Sphinx at the Plate

I was operating on pure zombie mode — fourth night in a row of staying up til 2 AM finishing that mythology project. Mr. Henderson was droning on about symbolism while I fought to keep my eyes open. My iphone buzzed in my pocket, but I didn't even check. Everyone would be posting about the baseball game tonight, and the irony wasn't lost on me: the girl I'd been crushing on since seventh grade was the pitcher, and I couldn't even work up the nerve to respond to her story from last night.

"Hey, Marcus."

I jumped. Lena slid into the desk next to me, her cleats clanking against the chair legs. She smelled like dirt and that specific brand of bubblegum she always chewed during games.

"You coming tonight?" she asked, all casual, like my heart wasn't literally trying to escape my chest.

"Wouldn't miss it," I lied. I had zero interest in baseball, but I'd been to every home game since she made varsity in freshman year.

She grinned. "Good. I need my personal cheerleader."

*I need you to notice I exist*, I thought. What I said was: "You gonna strike out everyone again?"

"Everyone except Thompson. He's been weirdly good lately. It's like he made a deal with a sphinx or something." She rolled her eyes. "Riddle me this, riddle me that, can't actually hit the ball worth — anyway, you'll see."

Later that night, standing by the fence with my phone dying at 3%, I watched her wind up and throw. She was incredible — fierce, focused, completely in her element. And I was just standing there like my pet goldfish, staring and staring but never actually doing anything.

The sphinx reference popped into my head again. The riddle: What's the difference between the guy who shows up to every game and the guy who actually talks to the girl he's been in love with for three years?

Answer: One of them is brave enough to suck.

I walked to the dugout between innings, hands sweating. Lena looked up, surprised.

"Hey! Everything okay?"

"Can I — would you want to hang out after the game?" The words tumbled out. "Just us. Not as your personal cheerleader. As... more."

She blinked. Then she smiled, slow and real.

"Finally," she said. "I was beginning to think you were literally made of goldfish memory."