Between the Lines

I stood at the padel court fence, watching Jake serve against the back wall. The satisfying *thwack* of the ball echoed through the park, and honestly? It made my baseball glove sitting in my backpack feel like a dead weight.

"You coming tomorrow?" Jake asked, swinging his racquet like he owned the place.

"Can't. My dad's got me at travel baseball practice. Again." I kicked at a pebble. "Fourth time this week."

Jake winced. "Bruh. You've been playing padel with us for two months and you're actually getting good. When are you gonna tell him you'd rather be here?"

"When I'm ready to have my head bitten off," I muttered. My dad lived for baseball. Gave me his old glove when I was five, taught me to pitch before I could ride a bike without training wheels. The man had our entire basement decorated with my baseball trophies from before I could even remember winning them.

That night, my cat Luna jumped onto my desk while I was supposedly "studying" for math. She headbutted my hand, demanding attention.

"You don't care about strikeouts, do you?" I scratched behind her ears and she purred like a tiny engine. "You're living your best life. Sleep, eat, judge me from across the room. Goals."

My phone buzzed. Group chat from the padel crew: *Tournament this Saturday. We need you.*

I stared at the message, my heart doing that weird fluttery thing. Then I heard my dad in the hallway, talking to my mom about "the big game" this weekend and how proud he was of his "little pitcher."

The guilt hit me like a fastball to the chest.

But then Luna knocked my math binder onto the floor, revealing the faded photo underneath — me at six, holding a baseball, looking absolutely miserable.

Some things clicked. I hadn't been miserable back then. I'd been mimicking what I thought I should want.

"Wish me luck," I told Luna, scooping her up for a quick cat-kiss nose boop before heading downstairs.

"Dad?" I said, standing in the kitchen doorway. "We need to talk."