Ninth Inning with The Bull

The baseball stadium lights hummed against the June twilight as Sarah checked her iPhone for the third time in five minutes. Her friend Mike had promised to meet her at the bottom of the seventh, and now it was the top of the ninth. The score was tied, the crowd was electric, but her stomach knotted with that familiar dread.

"You look like you're waiting for bad news," said the older woman beside her, gray hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Sarah managed a tight smile. The truth was, she was. Her boss—everyone called him The Bull behind his back—had summoned her to a 9 AM meeting tomorrow. Performance review. The same meeting where, two years ago, he'd told her she "lacked the killer instinct" while his eyes lingered on her loose curls, suggesting she wear her hair straight if she wanted to be taken seriously.

Her iPhone buzzed. Mike. *Coming through the gates now. Sorry. Detour.*

The relief was immediate and irrational. They'd been dancing around something for months—text messages that stretched into conversations about everything and nothing, a late-night phone call after his grandmother died, the way he remembered how she took her coffee. But he'd never pushed, and neither had she. There were rules about friends and coworkers and lines you didn't cross.

"Hey," he said, sliding into the seat beside her, baseball cap backward, hair damp from running. "Did I miss anything?"

"Bottom of the ninth," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Everything's still on the table."

The Bulls' batter stepped up. The crowd rose. Mike's hand brushed hers as they both stood, and she didn't pull away. Tomorrow she'd face The Bull and whatever judgment he'd crafted for her. Tomorrow she'd straighten her hair and remind herself why this job mattered. But for now, the baseball game was tied, her friend was beside her, and the ninth inning was just beginning.

"You nervous?" he asked, reading her perfectly.

"About the game," she lied, and then, suddenly honest: "And tomorrow. But I'm more scared that I'm not scared enough."

He nodded, like she'd said something profound. The Bulls' batter hit a line drive toward the gap. "Welcome to adulthood," he said. "Everything's a gamble. Even the ones that look like sure things."