Breaking Surface

The clipboard in Marcus's hands felt heavier than it should. Maybe because it was deciding his fate, or maybe because Dakota's snicker from across the pool kept stabbing through his concentration. She'd made it clear: make the varsity baseball team, and she'd finally notice him. Fail, and remain invisible forever.

But Marcus wasn't even supposed to be at tryouts. Coach had posted the roster yesterday, and Marcus's name wasn't on it. Yet here he stood, wearing his lucky baseball cap—stained from two seasons of sweat and determination—while Coach Henderson eyed him like he'd grown a second head.

"What are you doing here, son?"

"Proving you wrong." The words escaped before Marcus could second-guess them. He'd practiced his swing every night since getting cut freshman year. His arms ached from the hundreds of pitches he'd chased, the way Bull—his overprotective older brother—had chased down every curveball life threw their way since Dad left. Bull had taught him that resilience wasn't about never falling; it was about how many times you got back up.

The challenge was simple: hit three pitches off the school's star pitcher, Tyler, who was currently watching with arms crossed and that insuffer smirk that said he'd already won. Dakota and her friends lounged by the pool edge, pretending not to watch while definitely watching.

First pitch: Marcus's bat made solid contact, sending the ball soaring into the pool's deep end with a perfect splash. Tyler raised an eyebrow.

Second pitch: harder, faster. Marcus's hands stung as he connected, driving a line drive that skimmed the water's surface like a skipping stone.

By the third pitch, the entire pool area had gone silent. Marcus's grip tightened. This was it—do or die. The ball left Tyler's hand, a blur of white against the summer sky. Time seemed to stretch as Marcus swung, everything clicking into place: the countless hours of practice, Bull's voice in his head, Dakota's expectant gaze.

CRACK.

The ball arced beautifully, clearing the pool entirely and landing somewhere in the grass beyond. For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then Dakota was clapping, actually clapping, and Tyler was nodding with something like respect. Coach Henderson's clipboard came down, and Marcus caught the slight upturn of his lips.

"Alright, kid," Coach called out. "You've got yourself a shot."

Walking away from the pool that day, Marcus understood something Bull had been trying to tell him for years: courage wasn't the absence of fear—it was acting anyway, even when your hands shook and your voice cracked and the odds seemed impossible. And sometimes, just sometimes, you'd hit it out of the park.