Cannonball Confessions

I stood at the edge of the pool, chlorine stinging my nose, while Jordan's voice carried across the water.

"Bro, you're actually quitting the team? After we made regionals?"

He hung off the diving board like a dramatic sloth, his baseball cap backward and permanently attached to his head. That hat had been his thing since seventh grade.

"It's not quitting, it's... reallocating my focus," I said, knowing how lame it sounded.

"That's corporate speak, dude. You're literally abandoning the squad. Who's gonna pitch?"

I kicked at a loose tile. The truth was, I'd never loved baseball. Not like Jordan did. Not like I loved the quiet satisfaction of coding until 3 AM or the way my hands felt steady on a keyboard, slippery on a baseball.

But saying that out loud felt like betraying everything our friendship was built on. We'd met in T-ball, moved through Little League together, survived the horrors of middle school tryouts. Jordan was the jock; I was... his shadow. The funny sidekick. The one who made decent plays but never stood out.

"You could've told me," Jordan said, suddenly quiet. He dropped into the pool, surfacing with water streaming down his face. "Instead of letting me find out from Coach Evans."

"I was scared you'd hate me."

Jordan treaded water, studying me like I was a complicated code he couldn't debug. Then he grinned—that lopsided grin that got him out of detention three times last year.

"Nah. I'd never hate you. But I might make you pay for my college fund if this pitching thing doesn't work out."

Something in my chest loosened.

"Deal. But I'm still cannonballing."

"Don't you dare—"

I launched myself into the air, tucking my knees, hitting the water with a splash that drenched half the party. When I surfaced, Jordan was laughing, and for the first time, I felt like I was swimming toward something real instead of just drifting in someone else's current.