The Third Strike

The strand of long red hair caught in Marcus's keyboard was the first thing that made me pause. I'd been visiting his cubicle to drop off the quarterly reports, but my eyes fixed on that hair—unmistakably mine, from last Friday when I'd let him play with my ponytail during our late-night work session.

We'd become fast friends at the firm, bonding over baseball at the corner sports bar. He knew everything about me—my fear of failure, my sick cat Milo's prognosis, the way I poured my soul into every project. I'd told him things I'd never spoken to anyone else.

The second strike came when my boss casually mentioned how impressed corporate was with my "innovative approach" to the client pitch—the exact same pitch I'd shared only with Marcus over drinks two nights prior. He'd leaned in close, hung on my every word, asked insightful questions about my strategy.

"Your friend Marcus really understands the market," my boss had said.

The third strike was discovering his hidden folder on the shared drive—labeled "Project Kitten"—containing meticulous documentation of my work habits, my client interactions, even my personal struggles that I'd confessed during our post-game emotional debriefs.

I never confronted him. Instead, I watched him from across the office, remembering how he'd once told me that in baseball, sometimes you have to sacrifice a friendship for the greater good of the team. He'd been playing a different game all along—corporate spy disguised as work best friend, collecting intelligence like baseball cards.

That evening, as I packed my personal items, I found a small toy baseball among my things—a gift from Marcus. I left it on his desk with a note: "Three strikes, and you're out."

The next morning, security escorted him out. Later I learned he'd been hired by a competitor to infiltrate our firm. Milo purred against my leg as I watched from the window, his long red hair catching the light, and I realized sometimes the most dangerous opponents are the ones you invite into your dugout.