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But over the past year, I've realized just how gifted he really is.
He's an amazing player, obviously. But he's also steady and focused in a way most people our age aren't. Baseball isn't just something he's good at—it's everything.
He always says it's his ticket out of here. Out of Mage. Out of his parents' drama.
Out of all of it.
Jace loves to joke that this town feels like living a story that's already written. Like we're actors in our own lives, walking a set and reading from a script directed by small-town people with small-town dreams.
And for a while, the idea of writing our own ending felt exciting. Refreshing. Freeing in the way I always imagined distance from my family would feel.
But the longer I sit with it—and thanks to Molly's reminder—the more I realize leaving isn't really about freedom.
It's about not being forgotten.
Not being swallowed whole by this tiny town, my chaotic household, or my too-close family. It's about finding my place in the world.
And I worry that following Jace might just mean living in someone else's shadow instead of my parents' or siblings'.
His shadow—the shade-on-a-sweltering-day kind anyone would be lucky to stand in.
But if I follow him to CMU… would I just disappear into his world instead of this one?
I let Molly talk—to me, to someone beside her, I'm not entirely sure anymore—and my eyes lock on Jace again.
His knees are bent as he licks his lips—an image I've seen a million times—and instantly, my pulse settles. Because when I look at him the future doesn't feel nearly as complicated.
It just feels like… us.
The Bobcats' best batter steps into the box. I've seen this kid hit every other time Mage has played Chester High, and he always manages to give us trouble. The bleachers vibrate as our classmates, the players' families, and even teachers bounce their feet up and down, stomping fast and loud as Carson gets set.
When he lifts his leg, the rumbling fades, and a hush falls over the crowd. He drops forward, rocketing the ball toward the plate. The batter swings, the bat cutting through the air with a whoosh. The ball hits the catcher's glove with a pop, and when the ump holds up a fist, we erupt into cheers.
The noise fades again as Jett, our catcher, tosses the ball back to Carson, and suddenly, the energy shifts.
There are two strikes left, one out until the win, but for some reason, this feels like it.
I look to my left to see Jace's mom and the other parents standing, nervously nibbling nails and holding hands between each other. To my right, a group of my classmates huddle together, my friends beside me, bouncing on their toes with their arms linked at the elbows.
Even Molly seems different—suddenly quiet.
The whole field feels like it's holding its breath.
The batter digs his cleats into the dirt, glancing side to side before resting the bat on his shoulder.
The bleachers tremble again, louder this time. Carson nods then lifts his leg.
The Bobcat sinks an inch lower.
My stomach twists as someone near me inhales sharply.
Everything slows as Carson pulls his arm back—
And Jace glances over.
For a second, I think I imagined it—his eyes flicking to me. But I blink once, and they're still there.
Not on the pitcher.
