Knotted Up at the Plate

The cable-knit hat sat crushed in my backpack like my hopes for today. Coach Bennett's voice boomed across the field, "Marcus, you're up!"

I grabbed my worn baseball glove—Dad's from his college days—and trudged toward the plate. The varsity team watched. So did Skylar, leaning against the fence with that effortless cool that made my stomach do backflips. Her snapped-back hat was perfectly positioned. Mine was probably still tangled from when I'd ripped it off in third period.

"Strike one!" the umpire yelled.

Second pitch. I swung, connected—but just barely. The ball dribbled toward third base. I bolted, legs pumping, and somehow—SOMEHOW—beat the throw. Safe.

Then came the water cooler celebration. Jake doused me, which would've been fine if my backpack hadn't been open. My sketchbook soaked. My phone. And Mr. Cuddles, the stuffed bear my little sister had made me "babysit" because she couldn't bring him to kindergarten.

Mr. Cuddles flopped onto the dusty ground. One eye missing. Stomach ripped from years of love. The team went silent. Then laughter—not the mean kind, but genuine, confused chuckles.

"Yo, is that a Care Bear?" Jake called out.

My face burned. I grabbed Mr. Cuddles, shoving him into my soggy bag.

"Actually," Skylar's voice cut through, "that's adorable. My little sister has that same bear. They're from that DIY workshop downtown."

She walked over, grabbing a towel. "Here. And for the record? You looked totally badass getting to first."

I met her eyes. She wasn't laughing at me. She was... impressed? Maybe?

"Thanks," I managed, wringing out my hat.

"Want to hang out after the game?" She pulled a cable-knit beanie from her pocket—same kind as mine, but in navy. "I can show you how to fix the snag. My grandma taught me."

Maybe today wasn't a disaster after all.