Page 91 of Left on Base

I shrug, run a hand over my face and adjust my hat. “No idea.”

She glances between the bus and me. “Oh, you’re leaving. Where to?” I hoist my bag onto my shoulder. The weight of my catcher’s gear feels right. Familiar. Grounding. Way easier than this awkward conversation.

“Cali. USC tomorrow.” I start inching toward the bus, hoping she’ll get the hint. She doesn’t.

“Oh, okay.” She shifts her weight, adjusts her glasses, and digs in her messenger bag, which is covered in hand-drawn anime. “I actually have some questions about?—”

“JAXON!” Coach Allen’s voice booms from the bus. “Unless you’re planning to WALK to California, get your ass on this bus NOW!”

“I’ll, uh, let you go,” Inez finally says, looking disappointed as she pushes her glasses up again. “Maybe I could text you the questions?”

“Yeah, maybe?—”

“RYAN!”

I roll my eyes. “Gotta go.”

She says something under her breath, but I miss it. Never been so grateful for Coach’s drill sergeant routine. As I jog to the bus, Jameson is waiting, watching Inez walk away. “Your girlfriend’s outfit is giving me a migraine.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I shove my hand in his face. “She’s not my girlfriend and you know it.”

“Mhm. You still talking to her?”

“No.” I slump into a seat near the back, ignoring the whoops and whistles from the team. The bus lurches forward, and through the foggy window, I watch Inez’s mismatched silhouette disappear into the gray. My phone buzzes against my leg.

Jameson’s head pops up over the seat. “Ten bucks she’s already writing an article about your junk.”

“Twenty says I throw you out the emergency exit.”

“You’re so cranky.” He grins, nods at my phone. “How’s Cam?”

I refuse to answer. Still, I can’t help checking Camdyn’s location—the little dot shows her at her dorm, probably passed out after that brutal series in Arizona. The softball team went 3-1 against ASU, and knowing Cam, she’s still pissed about that one loss. She’d texted at midnight:

deaddd

don't wake me unless building's on fire

maybe not even then

My thumb hovers over the message icon. It’s barely 5:15 AM; she needs the sleep, but?—

“What do you think of this collar?” Jameson shoves his phone in my face, chucks a protein bar at my head with his other hand.

I refuse to look at his Amazon cart full of random cat shit. “I don’t care. Stop talking.”

“You’re a bad?—”

“King!” I call out to the seat behind. “Trade with me?”

“Nah,” King mumbles, already half-asleep. “I can’t listen to him for twelve hours.”

The bus hits a pothole—someone’s bag spills, sunflower seeds everywhere. Coach Allen yells from the front: “Whoever made that mess better clean it up before we hit Oregon, or you’re all running poles!”

I turn back to my phone, pull up my thread with Camdyn.

heading to cali

didn’t want to wake you

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