Stealing Home

Marcus and I had been best friends since we were six, but lately something felt off. We'd been playing baseball together forever — me at shortstop, him crushing it in center field. But this season, he was different.

During practice, I'd catch him staring at his phone between pitches, thumbing furiously. At lunch, he'd disappear to take calls. My friends noticed it too. 'Yo, Marcus is acting sus,' Jamal said in the locker room. 'Think he's hiding something?'

That planted the seed. I started spying. Checking his socials (nothing but old game pics), watching who he talked to in the hallways, even staying late to watch him leave practice. I felt gross doing it, but I couldn't stop.

Then I saw it — his backpack unzipped after third period. A bottle of supplements spilled out. Not protein powder or something normal. These were weird multivitamins I'd never seen, with labels in another language.

My brain went full conspiracy theory. Was he sick? Was he on something? Was that why he'd been benched last week, 'for personal reasons'?

That Friday, I cornered him after the game we lost 7-2. 'Dude, what's going on? I saw the vitamins. Are you okay?'

Marcus stared at me like I'd grown three heads. Then his shoulders dropped. 'My mom's worried about my iron levels. We're going to a specialist Monday.' He pulled out his phone. 'That's who I've been texting — the scheduler. And the physical therapist. I haven't told anyone because I didn't want to be the kid with 'health issues' again.'

I felt like actual trash. 'I've been... watching you. Trying to figure it out. I thought something was wrong.'

'Yeah, something IS wrong. But it's not what you think.' Marcus managed a weak smile. 'You're a terrible spy, by the way. I saw you hiding behind the bleachers Tuesday.'

We sat on the bench while the parking lot cleared out, and he told me everything. The fatigue, the dizziness during games, the fear that he'd have to quit baseball. I just listened, feeling like the worst friend in the world for making it about me and my curiosity instead of just asking.

'So,' he said finally, 'you coming to my place? My mom's making empanadas.'

'Always,' I said. 'And next time? I'm just gonna ask.'

'Deal. Now let's go before your mom calls you for dinner again.'

Some secrets aren't secrets at all. They're just fears nobody's brave enough to say out loud.