Three Throws at Summer

Marcus's palms were sweating again. Classic. The moment he actually needed to not look like a mess, his body decided otherwise. He wiped his hands on his jeans—third time in two minutes—and stared at the carnival booth in front of him.

"You got this," said Kayla, nudging his shoulder. Her smile did things to his stomach that felt suspiciously like nausea. "Unless you're scared I'll win a better prize."

"Please." Marcus stepped up to the counter. The setup was deceptively simple: three baseballs, three targets, one shot at the decent prizes. The cheap stuff—plastic rings, temporary tattoos—sat on the lower shelves. But the top tier? That's where the goldfish waited.

Not that he needed a goldfish. His mom would kill him. But Kayla had mentioned wanting one in that offhand way she did when she was actually serious about stuff.

The carnival worker, a guy with a nametag that said 'Trevor' and the energy of someone who'd seen way too many teens fail today, slid the baseballs across the counter. "Three balls, three bucks. Knock down all three bottles, take home a fish."

Marcus lifted the first baseball. It felt weirdly light after a season of regulation balls. He'd quit the team last month—coach had been riding him hard about his "attitude," whatever that meant—but the muscle memory was still there somewhere.

"No pressure," Kayla said, but her eyes were bright with that competitive glint that made him want to simultaneously run away and never leave.

First throw: smack in the center. Bottle one down.

"Okay, not bad," Trevor said, genuinely surprised.

Second throw: Marcus's palm was slick with sweat now. He adjusted his grip. The ball sailed wide.

"Oof." Kayla winced. "Rookie mistake. You're overthinking it."

Marcus laughed, wiping his palm on his shirt again. "Since when are you the baseball expert?"

"Since I know you're way better when you're not trying to impress everyone."

The words hit him harder than the third baseball would. He wasn't trying to impress everyone. He was trying to impress her. But she already knew him—the quitting, the sweat, the overthinking.

He picked up the last baseball. Didn't wipe his hands this time. Just threw it.

The bottle crashed down, and Trevor actually clapped. "Finally, someone who can actually play."

Marcus turned to Kayla, half-grinning. "So. About that fish."

She rolled her eyes but was smiling. "You're naming it Marcus."

"Absolutely not."

Walking away with a plastic bag holding a very confused orange goldfish, Marcus realized his palms weren't sweating anymore. Some things, apparently, were worth the nerves.