Summer After Everything

Marcus's palm was sweating. Again. He wiped it on his jeans, leaving a dark streak that made his stomach twist. In front of him, his iPhone screen glowed with *her* messages—three in a row, all unanswered since Saturday night's pool party disaster.

*U up?*

*I meant what I said*

*Call me maybe?*

"Cruz! You're up!" Coach yelled from the dugout, his voice cutting through the thick orange sunset that smeared itself across the sky like something that couldn't decide whether to be beautiful or just done with everything.

Marcus stepped into the batter's box. The baseball felt heavy in his hand, not like a ball but like every unsaid word since that night at the pool when Maya had looked at him differently. Actually *looked* at him.

He'd been swimming in his feelings for months now, drowning in them really, watching from the bleachers as she dated guys like Tyler—who was currently pitching, spinning the ball in his glove like he owned the world.

The first pitch came high and inside. Marcus didn't flinch.

"Strike one!"

He could feel everyone watching. His teammates. The other team. The way the palm trees along the outfield fence seemed to lean in, gossiping. This was it—his chance to prove he wasn't just the quiet kid who overthought everything. The guy who couldn't even shoot his shot when Maya had literally told him to.

"Staring at your phone won't make her text faster," his best friend Darius had said that morning. "But hitting a dinger? That might make *you* feel better."

Second pitch. Marcus swung. *FOUL.* The ball tipped off his bat, skittering away toward the dugout where Tyler's teammates laughed.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

*Pool party Friday. My house. Come early?*

The third pitch was perfect—low, outside, exactly where Marcus wasn't supposed to look but did anyway. His bat connected with a sound like thunder finally finding something to strike.

The ball soared toward the palm trees, rising higher and longer than anything Marcus had ever hit in his life. His phone buzzed again as he sprinted toward first base, then second, watching the ball clear the fence.

*Forget the pool.*

*Let's just drive.*

He rounded third, grinning so hard his face hurt, and somewhere between home plate and the mob of teammates waiting to crush him with congratulations, Marcus Cruz finally understood what it meant to stop swimming and start surfing.