Strikeout Season

Marcus stood in the outfield, cleats sinking into the grass, while palm trees swayed against the Florida sky like they were dancing to a song only they could hear. Baseball practice. Again. His third time striking out this week, and the season had barely started.

"You good, bro?" Tyler asked, walking past with his glove tucked under his arm like it was part of him.

"Yeah," Marcus lied, tapping his pocket where his iPhone buzzed with another notification he couldn't check. Probably his mom asking what he wanted for dinner, or maybe—it was definitely not—her. The girl who'd sat behind him in homeroom since August and somehow never learned his name.

Coach blew the whistle. "Marcus! Batting practice! Let's see what you got!"

His stomach did that thing where it felt like someone was squeezing it like one of those stress balls. He stepped up to the plate, the bat feeling heavier than usual. The first pitch came—fast. He swung. Missed.

"You gotta stop thinking so hard," someone called from the dugout. It was Blake, the team's designated bull-shitter. The guy who'd spent all last semester spreading rumors about Marcus's sister until she cried in the bathroom third period. "Just hit the damn ball."

Marcus's face burned. He gripped the bat tighter, knuckles white.

The next pitch came. He connected—a solid crack that sent the ball soaring past the palm trees and into the parking lot. The team went wild. Even Blake clapped, looking annoyed about it.

"Damn!" Tyler yelled, grabbing Marcus's shoulder. "When did you get that?"

Marcus shrugged, but he couldn't stop grinning. His phone buzzed again. This time he checked—it was from that girl in homeroom. Saw you hit that. Nice.

The world tilted sideways, in the best way possible.

"Yo, Marcus!" Blake called, walking over. "My bad about earlier. You got skills, man. Seriously."

Marcus nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Because suddenly, everything was different. The palm trees weren't just background scenery anymore. They were witnesses. To this moment, to him, to the fact that maybe—just maybe—he was becoming someone worth noticing.

His phone buzzed again. One word: "Impressive."

Marcus looked up at the sky, at the palm trees silhouetted against the clouds, and smiled for real. Baseball season had just begun, and somehow, he was already winning.