Choke Artist in the Dugout

The baseball smacked into my glove with a satisfying thud, but my hands were sweating so bad I almost dropped it. Tryouts. Freshman year. The ultimate social suicide mission if you mess it up.

"Hustle, Martinez!" Coach barked from the dugout.

I jogged toward the bench, my throat screaming. The mid-September sun was absolutely brutal, and I'd forgotten my water bottle like an idiot. The lone fountain by the field had been vandalized—some sophomore's idea of legendary vandalism—and now it just dripped sadly onto the concrete.

"Hey, new kid."

I looked up. Ryan Torres, sophomore shortstop, handed me a half-empty squeeze bottle. His eyes were knowing.

"Thanks, man."

"You look like you're gonna pass out." He smirked, but not meanly. "Rookie mistake."

I chugged the lukewarm water like it was the nectar of the gods, not even caring that my hands were shaking so hard I probably looked like I was vibrating. The cool liquid hit my stomach and I actually felt human again.

"So." Ryan leaned back against the chain-link fence. "You any good, or just here for the aesthetic?"

"My dad made me come," I admitted. "Says it builds character."

"Classic."

I dug into my backpack for my vitamin gummies—my mom's whole thing about immunity and athletic performance and blah blah blah. The bottle made this embarrassingly loud crinkle sound in the sudden silence of the dugout. Two girls from the softball team walked past, and I froze, mid-grapple with the bottle.

Ryan snorted. "Those the good ones?"

"What?" I felt my face catch fire.

"The ones that taste like candy? My mom buys the same brand."

I paused. "Yeah. Actually. They're kinda bomb."

"Real ones know," he said, fist-bumping me.

And just like that, I wasn't just the nervous freshman anymore. I was someone who got it.

"Martinez! You're up!"

I grabbed a bat, my hands somehow steady now. The baseball sat waiting on the tee, and I didn't overthink it. I just swung.

Crack.

It sailed into the outfield. Not a home run, but solid.

Ryan nodded from the fence. "Not bad, Martinez. Not bad."

Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible after all.