Storm Warning at the Plate

The baseball sat heavy in my palm, the leather seams digging into my skin like tiny accusations. I adjusted my stance, knees bent, eyes locked on the mound where Jake-the-Great was winding up. Jake, who'd posted that photo of me tripping in the cafeteria last week. Jake, whose Instagram story showed everyone at Skylar's party except me.

"You gonna swing or just admire the view?" called Mia from the dugout, smirking with that perfect smile that made my stomach do full-on gymnastics. I gripped the bat tighter. My pocket buzzed—my iPhone lighting up with another notification I was too terrified to check. Probably the group chat making plans without me again.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and warning. Coach blew the whistle. "Storm's coming fast, people! Pack it up!"

But Jake didn't move. Instead, he pointed toward left field where an old orange truck had parked by the fence. Some farm kid hopped out, and behind him, a massive bull stared at us like we were the weird ones for standing in a storm with baseball bats.

"Bet you can't hit it past the bull," Jake said, grinning.

Everyone looked at me. This was it—my chance to finally be something other than the kid who dropped his tray on spaghetti day. I stepped back in. The first drops of rain hit like cold little betrayals.

Jake wound up and fired. The ball came fast and wild—too high, too inside. I flinched but swung anyway, making the most pathetic contact imaginable. A weak pop-up toward... the bull.

The bull didn't move. The ball bonked off its head. It stared at me with those giant eyes, and I swear it looked disappointed.

Lightning cracked the sky, white-purple spiderwebs, and suddenly everyone was scrambling for the dugout, laughing and shouting. Mia grabbed my arm, pulling me along. "That was terrible," she said, smiling. "Text me later? If you survived the shame?"

Rain poured down as I fumbled for my phone, finally checking those notifications. They weren't about a party. They were Skylar and the group chat: WHERE ARE YOU DUDE PRACTICE RUNS LATE IT'S COOL WE'RE WAITING

I stood there in the downpour, phone in hand, watching the bull watch me, and started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. Sometimes the sky has to crack open before you see what's actually there.