Foxes Don't Play Third Base

My palms were sweating so bad I could barely grip the bat. Perfect. Exactly how I wanted to look during tryouts—like a nervous wreck who'd never touched a baseball in his life.

Coach Bennett called my name from the dugout, already looking annoyed. "Marcus, you're up. Don't make me regret putting you on varsity."

No pressure or anything.

I stepped to the plate, heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it does when I'm stressed. Behind the backstop, Zara was watching. She always watched practice, usually with her friends, usually scrolling her phone and barely looking up. But today she was looking straight at me. Which was either the best or worst thing that could happen.

First pitch: fastball, right down the middle. I swung so hard I almost spun myself into the ground. Strikeout, embarrassing edition.

"Easy!" Coach yelled. "You're trying to kill the ball, not murder it."

Second pitch: I checked my swing, barely tapping it foul. Zara actually laughed. Great. Now I was comedy.

Then I saw it—a flash of rusty red in the woods beyond left field. A fox, sitting completely still, watching me like I was the most ridiculous thing it had ever seen. Which, fair.

Something about those intelligent eyes, that total unconcern for my teenage drama, calmed me down. Foxes didn't care about varsity spots or pretty girls or proving anything to anybody. They just existed.

Third pitch: I didn't try to crush it. Just made solid contact, clean and simple. Line drive to right center, dropping between the outfielders. I stood at first base, grinning like an idiot.

Zara wasn't looking at her phone anymore.

After practice, she was waiting by the parking lot. "Nice hit," she said, all casual. "My brother says you've been striking out all week."

"Your brother watches my at-bats?" I tried to sound cool instead of weirdly flattered.

"He talks about everything." She tilted her head. "So, you good now? No more nervous palms?"

She'd noticed. Of course she'd noticed.

I held up my hands. "These? Always sweaty. It's a medical condition. Very tragic."

She laughed, actually laughed. "You're weird."

"Weird good or weird bad?"

"We'll see." She started walking away, then turned back. "Hey, Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"That fox in the woods? I named him Fred. He shows up whenever someone's about to do something stupidly brave."

I looked toward the trees. Nothing there. But I felt lighter anyway.

"Stupidly brave," I repeated. "I can work with that."

Zara smiled over her shoulder. "Don't make me regret saying that."

My palms were still sweating. But I figured that was just part of the deal.