The Dog Who Stole Summer

The baseball sat heavy in my glove, sixth inning of the most important game of the season, but my mind was three miles away at Miller's Creek. Where the water would be cool enough to erase the sweat trickling down my back, where I could finally breathe.

"You good, man?" Marcus asked, flicking his glove. "You've been staring at home plate like it owes you money."

"Yeah. Just... heat."

He laughed. "Classic Lucas excuse. 'The heat, the humidity, the existential dread.' What is it today?"

"Just the heat."

If he knew the truth—baseball had stopped being my thing two years ago—I'd lose my spot on the team. My dad, the former high school star who'd played D2 ball before blowing out his shoulder, would literally cry. Not figuratively. I'd seen him tear up at baseball movies. I couldn't do that to him.

So I played. I showed up. I pretended.

Until last Tuesday, when I'd skipped practice and gone to Miller's Creek instead. Just to dip my feet in, I told myself. Just to see.

That's when I'd met the dog.

Some golden retriever mix, tail-wagging and standoffish, guarding a pile of someone's stuff on the creek bank like it was his job. A towel. A phone. A baseball glove that looked suspiciously like the one I'd seen in Marcus's backyard last summer.

"That yours?" I'd called.

"HIM?" A girl's voice from upstream. "Nah. He just showed up one day and decided he's the property manager."

She'd been floating on her back, making lazy circles, completely unbothered. I'd stared, because what kind of person swims in Miller's Creek in the middle of a Tuesday?

"You gonna come in or just stand there looking like you regret every life choice that led to this moment?"

"I'm not... supposed to be here."

"Nobody's supposed to be anywhere, bro. That's the whole point."

Her name was Riley. She'd just moved here, didn't know the unwritten rules about who hung out where, didn't care about the social hierarchy that had taken me fifteen years to memorize. She swam like it was the most natural thing in the world, while I stood on the bank in my baseball uniform, feeling like an imposter in both worlds.

Now, standing on the pitcher's mound, heart pounding like I'd just sprinted home from third, I realized something.

I didn't have to choose.

"Lucas!" Marcus yelled from the dugout. "You in or what?"

The dog burst onto the field from nowhere—literally HOW had he gotten here?—and snatched the ball straight out of my glove before I could wind up for the pitch.

"WHAT." Marcus's face. "WHY."

I took off running, cleats digging into the dirt, chasing that stupid dog past the outfield fence, past the parking lot, down the slope to Miller's Creek, laughing so hard I couldn't breathe.

Riley was there, floating in her usual spot. "Hey. You're late."

"Baseball ran long," I said, pulling off my cleats. "Again."

"Again," she agreed, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

The dog dropped the ball at my feet like he'd just retrieved it, not stolen it. My phone buzzed—probably my dad, probably upset, probably wondering where his son had gone.

I didn't answer.

Instead, I waded into the cool water, finally ready to figure out who I was when nobody was watching.