Baseball Gloves and Sweaty Palms

Marcus's palms were sweating through his batting gloves again. Third base, bottom of the seventh, and Coach Miller was giving him that look—the one that said *your dad's watching, don't embarrass us*.

He'd been popping vitamin gummies from his mom's purse all week, pretending they were some secret performance booster. placebo or not, he needed something to get him through this season.

"You good, M?" whispered Ty, sliding into the dugout beside him. Ty with his perfect hair and effortless swing, the kind of guy who made *baseball* look like choreography instead of combat.

Marcus nodded, throat tight. He wasn't good. He was living a double life, and not even in a cool, secret-agent way. More like a pathetic, lying-to-everyone way.

Last Friday, while his teammates hit up 7-Eleven after practice, Marcus had gone *spy mode*—following the drama club kids to their rehearsal. He'd stood outside the auditorium doors, listening to them laugh and rehearse lines like being weird was the most natural thing in the world. He wanted that. That freedom.

He wanted to stop *running* from who he actually was.

"Marccus!" Coach yelled. "You're up!"

The walk to home plate felt like walking underwater. His dad's voice echoed in his head: *You're a starter, Marcus. Don't waste this.* The vitamin gummy churned in his stomach.

He dug his cleats into the dirt. The pitcher wound up.

Marcus didn't swing.

The ball hit the catcher's mitt with a *thud* that seemed to echo through the entire field. Strike one.

*Just swing,* he told himself. *Be who everyone thinks you are.*

But his palms were sweating so much he could barely grip the bat. Something cracked inside him—something that had been held together by expectations and fear and vitamin gummy lies.

He stepped out of the batter's box.

"Coach," Marcus said, his voice shaking. "I'm done."

The dugout went silent. His dad stood up in the stands.

"What?" Coach Miller looked confused.

"I'm done pretending I care about this." Marcus pulled off his helmet. "I'm not coming back tomorrow."

He walked off the field, past his shocked teammates, past his furious father. His palms were still sweating, but for the first time all season, his chest didn't hurt.

Tomorrow, he'd go to drama rehearsal. As himself, not some spy in the shadows. And he'd start with something actually true: "Hi, I'm Marcus, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing."

His palms might still sweat. But at least they'd be honest sweat.