Orange Streak at Home Plate

Marcus's neon orange cleats blazed against the dirt like a warning flare. He'd begged his mom for the custom color, anything to stand out at Riverdale High, but now they just felt like a target painted on his feet.

"Nice highlights, sunset," Jackson cracked from the pitcher's mound. The entire baseball team snickered. Jackson was the resident bull—six-foot-two of pure swagger, the kind of guy who walked through hallways like he owned the pavement and everyone on it. His rizz was undeniable, but his personality was absolute trash.

Marcus adjusted his hat, face burning. This was supposed to be the semester he stopped being mid at everything. Instead, he was still the guy who got picked last for gym, whose crush thought he was "just funny like that."

The pitch came—fast. Marcus swung and connected. He was running before he even registered the hit, his orange cleats eating up the baseline, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. First base. Safe.

"Lucky," Jackson called out. "Bet you can't do it again."

Next pitch—CRACK. Marcus was running again, lungs burning, legs pumping. Second base. The crowd was actually watching. People were cheering.

"Hold up," someone shouted. "That's the orange kid from homeroom!"

Third base. Marcus's chest heaved. He locked eyes with Jackson, who looked ready to commit murder.

"You gonna stay bull or you gonna play?" Marcus heard himself yell.

The pitch came wild. Marcus was running, everything blurring, the orange of his cleats streaking, the dirt flying, his sneakers hitting home plate just as the ball slapped into the mitt.

"SAFE!"

The explosion of sound was unreal. Marcus's teammates rushed him, slapping his back, someone actually dapping him up. Even Jackson was staring, and for once, it wasn't to mock.

From the dugout, Maya—his actual, non-imaginary crush—was watching. When their eyes met, she grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

Marcus looked down at his orange cleats. Maybe standing out wasn't so bad after all.