The Pause Button

Marco stood frozen at home plate, the baseball bat feeling like a lead weight in his hands. Third strike. Again. The snickers from the dugout were barely audible over the rushing in his ears.

"You good, bro?" Tyler called out, and Marco just nodded, not trusting his voice. Coach Reynolds blew the whistle, signaling the end of practice, but Marco was already running toward the parking lot, cleats clacking against the pavement like a countdown clock he couldn't stop.

His golden retriever, Buster, was waiting in the backseat of his mom's Honda, tail thumping against the window. The dog had been his dad's — the man who'd taught Marco to hold a bat before he could walk, who'd vanished three years ago with nothing but a canceled cable subscription and a forwarding address.

"Great practice," Tyler said, falling into step beside him. "Your swing's looking... loose."

Marco gritted his teeth. Tyler had that smooth confidence that came with having parents who showed up to every game, who'd pay for private coaching without hesitation. "Yeah. Just tired."

They reached the car, and Buster went ballistic, barking and pawing at the door. Marco's face burned as fumbled with the keys, dropping them twice while Tyler watched.

"Your dog's chill," Tyler said, but his lip curled like he'd smelled something off. "Hey, we're all hitting Jillian's place tonight. Her parents are out and she's got the password for the premium cable channels. You should come."

Marco's stomach did that thing it always did when he got invited somewhere — half excitement, half terror. He'd missed the last three hangouts. Either he was watching Buster, or his mom was working late, or he just couldn't make himself walk through the door.

"I'll try," Marco said, which they both knew meant no.

But as he climbed into the driver's seat, something clicked. Buster was whining, nudging his hand, and suddenly Marco was tired of missing everything. Tired of being the guy whose dad left, whose mom worked double shifts, who couldn't connect with a ball when it mattered.

He turned the key. The engine roared to life, and for once, he didn't head straight home.

"We're going out, Buster," he said, and the dog barked like he understood.

They ended up at the old field behind the elementary school — no lights, no coaches, nobody watching. Marco dug out the baseball he kept in his glove box and pitched it to himself against the backstop, over and over, until his arm ached. Buster chased every ball, returning it with increasing enthusiasm, tail wagging so hard his whole body shook.

When Marco finally stopped, sweat dripping down his face, the sky was that perfect purple-gray between sunset and darkness. His phone buzzed — a group chat notification. Tyler and the others, at Jillian's, probably watching something stupid on cable and pretending like it mattered.

Marco looked at Buster, who was now happily gnawing on a stray piece of driftwood he'd found. For the first time in forever, Marco felt solid. Grounded. The baseball wasn't his father's legacy anymore — it was just something he did. Something he could get better at, on his own terms.

He typed back: *Can't tonight. Got plans.*

Then he turned off his phone, grabbed a ball, and started running the bases with his dog chasing behind him, under the first stars of the night.