The Bull in the Batter's Box

Marcus stood at the plate, the baseball bat feeling like a lead pipe in his sweaty hands. The entire varsity team watched from the dugout—especially Jordan, his former best friend who'd ghosted him freshman year over something Marcus still couldn't remember.

Coach Barker, who everyone called The Bull behind his back (on account of his temperament and his thick neck), bellowed from the baseline. "You gonna swing sometime today, Rodriguez?"

Marcus adjusted his helmet. His stomach growled loud enough for the batter to hear. He'd skipped lunch again—too busy **running** laps around the school track, trying to prove he could still compete with the juniors. His mom's warnings about his nutrition choices echoed in her voice: you can't live on protein shakes and ambition, mijo. Eat some actual food. Like **spinach**. Anything green that didn't come in a wrapper.

The pitcher wound up and fired.

Marcus swung and missed. The ball thudded into the catcher's mitt with a sound like final judgment.

"Looking good, Marcus!" his mom called from the bleachers. She meant well. She really did.

Second pitch. Ball one.

He glanced at Jordan, who wasn't even watching. Jordan was busy being cool, being the guy who'd made varsity as a sophomore, who hung out with seniors, who'd somehow figured out the exact hierarchy of high school social dynamics that Marcus couldn't crack.

Third pitch. Strike two.

The Bull clapped his hands. "Come on, Rodriguez! This isn't tee-ball!"

Marcus closed his eyes for a second. He could hear the playground chant from elementary school—Marcus and Jordan sitting in a tree—before everything got complicated and distance grew like a wall neither of them knew how to dismantle.

The pitcher's leg kicked up. The ball came toward the plate, fast and mean.

Marcus didn't think. He just swung.

CRACK.

The ball soared toward right field, kept going, kept going until it cleared the fence. For a second, nobody moved. Then the umpire signaled home run.

As Marcus rounded third, he saw Jordan standing at the dugout rail, finally watching. Finally seeing him. Jordan raised two fingers in a salute—their old signal, from back when they were kids and everything was simple.

Maybe they'd never be best friends again. Maybe high school had already pulled them too far apart. But as Marcus touched home plate and his teammates mobbed him, even The Bull cracking something like a smile, he thought maybe that was okay.

He'd figure out the rest later. And tomorrow, he'd eat something green. Probably.