Curveballs at Mercado's

Leo's first week at sophomore year felt like walking through a minefield blindfolded. Between finding classrooms without looking like a total lost freshman and trying to figure out the lunch hierarchy, his social battery was already at 1%.

Then came the baseball tryouts.

"You're gonna get eaten alive, man," his cousin Javier had warned him. "Varsity's run by Tyler—a total bull in cleats. I heard he made a junior cry last week just by staring at him."

Great. Just great.

The morning of tryouts, Leo's abuela shoved a plastic container into his hands. "Papaya, mijo. Good for energy. Eat."

"Abuela, I can't eat papaya at the field. Everyone's gonna think—"

"Think what? That your grandmother loves you?" She kissed his forehead, leaving the faint scent of cinnamon and Vicks VapoRub. "Go show them what you can do."

The field buzzed with energy—cleats clacking against concrete, the thwack of bats making contact, guys shouting about summer tournaments and which parties were happening this weekend. Leo stood near the back, trying to look like he belonged while casually checking if anyone had noticed his abuela's bright orange Tupperware.

"You new?" Tyler appeared out of nowhere, clipboard in hand, looking exactly like Javier had described—broad shoulders, permanent scowl, radiating that effortless confidence Leo would kill for.

"Yeah. Leo. I'm trying out for—"

"Outfield. We'll see." Tyler looked past him like Leo was already invisible. "Don't waste my time."

Okay then.

Leo positioned himself in right field, still clutching his backpack and its forbidden fruit cargo. A ball came flying his way—high, deep, totally catchable. He tracked it, sprinted, reached up with his glove, and—

His foot caught uneven grass.

Leo went down hard, sliding several feet in a very unathletic sprawl. The ball dropped untouched somewhere behind him.

Laughter erupted. Not mean laughter, but enough laughter.

Pushing himself up, Leo realized with growing horror that the fall had smashed the papaya container inside his backpack. Bright orange pulp was now seeping through the fabric, dripping down his leg like the world's most embarrassing injury.

"Dude," someone called. "Did you bring a smoothie to tryouts?"

"My abuela packed it," Leo muttered, face on fire.

But then Tyler walked over, looked at the orange disaster, and actually cracked something resembling a smile. "My grandma used to pack me mango slices before every game. Said it gave me 'poder de los dioses.'"

He tossed a ball at Leo. "Clean yourself up. Then show me what you really got."

Leo wiped at the orange stain still spreading across his jeans like a mutant bruise, found a working fountain, and thought about how weird life was—how the stuff that made you want to crawl under a rock and die sometimes ended up being the exact thing that made people finally see you.

He tossed the ball back, and this time, when it came his way again, Leo caught it.

Perfect throw, dead center.