Strike Out in the Storm

The cable was supposed to be fixed an hour ago. Instead, I was staring at a frozen screen where the baseball game should be, stuck on some pixelated image of a pitcher mid-throw.

"This is actually brainrot," Maya groaned from my beanbag chair, scrolling through her phone like her life depended on it. "Your dad's literally the IT guy and can't figure out the cable?"

"He's at work, Maya. Unlike some people, my parents actually have jobs." I threw a pillow at her. She dodged without looking up, which was honestly unfair.

We were supposed to be watching the championship game together—me, Maya, and Tyler. Tyler who'd sat next to me in English all year and somehow never noticed I existed. Tyler who'd agreed to come over "just as friends" but had brought his glove and asked if I wanted to play catch later.

Tyler who was currently five minutes late.

The weather app on my phone showed a lightning icon. Great. Not only was my cable dead, but now the universe was conspiring against me with actual atmospheric drama.

"Maybe he's not coming," Maya said, like she could read my entire catastrophic thought spiral. "Maybe he got held up—"

The doorbell rang.

I nearly died tripping over my own feet getting to the door. There Tyler was, baseball cap backward, jersey slightly too big, holding a bag of chips like they were an offering to the gods.

"Cable's out," I blurted, which was definitely not what normal people said as a greeting. "Like, completely dead. We can't watch the game."

Tyler's face did this micro-flicker of disappointment before he recovered. "That's chill. We could... I don't know, listen to it on radio? Or play catch in the backyard?"

"Literally soaking wet outside," Maya pointed out. "It's about to downpour."

We ended up in the garage, surrounded by stored boxes and old furniture, listening to the game crackle through a portable radio while lightning lit up the tiny windows. Tyler sat next to me on a plastic storage bin, our shoulders barely touching, and I couldn't focus on anything except how he smelled like rain and something distinctly him.

"You play?" he asked suddenly, gesturing to a forgotten baseball glove on a shelf.

"Used to. Little league." I shrugged. "Wasn't great."

"I could teach you." His voice was lower than usual, almost hesitant. "If you wanted."

Lightning struck somewhere close, making the garage lights flicker. In that second of darkness, his hand found mine in the dark, and neither of us pulled away when the lights came back on.

The cable was still broken. The game was probably a lost cause. But sitting there in the garage with Tyler's fingers laced through mine, listening to baseball commentary and distant thunder, I was pretty sure this was the best night of my life.

Until my dad got home and asked why we were sitting in the dark garage like characters in a weird coming-of-age movie.

But that's a story for next time.