Stealing Home

Marco adjusted his crumpled **baseball** cap, trying to look like he belonged at Jefferson High. Third school this year. His old man's job always came first—pack, move, repeat, restart. The lunch table scan went exactly like always: clusters of friend groups, inside jokes he'd never understand, that unspoken "you're not one of us" vibe hanging in the air like cheap cologne.

"Fresh meat," someone whispered two tables over. Great.

Then she sat down across from him. Chloe. The kind of girl who could make cargo shorts look like a fashion statement. "You're in my seat."

"My bad." Marco started to grab his tray.

"Chill, I'm messing with you." She grinned. "You're the new kid, right? Saw you eyeing the field earlier. You play?"

"Used to. Before... everything."

"Well, we've got open gym tomorrow. Tryouts next week. You should come." She slid a flyer across the table. "Unless you're scared you'll **bull** your way through and embarrass yourself."

"Wow, way to sell it."

"I'm honest. It's my thing." She checked her phone. "Anyway, welcome to the chaos. Don't let the popular crowd get in your head. They're all stressed about college apps and secretly hate each other."

Marco actually laughed. First time all day.

The hat still felt like a costume—he wasn't a baseball player anymore, not really. But something about Chloe's complete lack of filter made him think maybe, just maybe, he could figure out who he was supposed to be here. Or at least survive long enough to find out.

"So tomorrow?" she asked, already halfway standing up.

Marco adjusted the cap one more time. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

"Bet. Don't be late." She tossed him a casual peace sign and disappeared into the cafeteria noise.

For the first time in three schools, Marco thought he might actually stick around long enough to learn people's names.