Baseball Zombies and Sweaty Palms

Marcus's palms were sweating. Again. He wiped them on his jeans—third time in two minutes—because across the dugout, Lana was laughing at something Chad said, and that laugh hit Marcus right in the chest like a line drive to the ribs.

"Dude, you're literally going to pass out," whispered Ty from beside him. "Just talk to her already. Or at least stop being a total weirdo about it."

Easy for Ty to say. Ty wasn't carrying around a three-month-long crush that had somehow managed to consume Marcus's entire personality. He felt like a zombie these days—shuffling through school, barely sleeping, existing only for baseball practice where he could watch Lana from a distance like the world's most pathetic creep.

Coach blew the whistle. "Alright, scrimmage! Chad versus Marcus. Everyone else, grab a position."

Marcus stepped up to the plate, bat gripped tight. Chad wound up and threw—fast, but Marcus could see it coming. *CRACK.* The ball sailed into left field. He took off running, heart pounding, dirt kicking up behind his cleats.

"Nice hit!" Lana called from the sidelines.

Marcus's brain short-circuited. He forgot how to feet. Tripped over second base and ate dirt.

"Bro," Ty said later, while Marcus sat in the dugout with an ice pack on his ego. "That was iconic, honestly."

Marcus groaned. "I'm never recovering from this. This is my villain origin story."

"You're being dramatic." Ty paused. "But hey, I saw you wiping your palms on your pants again. You nervous about the game or...?"

Marcus didn't answer. But that night, his phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Hey! This is Lana. Chad gave me your number. Sorry about today... you okay? ;)

Marcus sat up so fast he almost knocked over his lamp. He stared at his hands. Still kinda sweaty. But maybe, just maybe, his zombie phase was finally over.