Palm Sweat & Pop Flies

Leo's palm was sweating so hard his iPhone almost slipped out of his hand. Again.

"You nervous, bro?" Marcus asked, sprawled across the bleacher like he owned them.

"Nah." Leo swiped through his feed, thumb moving on autopilot. "Just... checking something."

"Right." Marcus smirked. "Same thing you checked during warmups. And during batting practice. And right now, when you're supposed to be warming up for your baseball tryout."

Baseball. The word tasted like disappointment. His dad had played varsity. His older brother had played varsity. The family group chat had been buzzing about Leo's turn since kindergarten. But Leo? Leo's heart didn't race when he stepped up to the plate. It just kinda... existed. Like he was going through the motions of someone else's life.

He'd started taking those vitamins from GNC last week – the ones promised to "unlock your athletic potential" – because desperate times called for desperate placebo effects.

"Williams!" Coach barked. "You're up!"

Leo's stomach did something unholy. He shoved his iPhone deep into his backpack. His palm was officially a waterfall now.

Walking to the batter's box felt like marching toward execution. The other guys watched. Coach watched. His phone buzzed in his bag – probably his mom texting "GOOD LUCK!!!" with approximately 47 exclamation points.

He gripped the bat. It felt wrong – like holding a spoon when you needed a pen.

The pitcher wound up.

Leo didn't swing. He just... stood there.

Ball one.

Second pitch. Leo closed his eyes for a second. Saw himself backstage at the school play, helping with lighting. Saw the way his teacher had said, "You've got a real eye for design, Leo." Felt something click in his chest – something real and bright and terrified.

He opened his eyes, dropped the bat, and walked off the field.

"Williams? Where you going?" Coach called.

"I quit," Leo said, and his voice didn't shake. "Like, actually quit. I'm gonna do tech crew for the fall play instead."

Silence. Then his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out – palm still sweaty, heart still racing – but this time, he didn't care about the notifications or the vitamins or the expectations that weren't his to carry.

Marcus hooted from the bleachers. "Finally! You've been miserable all week. We're getting pizza after this. You're paying."

Leo grinned. His palm was still gross. His future with baseball was dead. His dad would probably have feelings.

But for the first time in forever, he wasn't pretending to be someone he wasn't.

"Deal," he called back. "But I'm picking the place."