Orange Cleats on the Mound

The first time I wore my bright orange hair to school, Mrs. nearly choked on her coffee. Second period, someone stuck a note in my locker: FREAK.

I wore it like armor.

"You're gonna get murdered out there," Maya warned, adjusting her septum piercing. She'd seen me staring at the baseball tryout sheet during lunch.

"It's fine. Just curious." I shrugged, but my stomach was doing cartwheels.

Truth was, my dad lived and breathed baseball. All-Star pitcher, state championships, the whole legacy package. Meanwhile, I'd spent sixteen years coming out as genderqueer, dyeing my hair unnatural colors, and avoiding sports like they were contagious. But lately, I'd been feeling weirdly untethered—like I was still figuring out who the hell I actually was underneath all the labels.

So here I was, standing on the pitcher's mound in my worn-out orange converse (because of course I owned orange converse), while Jackson Hayes—who'd made varsity as a freshman and had the kind of smile that made people forget their own names—watched from the dugout with zero expression.

The coach blew his whistle. "Alright, new kid, show us what you've got."

I'd never pitched anything in my life. But something clicked as I wound up—muscle memory from all those years of watching my dad's old games, maybe. The ball left my hand perfectly controlled, catching the corner of the strike zone with a satisfying THWACK into the catcher's mitt.

Silence.

Then Jackson walked onto the field, grinning. "Okay, that was actually sick."

"Thanks." I tried to sound chill.

"You got a name, Orange?

"Alex."

"Well, Alex." He leaned against the backstop, unfairly good-looking even in practice gear. "You trying out for real?"

I looked at my orange converse, then at him. "Maybe."

"Good." His grin widened. "Practice is every day at 3. Don't be late."

Walking home later, Maya was waiting at our usual spot. "Well? How was it? Did you embarrass yourself? Please tell me you embarrassed yourself."

"I made the team," I said, unable to suppress a smile.

Her jaw dropped. "WHAT?"

"And Jackson thinks my nickname should be Orange."

"Jackson Hayes? The Jackson Hayes?" She practically squealed. "This is HUGE. Did you get his number? Did he LIKE LIKE you?"

"Maya, chill. We talked for like, thirty seconds."

"That's thirty seconds more than any of us have ever talked to Jackson Hayes!" She grabbed my arm, practically vibrating. "This is your era, Alex. I'm calling it now. The Era of Orange."

I laughed, but something warm bloomed in my chest. For the first time in forever, I felt like I was running toward something instead of away from it.

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe it is."

The sunset burned orange across the sky, matching my hair, matching my shoes, matching this strange new feeling that maybe—just maybe—I was exactly where I was supposed to be.