Riddles in the Dugout

Marcus wiped sweat from his forehead, his baseball cleats clicking against the cracked pavement of the empty dugout. Third base had been his dream since freshman year, and Coach was finally giving him a shot at tryouts tomorrow. But his stomach was doing backflips.

"You look like you're about to puked," a voice called out.

Chloe. The human sphinx of Westwood High. She'd been his best friend since seventh grade, back when friendship bracelets were still a thing and neither of them cared about social hierarchies. Now she sat on the dugout bench, legs crossed, wearing that signature smirk that meant she knew something he didn't.

"I'm not gonna puke," Marcus lied.

"You're overthinking it. Again." She tossed him a water bottle. "Here's a riddle for you: What has four seams but can't sew, flies through the air but has no wings, and can make or break your entire future?"

Marcus rolled his eyes. "A baseball. Really helpful, Chloe."

"I'm serious. You're so caught up in what happens if you fail that you're forgetting how to play." She hopped off the bench. "Remember when we used to come here after middle school? You'd pitch, I'd catch, and we'd talk about how we were gonna take over high school together?"

"Yeah, and then freshman year happened, and you discovered debate team and I discovered that being a jock is actually kind of stressful."

Chloe stepped closer, her expression softening. "Marcus, you're not trying out for the Yankees. You're trying out for JV. Coach Miller has seen you play since summer league. He knows what you can do. The only person who doesn't believe in you right now is you."

Marcus looked down at his glove, worn leather stained with dirt and grass from countless practices. "What if I'm not good enough? What if everyone laughs?"

"Then they laugh, and we get pizza, and you try again next year. But you won't know unless you show up." She grinned. "Besides, if you make the team, you can finally ask Emma to come to your games. I saw how you looked at her during lunch."

Marcus's face burned. "That's—that's not—"

"Save it. I've got homework." Chloe started walking away, then turned back. "Hey, Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"You've got this. I've got front row seats for tomorrow. Don't make me regret clearing my schedule."

As she disappeared toward the parking lot, Marcus picked up his baseball and squeezed it. The seams pressed into his palm, familiar and grounding. Tomorrow would come whether he was ready or not. But for the first time all week, he thought he might actually be okay with that.