Curveball Season

Jordan stood on the pitcher's mound, varsity baseball cap pulled low. The crowd noise faded to static. One out, bottom of the seventh, tying runner on second. His phone buzzed in his back pocket—probably Maya finally texting back after three days of ghosting.

"You got this, J!" someone yelled from the bleachers. Probably his dad, who'd spent all season lecturing him about D1 scouts and "making the most of his natural talent." Jordan's grip tightened on the ball.

Then he saw it: a calico cat darting across the outfield fence, tail high, like it owned the place. The same cat he'd been feeding behind the dugout for weeks. The one nobody else knew about. The one he'd secretly named Slider because it moved like his best pitch.

Everything clicked. The overhyped showcase games, the Instagram posts of him looking "determined," the team chat blowing up his iPhone with motivational memes—it was all noise. Slider just lived. Caught whatever mice felt like being caught.

Jordan wound up and threw. Not the 92mph fastball his dad wanted. The knee-buckling curveball Slider taught him, watching the cat twist mid-air after a butterfly.

Strike three. Game over.

His phone kept buzzing. Probably the group chat going wild. Probably Maya asking why he'd been so distant this week. Jordan grabbed it, ready to finally type back: "Sorry, been running from everything. Let's hang out?"

But first, he grabbed the hot dog from the concession stand and walked toward the outfield fence. Slider was waiting.