The Fox in Center Field

Marcus was **running** for his life, which honestly was just his life at this point. Always **running**—to class, from awkward situations, toward things he wanted but was terrified to actually reach. Like the **baseball** team tryouts tomorrow, where every kid with a bat and a dream would be watching.

He'd been practically **spy**-ing on the varsity team for weeks, studying their rituals, the way they taped their wrists, the specific brand of sunflower seeds they spat like confessions. Yeah, it was creepy. No, he wouldn't stop. Marcus needed this. Needed to stop being the kid who sat alone at lunch, the one whose mom still packed his sandwiches with that embarrassing **spinach** that wilted into something pathetic by noon.

"Yo, Marcus!"

He froze. Caleb. The same Caleb who'd laughed when Marcus had **spinach** in his teeth during orientation. The same Caleb whose **baseball** jersey Marcus had secretly memorized.

"You coming to tryouts?" Caleb asked, actually looking at him. Not through him.

Marcus's heart did something illegal. "Uh. Maybe?"

"You should. You've got that **fox** thing going on." Caleb gestured vaguely at Marcus's hair. "Quick. Sneaky. I've seen you dodge Mr. Henderson in the hallway like you're some kind of secret agent."

**Fox**. Marcus had never been called **fox** before. Weird, but somehow... not terrible?

"You been **spy**-ing on us?" Caleb grinned. "It's cool. We do it to each other all the time. It's called 'scouting the competition.'" He tossed a **baseball** at Marcus, who caught it without thinking. His hands knew what to do even when his brain didn't.

"Tomorrow," Caleb said, already walking away. "Don't make me come find you."

That night, Marcus stared at his ceiling, **running** through every conversation, every possibility. His **spinach** sandwich sat untouched on his desk. For the first time since forever, he wasn't **running** away from something—he was **running** toward it.

And okay, maybe the **fox** thing was weird. But weird was better than invisible.

His mom knocked on his door. "Marcus? You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, and actually meant it. "Just... thinking about **baseball**."

Outside his window, a real **fox** darted across the backyard, quick and sneaky and somehow belonged to itself. Marcus smiled. Tomorrow, he'd stop **spy**-ing and start playing.