The Sphinx at Third Base

Marcus wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans for the third time. The summer heat radiated off the asphalt where everyone gathered around make-shift bases, but that wasn't why he couldn't stop shaking. Sage was here. She stood near home plate with that signature unreadable expression—like a human sphinx guarding riddles he'd never solve.

"You gonna play or what?" Tyler called from the pitcher's mound, tossing a baseball up and catching it. "We need a shortstop."

Marcus's heart did that embarrassing flutter thing. Sage was already grabbing a bat. Her orange Converse popped against the gray pavement as she stepped to the plate.

Yeah. He was definitely playing.

The game unfolded in slow motion. Every time Sage looked his way, his brain short-circuited. She was like this puzzle he couldn't crack—smiling but distant, present but somewhere else entirely. The sphinx thing wasn't just a metaphor in his head. Last week, when he'd finally worked up nerve to ask what music she liked, she'd given him this cryptic smile and said, "Depends on the weather."

What did that even mean?

Bottom of the ninth. Sage on third. Game tied. Marcus at bat, orange Gatorade sloshing in his stomach, palms so slick the bat might slip right out of his hands.

First pitch: strike.

He caught Sage watching him from third base. For once, the sphinx expression cracked. She grinned, actual amusement dancing in her eyes, and mouthed something.

*Just swing.*

Next pitch came high and outside. He swung anyway—hard, desperate, everything.

Line drive straight to left field. Sage scored.

Afterward, amid high-fives and someone passing around a warm orange soda, Sage found him where he'd collapsed on the grass. She dropped beside him, all elbows and knees and gracelessness that completely betrayed her sphinx vibe.

"That was totally a strike," she said, gesturing with her chin.

Marcus laughed, surprised. "Yeah."

"Good thing you're terrible at following rules." Sage bumped his shoulder with hers. "Hey, you coming to Tyler's party Friday?"

His palms were sweating again. But he didn't wipe them this time. "Yeah. I'll be there."

The sphinx had finally let him in. And somehow, that was better than any home run.