The Sphinx at Shortstop

Varsity baseball tryouts. One spot left. My palms sweat through my batting gloves as I stand at shortstop while Tyrell—aka "the Sphinx" for his unreadable expression and total silence—watches from the dugout like he's judging everyone's entire existence.

"Last chance," Coach Martinez calls out. "Game on the line. Bases loaded. Bottom of the ninth."

I step into the batter's box. Heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Everyone at Franklin High knows the Sphinx doesn't speak. Doesn't do emotions. Just watches with those ancient, calculating eyes like he knows something nobody else does.

"Don't brick it, Leo," I mutter, adjusting my grip. "This is your shot."

Coach's voice carries across the field: "This determines who makes Varsity. No pressure."

No pressure? Right. Try like, my entire social life depends on this.

That's when Cleo appears—a ginger cat slinking along the left-field fence. Our school's unofficial mascot. Old Mrs. Hernandez's cat, really, but basically everyone feeds her scraps. Cleo stretches lazily, then fixes her golden eyes on the outfield, tail pointing precisely toward the gap in left-center.

"Trust it."

The Sphinx speaks. Finally. After weeks of silence.

I glance at Cleo, then back at the pitcher. Trust it? Trust the cat? The Sphinx? My awful instincts that have me overthinking everything?

The pitch comes—fast, outside corner. I swing.

Perfect contact. The ball sails toward left-center, exactly where Cleo had aimed. I drop the bat and sprint, rounding first, grinning like an idiot.

Safe at second, I catch the Sphinx's eye. His expression remains totally blank, but something tells me I just passed his test. Maybe the real riddle wasn't about baseball at all.