The Sphinx in Center Field

Marcus's orange cleats scuffed against the dugout concrete, each mark another reminder that he was the backup—the guy who only played when someone else was injured or sick. At fifteen, being second-best felt like wearing someone else's skin.

"You're up, Depp," Coach yelled, and Marcus's stomach did that familiar lurch. Tyler, the star shortstop, had just taken a foul ball to the knee. The baseball diamond stretched before him like an impossible riddle.

That's when he saw her in the stands—Maya, the girl everyone called Sphinx because she was quiet and observant, like she knew secrets about everyone. She wasn't cheering like the other girls. Just watching.

Marcus stepped to the plate, heart hammering. The pitcher wound up and fired. Strike one. The crowd murmured. Marcus gripped the bat tighter, thinking about how Maya's orange hair stood out like a flame in a sea of ordinary.

Second pitch. Strike two.

"Come on, Depp!" someone shouted. "At least make contact!"

The Sphinx in the stands was still watching. Marcus remembered what she'd said to him in the hallway last week: "You're always holding back. Why?"

The third pitch came—a fastball, low and outside. Something snapped in Marcus's chest. He wasn't thinking about being backup anymore. He swung.

*CRACK.*

The ball sailed toward center field, keeping going, going, GONE.

The dugout erupted. Marcus trotted around the bases, something electric in his veins. When he crossed home plate, he looked up at the stands. Sphinx was gone.

Later, behind the bleachers, she was waiting. Her orange hair caught the sunset. "So," she said, "you finally decided to stop playing someone else's game."

"Yeah." Marcus grinned, his cheeks hurting. "Thanks for noticing."

"I notice everything." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "That's what sphinxes do."

Maybe second-best wasn't so bad if it meant having someone who really saw you. Marcus looked down at his orange cleats and smiled.