The Spinach Slider

Jordan's fingers trembled as they tied their cleats, the laces worn smooth from three seasons of cross-country. Running was supposed to be their thing—the one thing that made sense in a world that felt like it was constantly shifting underneath them. But lately? Even the track felt like running in place.

"You coming to the baseball tryouts?" Marcus asked, leaning against the gym door like he owned it. Of course he'd be there. Marcus was everything Jordan wasn't: easy confidence, arm that could probably launch a baseball into orbit, parents who showed up to every game.

"Nah," Jordan said, maybe too quickly. "Track season."

"Your loss." Marcus grinned, but his eyes lingered on Jordan's gym bag, where a container of spinach sat wrapped in foil. Their mom's new obsession—smoothies, salads, stuff that tasted like sadness and health. "What's that?"

"Pre-race fuel," Jordan lied.

The truth was harder to bear: Jordan had been secretly practicing their pitching in the empty lot behind their apartment complex. Using a rock-stuffed sock because they couldn't afford a real ball. Their dad had promised to take them to baseball tryouts before he left, back when their family still felt whole. Now Jordan ran instead—literally and figuratively—from the memory of his promise.

That afternoon, Jordan found themselves at the old baseball field behind the school. Empty. Perfect. They pulled out their makeshift ball and started pitching, each throw carrying everything they couldn't say out loud.

"Not bad," a voice said behind them.

Jordan spun around. Marcus.

"For someone who runs track," he added, tossing a real baseball. It landed perfectly in Jordan's glove. "Try this."

Jordan's heart hammered against their ribs. They wound up and threw—it felt right in a way that running never had. The ball sailed over Marcus's head.

"Holy crap," Marcus said. "Where've you been hiding that arm?"

"Around," Jordan said, suddenly aware of the spinach container sitting forgotten in the grass beside them. They waited for Marcus to laugh, to make some comment about their weird health food, to walk away.

Instead, Marcus sat down beside it. "My mom makes me drink this green sludge every morning. Says it's 'athlete fuel.'" He made a face. "Tastes like wet grass."

Jordan laughed before they could stop themselves.

"Tryouts are tomorrow," Marcus said, standing up and brushing off his pants. "Bring your own spinach if you want. I'll bring the balls."

As Jordan watched him walk away, something inside them shifted—not running away anymore, but running toward something real.