Strikeout, the Hair, and Me

The hair situation was getting out of hand. Literally.

Jake's mom had said his hair looked better long, but now that she was gone, it was just another thing that made him stand out in all the wrong ways. It fell past his ears now, catching in his baseball cap, curling at the collar of his jersey.

"Nice cut, Princess," Miller called from the dugout, flicking Jake's cap. "Need me to fix it for you?"

The team snickered. Jake adjusted his cap, swallowing the comeback. Miller was a bull—always had been, pushing through life with shoulders squared and insults loaded, daring anyone to step up. Jake wasn't looking for a fight.

But this was the last game of the season. The one that mattered.

"You're up, kid," Coach said, and Jake grabbed his helmet.

Two outs. Bases loaded. Bottom of the ninth, down by three.

The pitcher glared. Miller smirked from the dugout. Jake dug his cleats into the batter's box and adjusted his cap—felt his hair catching in the rim, annoying and perfect and his.

His mom's voice: *Eye on the ball, always.*

First pitch: high and tight, brushing Jake's jersey. The bull on the mound grinned.

Second pitch: Jake swung, missed by an inch. Miller yelled something about ponytails.

Third pitch, Jake didn't swing. Ball three.

The pitcher's face tightened. He wound up, threw everything he had—a fastball meant to intimidate.

Jake swung.

*Crack.*

The ball sailed over Miller's still-open mouth, clearing the fence by feet. Jake dropped his bat and ran, hair flying everywhere, cap somewhere back at home plate, teammates screaming as he rounded first, then second, then third.

Game-winning grand slam.

Miller met him at home plate, grudging respect replacing the smirk. "Not bad, Princess."

Jake just grinned, hair wild and perfect. "Not bad for a girl."

He'd wear it long forever now.