The Bullpen Truth

Jax stood at home plate, the baseball bat feeling like a lead pipe in his sweaty hands. The entire sophomore class was watching — including Skylar, who sat in the bleachers looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. Again.

"You got this, Jax!" yelled Tyler, but his tone suggested otherwise. Tyler, who'd been Jax's best friend since kindergarten, until the week Tyler started wearing Polo shirts and calling everyone 'bro.'

The pitcher wound up. A fastball. Jax swung, missed by three feet.

"Strike three!"

The groans from the dugout hit him like a physical force. This was it — the moment he officially became the kid who couldn't even make the JV team as a sophomore. The social suicide would be complete.

But then Coach Miller walked onto the field. Not Coach Miller from gym class, but his dad — the varsity coach who hadn't spoken to him since the divorce.

"Jackson," his dad said, and something in his voice made the chatter in the bleachers die down. "You're bearing down on yourself. Literally saw your shoulders hike up to your ears from the dugout."

Great. Now his dad was critiquing him in front of everyone.

"This isn't working," his dad continued. "Anyone else want to take the plate? Show us what you've got?"

A figure stood up from the back of the gym. Marcus — the kid who wore a black trench coat in September and read during lunch. Nobody even knew he played.

Marcus grabbed a bat. Did some weird stretches. Then, in the most awkward motion Jax had ever seen, practically fell into a swing —

CRACK.

The ball sailed over the fence. Perfect.

"That's some bull," Tyler muttered.

"Nah," Jax said, surprising himself. "That was actually sick."

His dad nodded. "See, Jackson? Sometimes you gotta let someone else step up to the plate."

That night, Jax lay in bed replaying the day. He hadn't made the team, but something else had shifted. The baseball field — his kingdom, where he was supposed to be king — had shown him that maybe he didn't have to carry everything alone. That letting others shine didn't make him less.

His phone buzzed. A group chat: 'Marcus for Captain??'

Jax typed: 'fr yeah.'

And just like that, the bear of expectation he'd been carrying since elementary school — the one that said he had to be the star athlete, the golden child — lightened. Just a little. But enough.