Goldfish in the Outfield

Marcus leaned against the chain-link fence, his **baseball** jersey sticking to his back in the thick afternoon humidity. Watching from the sidelines again. Three weeks since he'd hyperextended his knee sliding into home, and the team had somehow moved on without him.

"Yo Marcus!" Jake shouted from the dugout. "Grab us some Gatorade!"

Marcus nodded, grabbing the crutches he'd been trying to ditch all week. Because nothing says cool like the injured kid hobbling around like a defective flamingo.

The plastic bag sloshed against his hip—his consolation prize from the rigged ring toss at the carnival last night. A **goldfish** that had already survived twenty-four hours in his bedroom, watching him with its unblinking eye while he scrolled through Instagram, comparing his lame summer to everyone else's epic adventures.

He was halfway to the concession stand when he noticed her. Sofia, sitting alone on the bleachers, peeling something that looked like a weird melon. Her **orange** sundress stood out against the dull gray metal, bright and unapologetic.

"Is that—" Marcus started, then stopped. Smooth, really.

Sofia looked up, shielding her eyes. "A **papaya**. Want some?"

"I've never actually had papaya."

"First time for everything." She sliced off a piece with her thumbnail. "It's like if a mango and a cantaloupe had a baby. But weirder."

Marcus took it, the juice dripping down his thumb. Sweet, slightly musky, completely unexpected.

"So," Sofia said, eyeing his crutches. "What's your story?"

"Tried to be heroic at home plate. Ended up being the kid who couldn't walk for three weeks."

She laughed, and Marcus felt something shift in his chest, like the ground had finally steadied under him.

"I'm **running** from my mom," Sofia confessed. "She wants me to spend all summer practicing for the cross-country team, and I just want to exist. Like, is it a crime to want to sit sometimes?"

"Preach."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the game unfold without either of them participating. Marcus realized he'd been **running** all summer—not from anything specific, but from the weird limbo of healing, from the fear that everyone would forget him while he was stuck on the sidelines.

"Your fish is judging us," Sofia said, nodding at the goldfish bag.

"He's seen worse."

"Bring him to my place?" Sofia asked casually, like it wasn't the biggest question Marcus had heard all summer. "My mom's making arroz con leche. And I have a proper tank."

Marcus grinned, something opening up in his chest that had nothing to do with his knee. "Yeah. But I'm warning you—he's kind of a jerk."

"Perfect," she said. "I only hang out with jerks anyway."

The afternoon stretched ahead, suddenly full of possibility. Somewhere behind him, the game continued. But Marcus had found something better than a home run—he'd found someone who didn't need him to be perfect to be worth sitting with.