The Bottom of the Ninth

The iPhone buzzed against the mahogany conference table, desperate and insistent. Marcus ignored it, just as he'd ignored David's text three hours ago: *We need to talk.* Now his phone lit up again with another notification, face-down like a guilty witness.

"The restructuring proposal is comprehensive," David continued, his eyes never leaving Marcus's face. They'd been sleeping together for six months, since the company retreat in Palm Springs. Marcus had pressed David against the rough bark of a palm tree behind the hotel, kissed him desperately, and something had cracked open in his chest that he couldn't seal shut.

On the screen, baseball scores scrolled silently. Marcus's father had taught him the game—how to read the pitcher, how to anticipate the curveball, how sometimes you had to bunt to survive. *Working the count,* his dad had called it. Marcus had been working it his whole life: suburban marriage, corporate ladder, carefully curated desperation.

The meeting ended. People shuffled out. David remained.

"You're not going to check that, are you?" David asked, not looking at him.

"It's nothing."

"It's been buzzing all morning." David stood, collected his laptop. "You know what they say about the fox, Marcus. He's clever, but he eventually gets cornered."

Marcus's stomach dropped. The phone lit up again: a photo from an unknown number. Him and David at the palm tree, mouths crushed together, hands grasping at shirt fabric. Below it: *Nice restructuring proposal. Meet me in the garage in ten minutes, or this goes to the board.*

He'd thought he was playing the game, working the count, making the strategic moves. But he'd forgotten the most important thing his father taught him: sometimes, without warning, they switch pitchers. And sometimes, you don't get another at-bat.

Marcus stood up, his palms sweating against the leather of his briefcase. The game was over. He just hadn't known he was losing until the final out.