Orange Sunset at the Dugout

Marcus adjusted his faded orange cap for the fiftieth time, sweat trickling down his temple. Tryouts. Again. Last year he'd been dead last in every drill—couldn't hit, couldn't catch, couldn't throw. Coach Bennett still let him on the team because nobody else wanted to join, but the sideways glances from the jocks never stopped.

Behind the backstop, a calico cat appeared like clockwork, ears perched at half-mast. Marcus had named her Skipper because she'd always skitter away when he got too close, but today she actually padded toward him, bumping her head against his sneaker. His phone buzzed—Leah had finally texted back. They'd been flirting in Spanish class for weeks, and she was coming to watch.

His stomach did gymnastics. A fresh orange wedge from his lunch bag helped—he'd packed them because he'd read somewhere citrus calmed nerves, but mostly he just needed something to do with his shaking hands.

"You ready, Marcus?" Coach barked.

He stepped up to the plate. The bat felt foreign in his grip. One swing. Just one solid hit and maybe he'd finally belong. The pitcher wound up, released—and Marcus connected. The ball sailed over second base, past the center fielder's desperate glove, and rolled to the fence. The team went quiet. Then someone started clapping. Leah, leaning against the chain-link fence, orange hair catching the last light of day.

"Not bad," Skipper meowed from the weeds, or maybe Marcus just imagined it. Either way, for the first time in forever, he didn't feel like he was spying on everyone else's life from the sidelines. He was part of the game.