Benchwarmer's WiFi Signal

Marcus slumped on the dugout bench, his cleats kicking at peeling blue paint. Coach was yelling something about hustle and heart, but Marcus's heart was definitely not in it. Not here. Not on this dusty diamond where the baseball sailed past him like he was invisible.

"You good, man?" Jamal whispered, tapping Marcus's shoulder.

Marcus shrugged, already reaching for his iPhone like it was a life preserver and he was drowning in shallow water. The screen lit up with Maya's latest message: *idk if u shud come 2nite. ppl r asking stuff.*

Running his thumb over the glass, Marcus typed back: *what stuff?*

The truth was, Marcus wasn't just bad at baseball — he was spectacularly, impressively bad. Last game, he'd been so busy checking TikTok in the outfield that a routine pop fly bonked off his glove. Coach had called it "a lapse in focus." Marcus's dad had called it "a disgrace to the family name."

"Bennett! You're up!" Coach's voice cracked like lightning.

Marcus stood, knees suddenly liquid. He grabbed his bat and walked toward the plate, his iPhone buzzing in his back pocket like a guilty conscience. Maya again: *they know. ur brother told everyone abt the poetry slam.*

Poetry slam. The words hit harder than any fastball ever could. Marcus had been secretly performing at the coffee house downtown, pouring his heart into verses about fake friends and real feelings. His brother Ryan — the baseball golden boy, the one who actually got home runs and girls and approval — had promised not to tell.

The pitcher wound up. Marcus didn't even see the ball.

*Strike one!*

His phone vibrated again. Maya: *come anyway. emily said she'd come if u perform. also ur bro is an ass but we knew that.*

*Strike two!*

Something inside Marcus shifted. Maybe it was the way Coach's face looked like he was already mourning the loss, or the way his teammates deliberately avoided eye contact, or the simple, crushing weight of pretending to be someone he wasn't.

He stepped out of the batter's box, dropped his bat in the dirt, and did something no one — including himself — expected.

He started running.

Not toward first base. Not toward the locker room. He sprinted past the confused umpire, past Coach's open mouth, past the entire stunned lineup, and grabbed his backpack from the dugout.

"Marcus! What in god's name —" his dad shouted from the stands.

Marcus didn't stop. He just kept running toward the parking lot, fumbling for his iPhone, Maya's text glowing like a promise: *ima save u a seat.*

For the first time in his life, he wasn't running away from something. He was running toward it.

And damn, it felt like hitting a home run.