Three Strikes at Summit High

Marcus stood at the plate, the baseball bat feeling like a lead pipe in his sweaty hands. Tryouts for the varsity team were tomorrow, and his swing was still mid. Like, actually tragic.

"No cap, you're overthinking it," Ty said from the mound, tossing him another pitch.

The social pyramid at Summit High was simple: varsity athletes at the top, everyone else just vibing in the margins. Marcus had been stuck in the middle forever—good enough for JV, never enough for varsity. It was giving major imposter syndrome.

After practice, he trudged home, spotting that same stray cat lurking near the abandoned convenience store. The tabby gave him major side-eye, like it knew something he didn't.

"My guy, you look rough," Marcus muttered, sitting on the curb and sharing his granola bar.

The cat—naturally named Pyramid because of the weird triangle patch on its forehead—actually ate it. A stray cat with taste. Based.

What happened next was wild. Pyramid started showing up to every practice, sitting by the fence like a furry coach. The team thought it was mad sus until the cat started chirping right before Marcus would miss a pitch.

"He's vibing with your aura," Jenna from the cheer squad observed, and somehow that made sense.

The next day at tryouts, Marcus was locked in. Pyramid watched from the bleachers (how did it get in?). Every time Marcus tensed up, the cat made this soft noise and he'd relax.

First at-bat: solid single.

Second: double to the gap.

Third: absolute bomb to center field.

Coach Miller's jaw dropped. "Since when do you have rizz like that, son?"

Pyramid meowed.

Marcus made the team. But the real W? He'd finally stopped trying to climb someone else's pyramid and found his own vibe.

"Guess we're both legit now," he told Pyramid on the walk home, the varsity jersey feeling lighter on his shoulders.

The cat just flicked its tail, which Marcus translated as: "obviously, and don't get it twisted."

And honestly? Valid.