Strikeout King

Marcus's heart hammered like he'd been **running** laps instead of just standing at the concession stand. The **spinach** wedge from his spinach dip had somehow wedged itself between his front teeth, and of course Chloe was walking toward him right now.

"Hey!" she said, grinning. "Come sit with us."

"Us" meant the varsity **baseball** players—Mike, Tyler, and their crew. The guys who somehow smelled like expensive cologne and dusty fields at the same time. Marcus's stomach did that thing where it felt like a **bull** was stomping around inside it.

He'd played it safe for three years of high school. No risks. No scenes. Just comfortable invisibility. But this was his junior year, and he was tired of being the background character in his own life.

"Yeah, sure," Marcus said, committing to the bit. "Let me just..." He mimed checking his phone while shoving the rest of the spinach dip into his mouth like a chaotic raccoon.

Chloe laughed. "You good?"

"Solid." The word came out muffled. So smooth. So effortless.

They reached the bleachers where Mike and Tyler were deep in conversation about something that involved hand gestures and way too much intensity.

"Yo, Marcus!" Tyler called out. "Dude, you ever see the school mascot try to do the splits? It was legendary. Looked like a dying **sphinx** mid-riddle."

"That's so specific," Chloe said, but she was smiling.

Marcus sat between them, heart still racing. The spinached tooth situation could wait. Let them see him awkward. Let them see him real. He wasn't running anymore—not from this, not from anything.

"Actually," Marcus said, finding his voice, "I think that sphinx would have better form."

Tyler snorted. "Okay, Marcus. Okay."

Chloe's knee brushed his. She didn't move it away.

Maybe first base wasn't so different from first impressions. Sometimes you swung and missed. Sometimes you just showed up and let something happen.