Riddles in the Dugout

Marcus choked down the horse-pill sized **vitamin** his dad swore would make him hit harder, gagging slightly as he grabbed his gear bag. Tryouts for varsity were tomorrow, and the pressure was sitting heavier than a grizzly **bear** on his chest. His dad had been the school's star pitcher back in the day, and everyone expected Marcus to carry the torch. The only problem? Marcus mostly rode the bench.

"You got this, bear," his best friend KJ said, using their stupid handshake. But Marcus didn't feel like a bear. He felt like a squirrel.

At practice, Coach kept everyone late for extra **baseball** drills. Marcus's arms were shaking by the end. That's when he noticed her — Lena, the girl who sat behind him in history, reading a book about Egyptian mythology behind the backstop. She caught him staring and didn't even look away. Most people would've pretended to be busy. She just watched him, inscrutable as a **sphinx**, like she knew something he didn't.

"Nice swing," she said, deadpan. "For someone who's clearly overthinking it."

Marcus blinked. "What?"

"You swing like you're afraid to miss," she said, closing her book. "The riddle isn't how to hit perfectly. It's how to miss beautifully."

"That makes zero sense," he said, but something unlocked in his chest.

"Exactly." She smiled, and it was like the sun finally came out. "See you at tryouts, Bear."

He didn't ask how she knew his nickname. He didn't ask why she was there. But that night, Marcus threw away the rest of the vitamins. Tomorrow, he'd swing like he meant it — riddle or not.