Fox in the Outfield

Marcus stood behind the concession stand at Miller Field, spinning a sogy pretzel with one hand while adjusting his branded cap with the other. Summer job, his dad had called it. Character building, more like. This was supposed to be baseball season, but instead of playing shortstop like every summer since he was twelve, he was stuck selling snacks while his former teammates lived their best lives on TikTok.

"Yo, Marcus!" called Jasmine from across the counter. She was why he'd taken the job in the first place, even though she didn't know it. "You gonna help me with this cable situation or what?"

The team mascot costume—a giant foam fox head—had been acting up all week. Someone had tripped over the cable connecting the animatronic ears during Friday's game, and now the left ear wouldn't stop twitching.

"I'm on pretzel duty," Marcus said, even as he ducked under the counter. Because Jasmine asked, and he was that pathetic.

Their fingers brushed as she handed him the flashlight. His stomach did that thing where it forgot how to stomach. This is fine, he told himself. Totally cool.

Then his reflection in the darkened display case caught his eye: a massive piece of spinach lodged between his front teeth, bright green against his braces like some kind of vegetable war crime. FROM LUNCH. THREE HOURS AGO.

He'd been walking around with spinach in his teeth. While talking to Jasmine. While serving customers. WHILE EXISTING.

"You good?" Jasmine asked, tilting her head. She was so pretty it physically hurt. Her eyes were the exact color of that foxx mascot's fur, which was objectively a weird comparison but his brain was currently rebooting.

"Gotta go," Marcus choked out, and bolted for the bathroom like the building was on fire.

Behind him, the fox's malfunctioning ear gave one final, aggressive twitch before the whole costume collapsed sideways. Jasmine burst out laughing—this bright, genuine sound that made something in his chest feel both lighter and heavier at the same time.

Marcus flossed his teeth in the bathroom mirror, watching his reflection like it might hold the answers to why growing up felt like one long, embarrassing blooper reel. But at least Jasmine was still laughing. At the costume, not him. Probably.

Tomorrow, he'd come back. Tomorrow, he'd fix the cable. Tomorrow, he'd maybe even talk to her without food stuck in his teeth. Baby steps. Being sixteen was humiliating, but at least he wasn't boring.