The Outfielder's Secret

Marcus stood in right field, glove dangling, mind somewhere far from the dusty diamond. The baseball game was a blur—his dad yelling from the bleachers, the crack of the bat, teammates shouting. What he actually cared about was waiting back home: the ethernet cable his uncle had smuggled him, the key to escaping this suffocating small-town existence.

"YO MARCUS! HEAD IN THE GAME!" his best friend Javi yelled from second base. Marcus snapped back, cheeks burning.

"My bad, my bad," he muttered, but his brain was already elsewhere. Tonight was the night. He'd finally start his gaming stream, finally be someone other than the awkward kid who struck out every at-bat. His mom's nightly vitamin ritual—her nagging him to take those giant chalky pills—had become a joke between them. She said they'd help him grow. He knew nothing would fix what felt wrong.

A ball sailed toward him. Time slowed. This was it—his chance to prove he belonged, that he could be the jock his dad wanted. He positioned himself, feet planted, heart hammering.

The baseball hit his glove with a solid *thud*.

"YEAH! THAT'S MY BOY!" his dad roared.

But as Marcus trotted in, the smile he forced felt like plastic. Later that night, with his parents asleep, he slipped into his room and plugged in the cable. His screen flared to life. And for the first time in forever, Marcus felt real—no performance, no pretending. Just him, his game, and the people who actually got him.

The vitamins on his bedside table caught the monitor's glow. He popped one in his mouth anyway. Some habits stuck, even when everything else changed.