Fifth Inning Meltdown

The baseball dugout smelled like sweat and desperation. Ethan stared at his cleats, pretending to be fascinated by the dirt caked in the treads. Anything to avoid making eye contact with Skylar, who was currently laughing at something Tyler said—probably something dumb, considering Tyler's sense of humor was basically just memos from the frat boy handbook.

"You okay, rookie?" Marcus clapped a hand on Ethan's shoulder, nearly knocking him over. Marcus was a senior, built like a vending machine, and inexplicably nice.

"Yeah. Just." Ethan gestured vaguely at his stomach. "Nervous."

"Here." Marcus dug into his gym bag and produced a bottle of neon-orange liquid. "My sister swore by this stuff. Vitamin-enhanced, electrolyte-reloaded, basically magic in a bottle. Chug it before you overthink yourself into a panic attack."

Ethan took it. The orange label promised peak performance and boosted focus. He'd need both—he was batting eighth today, which was the baseball equivalent of being invited to a party but asked to wait in the kitchen.

The drink tasted like artificial sunshine and poor decisions. But his hands stopped shaking.

"Ethan! You're up!" Coach Miller's voice cut through the dugout chatter.

He grabbed his helmet and walked to the plate. The dirt crunched under his cleats. The infield smelled like cut grass and sunscreen. Somewhere in the stands, his phone was blowing up with texts from the group chat—his friends were skipping their own games to watch him probably strike out.

First pitch: high and outside. Ball.

Second pitch: he swung. Nothing but air. The bat made a woeful whooshing sound that earned a few sympathetic groans from the bench.

Third pitch: a perfect line drive straight past the shortstop. Ethan bolted toward first, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

Safe.

The dugout erupted. Someone dumped a water cooler over his head. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, but he was grinning so hard his face hurt. Through the water dripping into his eyes, he saw Skylar watching him, actually watching him, and Tyler was nowhere near her.

"Nice hit, vitamin boy," Marcus called out.

Ethan wiped his face with his jersey. The orange drink had stained his tongue neon, and his hair was plastered to his forehead in eight different directions, and somehow, impossibly, this was the best moment of his life.

He got on base, stole second, and scored the winning run. Later, Skylar asked him if he wanted to walk to the convenience store for snacks.

"Sure," he said, trying to play it cool. "But I'm buying. Consider it my victory tax."

She laughed. It was better than a hit any day.