Three Strikes

Marcus's palm sweat pooled around his iPhone as he sat in the bleachers, the August heat matching the fire in his chest. Third inning, varsity baseball tryouts, and his screen stayed stubbornly dark.

"Bro, you good?" Liam asked, bumping his shoulder. "You've been checking that phone like it holds the meaning of life."

"Yeah, yeah." Marcus slipped the phone into his pocket. "Just waiting on something."

The baseball cracked against aluminum bats—sharp, satisfying sounds that usually made everything else fade away. Usually. Today, every notification vibration sent his heart into overdrive.

Coach Miller blew his whistle. "Marcus! You're up!"

He grabbed his bat and stepped to the plate. The baseball sat pristine on the mound, waiting. This was it—his shot at varsity, the thing he'd worked toward since freshman year. But his mind kept drifting to that unanswered text from Friday night.

*You up?* — simple, casual, sent at 11:47 PM. From Elena.

Elena, who'd sat behind him in bio since September, who laughed at his terrible jokes, who'd somehow become his entire personality without him noticing.

Strike one.

"Focus, son!" Coach yelled.

Strike two.

Marcus dug his cleat into the dirt. The palm of his hand burned against the bat grip. He couldn't not make varsity. That's who he was—the baseball guy. But what if he was also the guy who sent texts that got left on read for three days?

The third pitch came—a fastball, right down the middle.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Just once.

Crack.

The baseball soared over the left fielder's head, clearing the fence with room to spare. The team erupted. Marcus stood at home plate, grinning like an idiot, his palm stinging from the impact.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Coach Miller shouted.

As the congratulatory handshakes and backslaps came, Marcus finally checked his phone.

*Sorry! My phone died lol. Want to hang Saturday?*