The Goldfish Whisperer's Strike

Marcus stared at his reflection in the hallway mirror, adjusting the brim of his dad's old baseball cap. It smelled like leather and nostalgia, two things that felt way too big for his sophomore year at Northwood High.

"You gonna wear that hat all day, or is it actually fused to your skull?" Maya leaned against her locker, eyebrow raised in that way that made his stomach do that stupid flip thing.

"It's lucky," Marcus lied. The truth was, his dad had given it to him right before the deployment, and taking it off felt like losing a piece of him. But saying that out loud would require actual feelings, and Marcus didn't do those.

Tryouts for the baseball team were today. Coach Miller had watched Marcus hit home runs in PE since seventh grade, constantly asking when he'd finally sign up. The problem wasn't the hitting—it was the twenty other guys watching, judging, waiting for him to choke.

"Whatever you say, Lucky Charms." Maya pushed off her locker. "My money's on you striking out."

"That's the spirit."

At home, his pet goldfish Gary was the only one who got it. Marcus would sit on his bed, dumping fish food into the bowl while ranting about tryouts, or Maya, or the crushing weight of expectations.

"She thinks I'm gonna fail, Gary. She literally told me I'm gonna embarrass myself."

Gary did a little lap around his plastic castle. Marcus took it as solidarity.

His brother Shane, meanwhile, was the opposite of subtle. "That's absolute bull," Shane said at dinner, watching Marcus nervously tap his fork against his plate. "You've been hitting since you were seven. Just go out there and crush it."

"Easy for you to say," Marcus muttered. "You didn't freeze up at your swim meet last year."

Shane had the grace to look guilty.

Tryouts arrived with the kind of sunshine that felt mocking. Marcus stood at the plate, Coach Miller watching from behind the fence, clipboard in hand. The first pitch came—he swung and missed. The second, same thing. His hands were sweating through his batting gloves.

Then he saw her. Maya in the bleachers, wearing that smug expression like she'd predicted this exact moment.

Something in Marcus snapped. Not the bad kind—the good kind. The I'm-done-being-afraid kind.

Third pitch. *CRACK.* The ball sailed over the left fielder's head, bouncing against the fence.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Coach Miller's voice carried across the field.

Afterward, Maya found him by the water fountain. "Okay, I'll admit it. That wasn't total garbage."

"High praise, coming from you." Marcus tipped the brim of his hat, really feeling like it belonged to him now.

She smiled, actually smiled. "Don't let it go to your head, Lucky Charms."

That night, Marcus fed Gary an extra pinch of flakes. "She smiled at me, bro. Like, actually smiled."

Gary swam to the top of the bowl, and Marcus decided that was basically the same thing as a high-five.