Fox Behind the Bleachers

Tyler's baseball cleats clicked against the pavement—mocking him with every step. Tryouts were tomorrow, and his stomach was doing gymnastics that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the truth he'd been dodging for months.

He didn't even like baseball.

But Coach Miller had been messaging his dad since seventh grade about Tyler's "natural arm," and his father's face lit up like a stadium floodlight whenever the subject came up. So here he was, sneaking behind the school bleachers to practice his pitching alone, where nobody could witness the spectacular mediocrity.

"You're gonna throw your arm out if you keep that up."

Tyler jumped and dropped the ball. A girl with messy black hair and conspiracy-theory energy leaned against the chain-link fence, holding something orange and struggling.

A cat. A tiny, angry-orange kitten who was NOT having it.

"That's—"

"Cheddar," she said. "Found him behind the dumpster. He's basically feral but has a serious appetite." She offered the kitten a piece of beef jerky. "I'm Fox, by the way."

"Like... your actual name?"

"Like the only thing people call me because apparently I'm 'too clever for my own good.'" She scratched Cheddar's chin and got a purr that sounded like a tiny engine. "You're Tyler Miller, aren't you? Coach's kid's worst nightmare?"

"Excuse me?"

"The pressure." Fox gestured at the baseball in Tyler's hand. "You throw like you're trying to launch it into orbit. Classic anxiety pitching. My brother does the same thing when my parents ask about his GPA."

Tyler's shoulders dropped three inches. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who spends way too much time observing people instead of actually talking to them." Fox stood up, Cheddar now draped over her shoulder like a furry scarf. "Look, you gonna tell your dad you'd rather join the drama club? Or are we gonna do this whole 'secret misery' thing until you're thirty?"

"How did you—"

"I saw you watching the theater poster yesterday like it contained the secrets of the universe." Fox grinned. "Also, you're wearing a Drama Club hoodie from last year's production. Not exactly subtle, Miller."

Tyler looked at the baseball in his hand. Then at Fox. Then at Cheddar, who was now kneading her shoulder like it was a particularly comfortable pillow.

"My dad's gonna freak."

"Freaking is his job. Being you is yours." Fox started walking away. "Tryouts are at 4. I'll be behind the bleachers. Cheddar likes an audience."

Tyler stood there for a long moment. Then he picked up his phone and texted his dad: Not trying out tomorrow. We need to talk.

The orange cat poked its head over Fox's shoulder as she disappeared around the corner, like maybe, just maybe, Tyler had finally found his team.