Fox in the Outfield

My stupid baseball hat kept sliding over my eyes. Mom had bought it two sizes too big because "you'll grow into it," which is basically parent-code for "I'm cheap and you look ridiculous."

"You gonna swing the bat or just admire the grass, Miller?"

Bull Thornton. Six-foot-two junior with shoulders like a boulder and a personality to match. He'd been making my life miserable since tryouts started, hissing "rookie" every time I struck out or dropped a ball. Classic high school hierarchy—I was a sophomore, he was a junior, and apparently that gave him license to be a jerk.

I adjusted my cap, wiped sweat from my forehead, and stepped into the batter's box. My heart hammered against my ribs. Coach called it "living in the moment." I called it "about to puke in front of everyone."

The pitch came—fast, outside corner. I swung anyway.

*CLANG.*

Foul tip straight back. The catcher muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "bench warmer."

"Water break!" Coach hollered.

I grabbed my Gatorade from the dugout and slunk toward the edge of the field, needing space. That's when I saw it—a flash of copper-orange near the woods. A fox. Actual legit fox, just chilling beyond the left field fence, watching me like I was the weird one.

"Nice," I whispered, fumbling for my phone. "No one's gonna believe—"

"What are you doing, talking to yourself now?"

Bull. Behind me.holding his own water bottle.

The fox's ears perked up. It didn't run.

"There's a fox," I said, pointing.

Bull followed my finger, then actually laughed. Not his usual mean laugh, but—genuine? "No way. That's been hanging around the school all week. My little sister named him Copper and leaves him hot dogs."

I blinked. "You have a sister?"

"Yeah, she's seven." Bull scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking almost awkward. "Look, man, I've been giving you crap because you remind me of me last year. I was terrified my first season, too. Coach says you've got a solid swing when you're not overthinking it."

The fox chattered at us, tail flicking.

"Tomorrow," Bull said, heading back toward the field, "I'll help you with that outside pitch. But don't tell anyone I was nice, or I'll have to destroy you."

I watched the fox vanish into the woods, adjusting my hat. Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I'd stop overthinking everything.

Maybe I'd even grow into the stupid hat eventually.