Stealing Home

Marcus stood on the pitcher's mound, sweat dripping down his back like he'd been standing under a shower. The baseball felt like a rock in his hand—heavy, unnatural, wrong. Another strikeout. Another victory. Another Saturday wasted living his dad's dream instead of his own.

"You're killing it out there, M!" his best mate Leo shouted from the dugout, fist-bumping him as Marcus walked off the field. "Nate's gonna lose it when he sees those stats."

Nate. His dad. The guy who'd played minor league until an injury ended everything, then transferred every unfulfilled aspiration onto his only son.

Marcus forced a grin. "Yeah. Whatever."

Later that night, with his phone blowing up from group chats he was too tired to answer, Marcus slipped out his window. Running was the only thing that quieted the noise in his head. Not the structured, timed-around-the-track running his PE teacher obsessed over, but just—moving. Fast. Until his lungs burned and his legs turned to jelly and the expectations finally faded into nothing.

He ended up at the community pool, which was supposed to be closed. But the gate was unlocked, and the water looked glass-smooth under the moonlight. Before he could talk himself out of it, Marcus stripped to his boxers and dove in.

The shock of cold snapped everything into focus. Floating on his back, staring up at stars he'd never noticed from behind home plate, Marcus finally breathed.

"Nice form. You gonna do laps or just float there dramatically?"

Marcus flailed, going under briefly before surfacing again. Treading water, he squinted at the pool edge.

Lena Rodriguez sat there, legs dangling in the water, sketchbook balanced on her knees. The same Lena from his AP English class who never spoke but always had charcoal-stained fingers and paint in her hair.

"I—you—what?" Marcus stammered.

Lena shrugged, grinning. "Relax. I'm not gonna narc on you. I come here to think. Unless you're planning to tell on me?"

Marcus swam closer, treading water near her feet. "What are you thinking about?"

"How much I hate softball tryouts tomorrow."

"Wait—you play?"

"Played. Past tense. My coach thinks I'm throwing away my 'natural talent.' My mom thinks I'm having a teenage rebellion phase." Lena flipped her sketchbook closed. "But I'd rather spend three hours getting the shade of blue exactly right than another second pretending I care about batting averages."

Marcus stared at her. Someone else got it.

"You're that pitcher, right?" Lena continued. "Marcus something?"

"Yeah. And yeah, I pitch. Because my dad thinks I'm gonna go pro. Because he couldn't."

"So you're living his dream. Must be cozy."

"It's suffocating. I don't even like baseball. I like—" Marcus stopped. What did he like? Besides the feeling of running until everything went quiet? "I don't know what I like. Not this."

Lena slid into the pool, clothes and all, and paddled over to him. "Figure it out. Life's too short to be miserable just to make other people comfortable. Trust me—I quit the team three months ago and nobody's actually disowned me yet."

She splashed water in his face.

Marcus wiped his eyes, grinning. For the first time in forever, something in his chest loosened. Maybe tomorrow he'd tell his dad the truth. Maybe he'd try out for cross-country. Maybe he'd just keep showing up here until he figured out what came next.

But tonight, floating under the stars with someone who understood, Marcus wasn't running away anymore. He was just running—toward something he couldn't name yet, but knew was worth chasing.