The Pitcher Who Could Fly

Alex stood on the mound, sweat making their new undercut stick to their forehead. The buzz cut on the sides felt electric — like they'd finally peeled off a mask they'd been wearing for sixteen years.

"You got this, Alex! Bring the heat!" their dad yelled from the bleachers, same as he had every Saturday since Alex was seven. Baseball was practically a family religion. Their older brother played college ball. Their grandpa had the scar from a line drive to prove his dedication.

Alex's ponytail had been the one thing that made them feel like themself in this uniform. Now it was gone, donated along with any remaining patience for pretending.

The batter dug in. Alex wound up and threw — a meatball, right down the middle. Crack. The ball sailed over the fence.

"Nice try, sport!" Dad called out, like Alex was ten instead of almost seventeen.

After the game, Alex found themself at Bri's house, dumping kale and **spinach** into a blender while Bri scrolled through TikToks.

"Your dad's gonna lose it when he finds out you're doing track instead of travel ball," Bri said, not looking up.

"He thinks I'm at pitching lessons." Alex watched the green sludge spin. "Which is technically true-ish. I mean, I throw things. Just toward myself, instead of toward home plate."

Bri finally looked up. "That was the worst lie I've ever heard."

**Running** track wasn't about speed. It was about forward motion without a coach screaming from the dugout, without teammates slapping their butt and calling them "sport," without the crushing weight of being someone they weren't. On the track, the only person they were competing with was yesterday's version of themself.

"My hair's not even long enough to put in a ponytail anymore," Alex said, touching the fuzz on the sides. "What if I'm making a huge mistake? What if I suck at track? What if I'm just a quitter?"

"First off," Bri said, sliding over a smoothie, "you're not quitting. You're starting. Second, you've been secretly **running** mileage before **baseball** practice for like, two months. You're not gonna suck. And third?" She pointed at Alex's reflection in the window. "That haircut? It's giving main character energy. You're ready for your montage moment."

Alex laughed, but something unclenched in their chest. Maybe that's all growing up was — realizing you could cut off the pieces that didn't fit anymore, and nobody actually exploded.

The spinach smoothie tasted like grass and possibility. Tomorrow they'd tell their dad. Today, they let themself believe Bri might be right.

"Okay," Alex said. "Main character energy. Let's do this."