The Fox Behind Home Plate

I never wanted to be on the baseball team. But Dad said 'character building' like it was a vitamin I could take in pill form, so there I was, right field, where the ball never went.

The real action was in my pocket. My iPhone vibrated—Kaia had posted again. I'd become a pro at this digital spy game, scrolling through her aesthetic photos, her perfectly chaotic life, trying to decode what made someone like her actually exist. 'Spy' felt dramatic, but what else do you call it when you're trying to reverse-engineer a personality you wish you had?

'You gonna stare at your phone or catch something?' Marquez yelled from second base. He'd started calling me 'Fox' last week after I dodged a fly ball by doing this weird little jump thing. 'Sly like a fox, little man.' He meant it as a joke, but the weird part was—people started using it. Even Kaia. 'Hey Fox' she'd said in the hallway yesterday, and my stomach had done something embarrassingly gymnastic.

I checked my phone again. Kaia's story: a photo of the empty baseball field at sunset, captioned 'missing someone.'

The pitcher wound up. The ball came flying. And for once, I didn't dodge.

I caught it.

The team went wild. Marquez was jumping. Coach was actually smiling.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Could be important.

I left it there.

Maybe the real fox wasn't the one dodging everything. Maybe it was the one who finally stopped spying on other people's lives and started showing up for his own.

'Nice catch, Fox,' Kaia said from the bleaters. She'd been at the game the whole time.

I grinned. 'Nice photo.'

She laughed, and for the first time, I didn't feel like I was watching from the outside.