The Goldfish Penalty

Marcus's lucky **baseball** cap sat three rows back on the bleachers, abandoned like his dignity. Practice had been brutal. Coach Bennett—a man whose nickname was **The Bull** for reasons both obvious and terrifying—had spent two hours making the team run laps until Marcus's legs felt like jelly.

"You're staring at it like it's an ex," Maya said, dropping onto the bench beside him. She nodded toward the cap. "Just go get it, dude."

"I can't." Marcus groaned, letting his head fall into his hands. "I literally tripped over my own feet while fielding a grounder. In front of everyone. I think my soul left my body."

"You definitely looked like a dying **goldfish,"** she deadpanned. "All flopping around on the grass. It was majestic."

"You're the worst."

"I'm honest." She grinned. "Also, Coach's **dog** was watching from his car. Even he looked disappointed."

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. The memory of his dog Buster—actual name, zero originality—waiting at home made everything worse. Buster expected treats and belly rubs after practice, not a depressed teenager who couldn't field a ball to save his life.

"Look," Maya said, softening. "Freshman year, I threw up in the hallway during passing period. Like, spectacularly. People made videos."

Marcus's head snapped up. "Seriously?"

"Valedictorian material right here." She gestured toward herself. "Point is, nobody cares except you. The Bull's gonna yell regardless. Might as well own it."

Something about her voice—the way she said it like it was nothing—made the knot in his chest loosen. Maya Lin had started a rumor in seventh grade that she was a mermaid, and when people called her a liar, she simply brought a carefully crafted mermaid "tail" to the pool party and insisted everyone call her Ariel.

She just... didn't care what people thought.

"What if I trip again?" Marcus muttered. "What if I'm actually just bad at baseball?"

"Then you'll be bad at baseball with excellent headwear." Maya stood up and yanked him to his feet. "Come on. I'll walk with you. We'll make it a thing. We'll tell everyone you're creating an avant-garde fashion statement."

"You're gonna walk me to my own **hat**?"

"I'm creating content." She started toward the bleachers. "Also, I have math homework I'm avoiding, so this works out perfectly."

Marcus hesitated, then followed. The Bull was still on the field, barking at someone about their batting stance. The dog in the car was definitely asleep now. And his lucky cap—covered in dirt and sweat—waited like a tiny, fabric crown for a king who kept falling off his throne.

Mayna was right. Nobody was watching. Nobody cared except him, and maybe Buster, who would slobber all over him regardless of whether he'd made a fool of himself.

He grabbed the cap, dusted it off, and shoved it on his head. It didn't feel lucky. It felt like a sweaty reminder that he was trying.

"Slay," Maya said dryly.

"Don't say slay."

"Your energy is giving 'sad trout at a market.'"

Marcus laughed—really laughed—for the first time all afternoon. And somehow, that felt like winning.