The Storm Between Games

Marcus's dad had been dragging him to **baseball** practice since he was six, and by fifteen, he'd mastered the art of looking interested while his mind wandered anywhere else. So when Carlos—the new kid whose smile made Marcus forget what inning it was—invited him to the new sports complex, Marcus said yes before processing that Carlos played **padel**, not baseball.

The complex was all glass walls and synthetic courts, a world away from the dusty diamond Marcus called home. He stood there holding a padel racquet like it might bite him, watching Carlos move with this effortless grace that made Marcus's stomach do actual gymnastics.

'It's like tennis but cooler,' Carlos explained, grinning. 'And you don't have to be perfect immediately.'

They rallied back and forth, Marcus missing shots that a toddler could've returned, but Carlos didn't seem to care. He kept laughing, correcting Marcus's grip with fingers that brushed just enough to make Marcus's face heat up. Outside, the sky had gone that weird purple-green that meant something atmospheric was about to happen.

**Lightning** flashed—a spiderweb crack across the sky—and the court's emergency lights flickered.

'Power's gonna go,' Carlos said, grabbing his phone. 'My mom's freaking out anyway. Want to bail?'

They ended up at the bodega down the street, sharing plastic chairs and watching the storm through the steamed-up window. Carlos told him about moving from Mexico, about how baseball was 'too many rules for something that's supposed to be fun.' Marcus admitted he'd quit the team three weeks ago and hadn't told his dad yet.

'Why'd you stay so long?' Carlos asked, all serious eyes and genuine curiosity.

Marcus shrugged. 'Figured I owed it to him to try. But I don't think I owe him my whole life, you know?'

Carlos's phone buzzed—his ride was there. He stood up, then leaned in close, smelling like coconut shampoo and rain air.

'Hey. Same time next week? I'll teach you how to actually hit the ball.'

Marcus watched him walk into the downpour, already planning what he'd tell his dad. Some things you choose. Others choose you.