Battery's Not Dead

Marcus dragged himself to third base, feeling like the actual walking dead. Three hours of sleep AP Bio cramming would do that to you. Coach Peterson was yelling something about hustle, but Marcus's brain was currently broadcasting on a frequency of pure static.

"You okay, man?" whispered Tyler, his best friend since kindergarten and the only reason Marcus hadn't quit the baseball team sophomore year. "You look like a zombie extra from an indie horror flick."

"Living the dream," Marcus muttered, adjusting his cap. "Just waiting for the sweet release of the bullpen."

That's when he saw her. Chloe Rodriguez, sitting behind the backstop with her sketchbook, completely ignoring the game to draw something that looked suspiciously like a dementor meets a cloud. Lightning struck—metaphorically, because the sky was painfully clear—and Marcus suddenly remembered why he'd suffered through baseball season: Chloe never missed a home game.

"She's drawing you again," Tyler said, like he could read minds. "Probably because you keep staring at her like she's an alien species."

"Shut up." Marcus felt his face burning. "What do I even say? 'Hey, I noticed you sketching me while I was failing at basic athletics'?"

"How about you actually talk to her instead of running away like you did at Winter Formal?" Tyler raised his eyebrows. "Speaking of—you're supposed to be covering second base."

Coach Peterson blew his whistle. "Bennett! What are you doing standing there? Hustle!"

Marcus's body moved on autopilot. Then everything happened at once. A line drive came screaming toward him. His bat connected with something approaching coordination. The ball sailed toward left field, and for a second—for one glorious, impossible second—Marcus wasn't a sleep-deprived zombie. He was someone who could make things happen.

He rounded first, his lungs screaming, his legs pumping. Chloe was watching now, sketchbook forgotten. Marcus kept running, not toward second base, but toward something scarier and more important.

He slid into home plate, metaphorically speaking, by finally collapsing beside her after the game, sweat dripping, heart racing.

"You were staring," Chloe said, not looking up from her sketch.

"You were drawing me," he shot back, impressed by his own courage.

She smirked. "You looked intense. Like you were fighting a war inside your head."

"Baseball," Marcus said. "It's a battlefield."

"Sure." She tore out the sketch—a cartoon zombie in a baseball cap, looking determined as hell. "For the zombie who refuses to stay dead."

Marcus laughed, genuinely, for the first time all week. "I'll take it."