, and I immediately recognize the voice. “Are you in here?”

Fuck.

She found me. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, you’re about to. My stomach drops, guilt tangling with annoyance. I’ve been dodging her texts for weeks, and now here she is, probably wanting answers I don’t have the balls to give.

The moment Inez comes into view, Jameson sighs and pushes away from the table. “I’m out. Mookie is missing me.” He holds up his phone to show his screensaver: him with the damn cat. On my pillow.

I slap his phone out of his hand. Idiot. “That cat does not miss you.”

“He does.”

“Don’t go.” I try to grab the back of his hoodie, but he’s too quick. “Help meeeee.”

“I can’t. I’m really busy.” He keeps walking, leaving me to clean up this mess I made.

“Hello, Jameson,” Inez says softly as he passes her, her voice all apologetic and shrinking.

Jameson doesn’t say anything but waves and keeps his head down. None of my friends like Inez. I think it’s because of Camdyn, and they all love her, but I haven’t asked. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck because it’s not like I’m dating Inez and need their approval. But standing here, watching her fidget in her oversized sweater, pushing those thick-rimmed glasses up her nose, I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

“I’ve tried texting you, but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh, yeah.” I take my hat off and turn it backward, buying time, avoiding her dark eyes behind those glasses that look both hurt and hopeful. “I’ve been busy.”

“Oh.” That’s all she says, but somehow that single syllable carries the weight of every ignored text, every missed call.

I feel like a dick for ghosting her, but how the hell do I talk to her, or text her back, when I’m still clearly hung up on Camdyn? And still sleeping with her. It’s better to ghost Inez than try to explain this mind-fuck inside me, right? The way Camdyn’s name echoes in my head even when I’m with someone else, the way I can’t seem to want anyone else, even when I try. Even when I should.

“What’s up?” I ask as she stands next to me in jeans with paint splatters, two inches too short, and her usual black Converse taped together with duct tape. The shoes somehow make this worse. They’re so perfectly Inez, so earnestly different from Camdyn’s curated athlete aesthetic.

I’m honestly surprised Inez is here. I haven’t texted her in weeks and never replied when she sent me a video of my grand slam after the WSU game. Yeah, dick move.

She hands me a paper. “Can you look at my article for me? Since you know sports and stuff. It’s on the girls’ baseball team.”

Baseball team? I stare up at her as she perches on the desk. There’s something endearing about how nervous she is, all mismatched clothes and jittery energy, but that just makes me feel worse. Because I know I led her on, and my heart was never in it. “You mean softball team? We don’t have girls’ baseball.”

“Oh, yeah, whatever.” She waves her hand like it’s nothing, her black hair falling in her face as she adjusts her glasses again. “Same thing.”

All right. Maybe taking a quiz isn’t so bad. Probably better than reading another one of Inez’s articles on why band should be a sport. Yes, you heard that right. And no, I do not want to explain. That was during the brief window when I thought I could move on from Camdyn. When I convinced myself that maybe someone I wasn’t so attracted to was what I needed. Spoiler: it backfired, because the moment I started talking to Inez, I couldn’t stop running back to Camdyn.

“Uh, it’s really not.” I fight back laughter as Inez’s brows scrunch together and she adjusts her glasses yet again. “They’re very different sports,” I say, trying—and failing—to be gentle.

“How so?” She gives me a what the fuck does it matter look, but it’s about as threatening as a puppy. That’s Inez—she tries to be confrontational, but she’s more like a frustrated librarian silently scolding you for being too loud. “It’s a bat and a ball and you score a point.”

“Girl, what? Sports journalism is not for you.” I lean back, laughing at her serious concentration. Maybe I shouldn’t be such an ass. Whatever. Except I do care, because I can see the hurt on her face, and I’m being a dick again. “You score runs, not points.The balls are different sizes. The bats are completely different—wood, aluminum. Field sizes, everything?—”

“Jaxon,” she groans and tries to grab her paper back, cheeks going red. I snatch it away. “Okay, okay, I get it. Can you just read it?”

“Yeah.” I scan the paper and focus on her title. Hm. “Madness on the Mound?”

“Yeah?” She sighs, clearly frustrated. “Is that not good?”

“Well, um. Mound?”

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