Three Seconds Under

Leo's dad had been the Tigers' varsity baseball coach for fifteen years. The expectations weighed heavier than any batting helmet.

"You're trying out tomorrow, right?" Dad asked over cereal, not really asking.

Leo nodded, stomach doing that thing it did when he stood at the plate. The ball coming at him—fast, invisible, inevitable. Three seconds of terror. That's how long it took to decide: swing, freeze, or duck.

He couldn't admit he'd rather be anywhere else. Anywhere.

The next morning, Leo showed up at the baseball fields. His hands shook as he dug cleats into the dirt. Coach Miller was calling names, organizing batting practice. Leo's chest tightened.

Then he saw it—beyond the right field fence, the school's outdoor pool, all blue and empty in the October chill. No one was there. The automatic cover was half-open, like an invitation.

Leo ran.

He didn't stop at the fence. Didn't stop at the pool edge. Just shucked his cleats and dove in.

The cold hit him like a revelation. Underwater, everything got quiet. No expectations, no fastballs, no dad's disappointed voice. Just the peaceful blue and his own heartbeat.

When he surfaced, gasping, a girl sat on the pool deck, dangling her feet in the water. She held a goldfish bowl on her lap.

"Wrong season for swimming," she said. Her name was Maya, from his art class. She'd won the goldfish at the carnival—three seconds of throwing ping-pong balls into tiny bowls. "His name is Sailor."

"My dad's the baseball coach," Leo said, treading water. "I was supposed to try out today."

Maya nodded like this made perfect sense. "My mom thinks I'm at Academic Decathlon. I hate decathlon. Hate how everything's supposed to look good for colleges. Hate how everyone pretends to be exactly what their parents want."

She dumped Sailor into the pool. The goldfish swam away, totally unbothered.

"Wait—" Leo started.

"He'll be fine. School's been trying to get rid of him for weeks anyway." Maya stood up, dripping. "You know what goldfish supposedly have? Three-second memories. Just three seconds, then everything's new again. Must be nice."

Leo looked at his hands, pruney from the water. No more shaking. "Three seconds. That's how long I have to decide whether to swing."

"So swing." Maya grinned. "Or don't. Either way, it's over in three seconds."

Leo climbed out, cold air hitting his skin. He grabbed his cleats and his phone—six missed calls from Dad.

"You coming to practice?" Maya asked, already walking toward the art building.

"Nah." Leo texted his dad back: Not doing baseball. Come get me. "Think I'm gonna start swimming instead."

"Same time tomorrow?"

"Same time tomorrow."

Three seconds of terror. Three seconds of cold water. Everything new again.