The Cable Guy's Strikeout

I was officially the most pathetic person at Westwood High. I mean, who spends their Friday night untangling a knot of HDMI cables in the gym while the rest of junior year is at Tyler's party?

"You're missing it," Mia said, sliding onto the stage beside me. "Ben Harris just struck out in the bottom of the ninth. Everyone's losing their minds."

I didn't look up. "Pretty sure this cable is older than us."

"That's the problem." Mia kicked her sneakers against the stage. "You're always here, always hiding behind these stupid cords. You're my best friend, Jax, but sometimes I don't even know you."

Her words hit harder than I expected. We'd been friends since seventh grade, back when she'd accidentally broken my arm during an aggressive game of tag. Now she was varsity softball captain, and I was... the cable guy. The tech kid. The one people only talked to when their Wi-Fi died or they needed someone to fix the projector during third period.

"Come with me," Mia said.

"What? No, I have to—"

"The cables will be here tomorrow. The game won't."

She grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the door. Outside, the spring air smelled like cut grass and teenage desperation. We could hear the baseball stadium from here—cheers, the crack of a bat, that collective groan when something went wrong.

Mia dragged me through the gates, past the ticket booth where Mrs. Peterson was texting instead of checking passes. We squeezed into the bleachers just as—

CRACK.

The ball sailed toward us.

"Catch it!" someone screamed.

I didn't think. I just reached up with both hands like I was snagging a falling microphone, and—

THWACK.

Foul ball. Right in my palms. The stadium went silent, then exploded.

"No freaking way," Mia breathed. "Did that actually happen?"

People were high-fiving me. The baseball players were waving from the field. And for the first time in three years, I wasn't the cable guy. I was just Jax—the kid who caught the foul ball.

"See?" Mia grinned, bumping my shoulder. "You're more than those cables."

I looked at the ball in my hands, then at her, and something shifted. Maybe she was right. Maybe I'd been hiding behind wires because it was easier than trying to connect.

"Next Friday," I said. "We come back. And I'm leaving the cables at home."