The Palm Reader's Fastball

Marcus stood at the plate, sweat stinging his eyes. The baseball game was tied, bottom of the ninth, and somehow—despite being absolutely terrible at sports—he'd ended up as the cleanup hitter. The universe had a weird sense of humor like that.

"You got this, bro!" yelled Jake from the dugout, with way more confidence than Marcus had ever felt in his entire life.

The pitcher wound up and fired. A fastball, high and outside. Marcus swung anyway, generating so much torque that his hair slapped against his forehead. Strike one.

His dog, Buster—a golden retriever who'd wandered onto the field earlier and was now lying contentedly in the grass beyond right field—lifted his head at the sound of the bat's whoosh, then went back to sleep.

"Dude, you're overthinking it," called Sarah, the prettiest girl in school, who was somehow watching from the bleachers. Marcus felt his face burn hotter than the July sun.

The second pitch came. Curveball, low. Marcus checked his swing.

"Ball one!" the umpire shouted.

Marcus stepped out of the box, heart hammering. He looked at his hands—his palms were sweating so much he could barely grip the bat. He wiped them on his uniform pants, thinking about what his older sister had told him that morning: "The worst thing they can say is no."

She'd been talking about asking Sarah to the movies, but it applied here too, right? Probably?

The pitcher glared at him. This was it. The moment that would define his entire high school experience. He either became the guy who won the championship or the guy who whiffed so hard he dislocated a shoulder.

The pitch came—a fastball right down the middle. Marcus didn't think. He just swung, connecting solidly. The ball soared toward center field, over the head of the dog (who still hadn't moved), and kept going.

Marcus stood there, stunned. He'd actually—

"RUN!" everyone screamed simultaneously.

He tore around the bases, lungs burning, legs pumping. The center fielder was chasing the ball, the dog was finally up and barking at it, and Marcus was flying. He rounded second, then third, and headed for home, where the catcher was waiting with the ball.

Marcus didn't slide. He didn't even think about it. He just put his head down and the next thing he knew, he was sliding across home plate in a cloud of dust.

"SAFE!"

His teammates tackled him. Sarah was actually cheering. Even the dog ran over and joined the pile. And for the first time in his life, Marcus felt like he could bear anything—high school, embarrassing moments, whatever came next. Because he'd just done the impossible.

Later, as he walked Sarah home, she laughed at something he said and her hand brushed against his palm. He didn't pull away.

"So," she said, "you gonna ask me, or what?"

Marcus grinned. Sometimes the universe did have a sense of humor. A pretty good one, actually.