Orange Lightning in the Bullpen

Marcus stood in front of the bathroom mirror, halfway through dyeing his hair orange when his dad burst in. The fluorescent bulb above flickered like bad cable reception, which was fitting because everything about Marcus's life felt like static lately.

"You skipping practice again?" His dad's voice carried that familiar disappointed edge, like Marcus had personally betrayed the entire family's baseball legacy. Three generations of bulls in the batter's box, and Marcus was the first one who'd rather be streaming.

"Not skipping. Just... taking a mental health day," Marcus mumbled, which was total bull and they both knew it. The truth? He'd rather eat glass than spend another afternoon getting screamed at by Coach Miller for not being his older brother.

The orange hair had been Jenna's idea. She said it would look sick with his complexion, plus it would definitely, definitely piss off his dad. Jenna understood things like that—how sometimes you needed to become someone else just to figure out who you actually were.

Marcus rinsed the dye, watching orange swirl down the drain like some kind of radioactive sunset. When he looked up, electric orange spikes stared back. It was extreme. It was ridiculous. It was completely not him.

Except maybe it was.

His phone buzzed. Jenna: *game starts in 20. you coming?*

The district championship. Everyone would be there. Everyone would see.

Marcus grabbed his jacket. Outside, actual lightning cracked across the sky, atmospheric and dramatic, like the universe was trying way too hard to make a point. The air felt charged, heavy with summer rain and the weight of decisions.

At the field, the bullpen sat empty near the left field fence. Marcus's designated spot—for warming up, for being the backup, for waiting and watching and never quite being enough. But tonight, he walked right past it toward the bleachers where Jenna sat, orange hair and all, holding two dramatically overpriced fountain sodas.

"You look like a radioactive Cheeto," she said, grinning. "I love it."

The first drops of rain fell as Marcus sat next to her, not in the bullpen, not on the bench, but exactly where he wanted to be. Sometimes the bravest thing wasn't stepping up to the plate—it was finally stepping away.