Strikeout in the Storm

Marcus gripped the steering wheel of his dad's pickup, his vintage **baseball** jersey from sophomore year collecting sweat under his pits. Coach Bennett had texted him an hour ago: "Need you at varsity tryouts tomorrow. Rodriguez's arm is shot."

"You're actually considering it?" Lena asked from the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone with practiced disinterest. Her neon **cat** eye sunglasses glinted in the afternoon sun. "Thought you were done with all that after you quit the team."

"I don't know." Marcus adjusted his cap. "Mom says I need a **vitamin** D supplement anyway since I'm always inside gaming. Could be good for me."

Lena snorted. "Your mom also thinks microwaves cause brain tumors."

The sky darkened unexpectedly as they drove toward the old batting cages. A jagged fork of **lightning** split the clouds, illuminating the fact that Marcus had been dreading this moment since his phone buzzed that morning.

"You know what your problem is?" Lena said, turning toward him. "You're still carrying that **bear** of a grudge from last season. Miller's an ass, but you letting him ruin something you love? That's weak."

Marcus said nothing, but the truth landed in his gut like a bad pitch. Last season's drama—Miller calling him "soft" after he panicked in a game situation—had sent him spiraling. Coach didn't even defend him.

"Whatever." Marcus pulled into the gravel lot. Rain began pattering the windshield. "Let's just go."

But the batting cage was closed. Locked up tight. As another bolt of lightning flashed, Marcus felt something shift inside him—like he'd been waiting for permission not to show up tomorrow.

"You know," he said, backing out of the lot, "maybe I'm done with baseball."

Lena grinned, finally lowering her sunglasses. "About damn time. Now let's go get boba. I'm dying here."

As they drove toward town, Marcus realized the relief outweighed the regret. Some seasons end, and that's okay. He'd figure out what came next.