Thunder In The Seventh Inning

Miguel stood at the plate, feeling like a total zombie. Third time this week he'd stayed up until 3 AM doomscrolling through Instagram—not even his own feed, but secretly spying onJessica's profile to see if she'd posted anything about the spring formal. Spoiler: she hadn't.

"You good, man?" his best friend Ty called from the dugout. "You look like you haven't slept since... ever."

Miguel adjusted his batting gloves, trying to ignore the fact that Jessica was sitting behind the backstop, probably watching him fail epically. Their baseball team was down by two runs, bottom of the seventh, and Coach had put him in as a pinch hitter. No pressure.

"I'm fine," Miguel lied, though his brain felt like it was buffering like old cable internet. "Just focused."

The pitcher wound up. Miguel's eyes locked onto the ball—or tried to, between blinks that lasted way too long. The pitch came in, fast and inside, and somehow his bat connected.

*CRACK.*

The ball soared toward left field. Miguel bolted toward first base, his legs moving on autopilot. He chugged past first, rounded second, his lungs screaming. Third base coach waved him home.

And then—*BOOM.*

Lightning cracked across the sky, so bright it turned everything white for a split second. The umpire shouted something about game delay. Players scattered. Miguel stumbled toward the dugout, heart hammering from adrenaline and something else—maybe the way Jessica was looking at him now, actually looking at him, like he wasn't just the quiet guy in her English class.

"Nice hit," she said as he passed the backstop. Rain started falling, big warm drops. "You play like you're running from something."

Miguel smiled, feeling something shift inside him. "Maybe I'm running toward something."

Jessica laughed. "Smooth." She adjusted the cable of her headphones around her neck. "Hey, you going to the bonfire tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Miguel said, and for the first time all week, he didn't feel like a zombie at all. He felt awake.