Swimming Upstream

Jordan watched from the bench, their baseball cleats gathering dust in the bag beside them. Three months ago, this field had been everything — the crack of the bat, the dirt spray, the way Coach Miller's voice carried across the diamond. Now, Jordan's former teammates were strangers, their cleats clicking toward the parking lot while Jordan waited for their mom.

"You coming?" asked Riley, Jordan's best friend since seventh grade, though lately she felt more like a notification you swipe away. "Everyone's going to play padel at the courts. It's kinda like tennis but shorter rackets and it's actually fun."

Jordan's phone buzzed in their pocket. An iPhone 12 with a spiderweb crack across the screen — battle scar from the day they quit baseball. When Coach had asked why, Jordan had frozen. How to explain that every time they stepped into the batter's box, their chest squeezed tight?

"Can't," Jordan said. "Stuff to do."

"You always have stuff to do lately." Riley's voice carried that edge she'd been using since the team announcement dropped Jordan's name. "Whatever. Suit yourself."

The click of Riley's expensive sneakers on pavement echoed. Jordan waited until the parking lot emptied before pulling out their phone, thumb hovering over the group chat that used to blow up with memes and complaints about practice. Now it was just screenshots of padel match scores and inside jokes that didn't include them.

Their chest squeezed again. Not panic — something softer, heavier. Like drowning in inches of water.

Jordan walked home the long way, past the pet store window with the goldfish swimming in tight circles. They'd stopped here after quitting baseball, watching the fish glide through illuminated tanks, mesmerized by how they never seemed to question their lane.

But then one fish — a bright orange one with flowing fins — darted to the surface, breaking the surface tension in a tiny splash before diving again. Not staying in its circle. Not waiting.

Jordan's phone buzzed. Riley: "Court's behind the rec center if you change your mind. We saved a spot."

Jordan stared at the screen. Their thumb moved to the keyboard. Not to type some excuse about homework or family stuff. But: "I don't want to play padel."

Then, before they could overthink it: "I miss you guys."

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then Riley's response: "Then come hang? We're getting boba after."

Jordan's chest loosened. Not because everything was fixed — baseball was still gone, their place on the team still erased — but because sometimes you have to break the surface to breathe.

"On my way," Jordan typed.

The goldfish flashed orange in the window. Jordan didn't look back.