The Seventh Inning Stretch

Marcus had been running for forty-five minutes when his phone buzzed against the treadmill console. Sarah's name lit up the screen—that familiar orange bubble that used to mean dinner plans and now meant lawyer appointments.

He slowed to a walk, his chest heaving in the gym's stagnant air. Outside, it was October in Chicago, which meant the World Series was playing on every television in every bar he'd been avoiding. Baseball had been their thing. Fourth dates in Wrigleyville, bleacher seats and overpriced beers, Sarah explaining the infield fly rule while he pretended not to already know.

"We need to talk about the house," she'd said yesterday. The same way she'd said "we need to talk" three months ago, before packing her yoga mat and leaving him with a mortgage and half a closet.

Marcus grabbed his towel and wiped his face. His reflection in the gym mirror showed a man running toward nothing—no destination, no finish line, just motion for the sake of motion. At forty-two, he'd expected to be teaching his kid to catch a ball in the backyard, not explaining asset division in a coffee shop while his thirtysomething assistant looked at him with something between pity and opportunity.

He stepped outside into the gray afternoon. An orange leaf skittered across the sidewalk. Somewhere, a distant crowd roared—someone had hit a home run, someone's season was ending, someone's dreams were either coming true or crumbling to nothing.

Marcus started running again, not on a treadmill this time. He ran past the bar where they'd watched the Cubs win the Series in 2016, past the park where she'd drunkenly told him she wanted three children, past the life that had seemed so solid until it wasn't anymore.

His phone buzzed again. Sarah. Probably about the dining room set. Probably about the life they'd built together like a careful lineup card, each player in their position, each strategy planned, until someone—until she—decided to trade teams mid-season.

He kept running until his lungs burned, until the orange sunset bled into the asphalt, until he couldn't remember whether he was running toward something or just running away.