The Ninth Inning Truth

Marcus's iPhone buzzed in his pocket like a guilty secret, but he ignored it. He was supposed to be at Carter's party right now, the one everyone had been hyping all week. Instead, he stood in the middle of the dusty baseball diamond behind the rec center, sunset painting everything orange and gold.

"You're actually doing this?" Lena's voice carried from the dugout. She sat cross-legged on the bench, her French bulldog Barnaby snoring beside her. "On a Saturday night?"

Marcus adjusted his cap, suddenly self-conscious. "Coach said if I wanted to make varsity, I needed to work on my curveball."

"Coach isn't here." She stood up, Barnaby waking with a snort. "And neither is half the team, because they're all at Carter's. Including your crush."

His face burned. "Sofia's not my crush."

"Bull." Lena deadpanned. "You've been running in circles around her all semester. Meanwhile, here you are, throwing baseballs at empty air when you could be—"

A notification lit up his screen. Instagram story from Carter: pool, music, Sofia in that dress he'd noticed her wearing Tuesday.

Marcus gripped the ball tighter. His dad's voice echoed in his head: 'Winners don't make excuses. Extra effort when nobody's watching, that's what separates the good from the great.' But his dad also still used a flip phone and thought TikTok was a cigarette brand.

"You know what's messed up?" Marcus said suddenly. "I hate baseball. I've hated it since freshman year. I'm just... I'm just running a play I didn't write."

Lena went quiet. Then: "So quit."

"Can't. Dad played college ball. My brother's the bullpen pitcher for State. It's what we do."

"Bull." She said it softer this time. "What do YOU do?"

Marcus looked at his iPhone, glowing with notifications from a life that felt borrowed. Then he looked at the dog, currently licking Lena's sneaker. Then at the empty field, beautiful and pointless in the fading light.

Something in his chest unspooled.

He pulled out his phone and texted Carter: 'Not coming. Have fun.' Blocked the notifications. Then he called Lena over.

"Teach me that photography stuff you do."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. My grandpa's old DSLR is gathering dust. I've been meaning to—" He stopped himself. No excuses this time. "I want to learn."

They spent the next hour taking terrible photos of Barnaby doing bulldog things, the sunset, each other making faces. Marcus couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed this hard. When his mom called, asking where he was, he told her the truth—all of it.

"We'll talk when you get home," she said, but not in the scary way. In the I'm-listening way.

Monday at lunch, Sofia slid into the cafeteria booth beside him. "Carter said you ghosted his party."

"Yeah."

"Good. Those things get old." She pushed a notebook toward him. "You mentioned you like photography? The yearbook needs staff."

Marcus glanced across the cafeteria where Lena was sitting, Barnaby's photo on her phone screen. She winked at him.

"I'm in," he said, and for the first time, the future felt like something he got to pitch, not something he had to catch.