The Center Field Secret

Marcus's golden retriever, Buster, nudged his hand with that wet-nose persistence that meant one thing: I know you're avoiding it. The truth was, Marcus had been straight-up spying on the varsity baseball team for three weeks now. Every day after school, he'd perch on the maintenance shed roof behind the left field fence, notebook in hand, sketching plays and memorizing pitching forms like he was studying for final exams.

The problem? Marcus had never actually played baseball. Like, ever. But when Chloe—the junior with hair that changed colors with her mood—mentioned she thought guys who played baseball were kind of cute, Marcus's brain made an executive decision. He was going to try out for the team.

"Bro, you cannot be serious," his best friend Javi had said when Marcus finally confessed. "You're gonna embarrass yourself. They've been playing since tee-ball."

Marcus looked at Buster, who thumped his tail in what Marcus chose to interpret as moral support. The thing was, Marcus wasn't just doing this for Chloe anymore. There was something about the crack of the bat, the way teammates dapped each other up after a solid play, the whole unspoken language of the game that made him feel like he'd been missing something essential.

The day of tryouts, Marcus's stomach was doing full-on gymnastics. He walked onto the field with zero swagger, carrying his dad's old glove that smelled like mothballs and nostalgia. Coach Miller blew the whistle.

"Alright, newbies, show me what you got."

Marcus stepped into the batter's box. The first pitch came—a fastball that probably wasn't even that fast but to Marcus looked like a blur of doom. He swung so hard he nearly pirouetted himself into the dirt. Snickers rippled through the outfield. His face burned.

But then Buster, who'd escaped from Marcus's backyard and somehow made it to the school, bounded onto the field with all the grace of a potato with legs, straight toward Marcus. The dog nudged a stray baseball toward Marcus's feet, then sat down like, your turn.

Someone whistled. "Yo, that your hype beast?"

Chloe was there by the fence, laughing. But not in a mean way. In a way that made Marcus's chest feel weirdly light.

"That's Buster," Marcus said, voice cracking slightly. "He's my good luck charm."

Coach Miller sighed. "Get your dog, kid. And take some cuts while you're at it."

Marcus didn't make varsity. But he made JV, and that was something. He wasn't secretly spying on baseball practices anymore—he was living them. And maybe, just maybe, he'd work up the nerve to ask Chloe if she wanted to catch a game. Buster would definitely approve.