The Last First Pitch

Marcus's favorite baseball cap was technically stolen property—his older brother Jordan's, to be exact, but Jordan had left for college three months ago and apparently forgotten his entire existence, so Marcus figured finders-keepers. The cap was lucky. It had witnessed three home runs, one almost-kiss with Sarah Chen behind the bleachers, and Marcus's transformation from benchwarmer to starting second baseman.

Which is why, when zombie-adjacent Leo shambled onto the field during practice, Marcus's hand flew to his head. Leo wasn't actually undead, obviously—dude just pulled consecutive all-nighters for finals week and moved like his joints had rusted shut. His eyes were doing that unsettling not-quite-focused thing, and he kept muttering about calculus formulas that didn't sound like math anymore.

"Dude," Marcus said, stepping between Leo and home plate. "You look like actual death. Go home."

Leo's gaze snapped into sharp, terrifying clarity. "My goldfish died this morning."

"Oh, damn." Marcus's stomach dropped. "I'm sorry—that sucks—"

"He was named Gregor," Leo continued, voice weirdly steady. "And my mom flushed him, and then I started thinking about how Gregor spent his entire life in a glass box watching us exist, and now he's in the sewer system, and what if consciousness continues after—"

"Okay, Leo, breathe," Marcus said, because Leo was spiraling into full existential crisis mode on a Tuesday, and the whole team was staring. Coach Miller was already whipping toward them with that "what fresh hell is this" expression.

Then Leo bolted.

Just—straight up took off running toward the parking lot, backpack thumping against his spine, still in his cleats. Marcus's body moved before his brain caught up. He was already sprinting after him, baseball cap somehow still glued to his head, shouting for Leo to stop because he was going to twist an ankle or worse, trip on asphalt and compound fracture something important.

They ended up behind the concession stand, collapsed against the brick wall, both breathing like they'd just sprinted a marathon. Leo pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead against them.

"Gregor was two years old," he mumbled into his jeans. "That's like, a solid lifespan for a fish, but it feels—I don't know—"

"Insufficient," Marcus offered, sliding down to sit next to him.

"Yeah. That. Exactly that."

They sat there for ten minutes while Coach Miller probably threatened the whole team with extra conditioning. Marcus tipped the baseball cap back and stared at the sky, thinking about how his brother had texted him twice since leaving, both times asking if Marcus could FedEx him hoodies, and how that felt kind of like being Gregor in the glass box—watching someone's life from outside.

"You wanna skip practice?" Marcus asked. "We can get Slurpees."

Leo lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed but present. "I have a calculus test tomorrow."

"Right. Stupid question."

"But," Leo said slowly, "Slurpees sound better than derivatives."

So they ghosted practice. Coach was going to bench him for sure, maybe even cut him from the starting lineup. But walking toward the 7-Eleven, Leo's shoulder bumping his, Marcus adjusted Jordan's lucky cap and figured some things were worth losing for.

Besides, he could always steal another hat.