Dead Tired at Home Plate

Marcus dragged himself through the hallway, his eyes half-closed, feeling like the living dead. Finals week had turned him into a certifiable zombie—three energy drinks deep and still functioning on autopilot. His baseball cleats hung from his backpack, clanking against his lock with each step.

"Bro, you look wrecked," Jenna said, falling into step beside him. "Tryouts are today. You sure you're not gonna, like, face-plant?"

"I'm living my best zombie life," Marcus mumbled, though his stomach did that nervous flip thing whenever baseball tryouts came up. The team was everything—the social pyramid at Westwood High literally revolved around varsity sports. Being on the team meant you were somebody. Being cut meant you were... well, last year Marcus had spent the whole spring watching from the bleachers like a ghost.

Coach Miller was already at the field when Marcus arrived, barking orders while the returning varsity players showed off their arms. Marcus's hands shook as he adjusted his cap. The pyramid formation they always used for drills looked different this year—steeper somehow, more impossible to climb.

"Bennett! You're up!" Coach hollered.

Marcus stepped into the batter's box, his heart hammering. Everything narrowed down to the pitcher's release point, the way the ball spun toward him, the crack of the bat making sweet, perfect contact. The ball soared over the outfield fence, and for a second, Marcus forgot about the social ladder, forgot about the zombie-level exhaustion, forgot about everything except the pure, undeniable fact that he could crush this.

"DAYUM!" someone yelled from the dugout. Even the varsity captain nodded, looking impressed.

"Not bad for a dead man," Jenna called from behind the backstop, grinning.

Marcus trotted back to the dugout, suddenly wide awake. Maybe the pyramid wasn't something you climbed alone. Maybe—with the right people in your corner, with something you loved that much—it was something you rebuilt together.