Sweaty Palms and Second Chances

Marcus wiped his sweaty **palm** against his jeans for the third time, trying not to look as terrified as he felt. Baseball tryouts. Junior year. The pressure was crushing his chest like a bad grade in AP Physics.

His older brother, Jay, had been the star pitcher. Coach's pet. The guy whose jersey still hung in the hallway, retired number 17. Marcus was just "Jay's little brother" – the kid who couldn't throw a strike to save his life.

"You good?" asked Riley, leaning against the fence with their signature unreadable expression – total **sphinx** energy today. They'd been crushing on Riley since freshman year, but apparently Riley was about as easy to read as ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.

"Yeah," Marcus lied. "Just... you know. First time jitters."

"Mhm." Riley's deadpan response gave him nothing.

That morning, his mom had practically force-fed him some nasty **vitamin** supplement she swore would "boost his performance," and his little sister had made him promise to feed her **goldfish** before school – which he'd completely forgotten about until right now. The fish was probably fine. Probably.

"MARCUS!" Coach Miller's voice boomed across the field. "You're up!"

He walked to the pitcher's mound, suddenly aware of fifty pairs of eyes locked on him. Coach Miller, clipboard in hand, watched like a hawk. The rest of the team – the ones who'd already proven themselves – leaned back in various stages of boredom.

Marcus's heart hammered against his ribs as he wound up, keeping his eye on the target. The first pitch flew wild – way outside. A couple guys snickered. His face burned.

"Again!" Coach barked.

This time, he nailed it. Strike. Then another. And another. Something clicked – a rhythm he'd never felt before. The weight of being Jay's brother, the pressure to perform, the anxiety about everything he wasn't – it all fell away, leaving just the ball and the target and the sudden, sweet knowledge that maybe, just maybe, he was actually good at this.

Riley gave him a subtle nod from the fence. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile.

"Solid," Coach Miller said, scribbling something on his clipboard. "See you tomorrow, Marcus."

He walked off the field, his hand shaking slightly, not from fear anymore but from something else – something like possibility. Sometimes the most important thing isn't about proving yourself to anyone else. It's about finally proving something to yourself.

He'd have to remember to feed that goldfish when he got home. Small wins.