The Dugout Sphinx

Maya leaned against the chain-link fence, watching the baseball practice from the sidelines. Again. Ever since she'd blown out her knee sliding into home, she'd been benched—both literally and socially. The team had moved on without her, like she'd never been their friend at all.

"You look like a sad fox who lost her den," said Jordan, dropping onto the grass beside her. Jordan, who'd somehow become the team's star shortstop while Maya was drowning in physical therapy.

"Funny," Maya said, though it wasn't. "How's it feel being the golden child now?"

Jordan shrugged, tossing a baseball into the air and catching it. "Weird. Everyone expects me to be you. But I'm not."

Something in Jordan's voice made Maya look closer. For the first time in months, she really saw her friend—the slight slump in Jordan's shoulders, the way her eyes darted around like she was waiting for someone to call her a fraud.

"Wait," Maya said slowly. "You've been dealing with all that pressure alone?"

"It's not like I can complain," Jordan said bitterly. "Oh no, I'm finally getting playing time and attention. Poor me."

Maya felt like she'd walked into a sphinx's riddle and the answer had been staring her in the face the whole time. She'd been so wrapped up in her own injury, her own sense of betrayal, that she hadn't noticed her friend was struggling too.

"You know," Maya said, "my grandpa always said friendship isn't about who shows up for the parties. It's about who hangs around when everything sucks."

Jordan's laugh surprised them both. "Since when do you talk like a fortune cookie?"

"Since I realized my best friend was out there crushing it and secretly miserable." Maya grinned. "So, Sphinx. What's the answer to your riddle? You want help with those mechanics the coach keeps critiquing, or what?"

Jordan's eyes widened. "You noticed?"

"I notice everything. I'm injured, not blind."

A fox darted past the outfield fence, copper-gold against the green grass, pausing to look back at them with knowing eyes before disappearing into the woods beyond. Some kind of omen, maybe. Or just a fox being a fox.

"Deal," Jordan said, extending a fist. "But only if you stop acting like I betrayed you by actually being good at baseball."

"Deal." Maya bumped her friend's fist. "Now let's go fix that throwing motion before Coach has an aneurysm."

The baseball field felt different when they walked back together. Not like it was before—everything had changed, yeah—but maybe some changes were worth making.