Stealing Home

Marcus adjusted his snapback, pulling the brim low. The hat was his armor—when you're sixteen and trying to look indifferent, accessories do half the work. His dad had dragged him to the baseball game again, something about father-son bonding that Marcus mostly tolerated by scrolling through his iPhone.

The stadium lights hummed. Summer hung thick in the air, smelling like popcorn and that particular metallic tang of old dugouts. Marcus's thumb moved automatically—double-tap, scroll, double-tap, scroll—until the notification: SHE LIKED YOUR POST.

Maya. From AP English. The girl who wrote poetry about decay and beautiful things.

His heart jumped. Stupid, really. But also everything.

"You missing it," his dad said, nudging him. "Bottom of the ninth."

Marcus nodded absently, eyes glued to his screen. Then—a wet nose shoved against his knee.

A dog. Some kind of retriever mix, golden brown and panting happily, having apparently escaped its owner somewhere in the section below. It looked at Marcus with that particular dog expression: YOU SEEM NICE. PET ME.

Marcus laughed—really laughed—for what felt like the first time all summer. He scratched behind the dog's ears, forgetting his phone, forgetting Maya, forgetting how he was supposed to be too cool for baseball games and father-son bonding.

"Hey! Buster!" A girl appeared, breathless. Not Maya. Someone else entirely—tall, with paint-stained fingers and a grin that didn't apologize for taking up space. "Sorry, he's... really friendly."

"No problem," Marcus said. Then, because apparently he was someone who said things now: "He's perfect."

Their eyes caught. Held.

"I'm Riley," she said.

"Marcus."

The baseball crowd erupted—someone must have scored. Marcus didn't care. His iPhone buzzed in his pocket, probably another notification, probably important.

He left it there.

"Want to help me find his owner before security catches us?" Riley asked, eyes dancing.

Marcus adjusted his hat. Took it off, actually. Let his hair show.

"Absolutely."