Undercover at the Dugout

I'd been spying on Marcus for three weeks before he caught me.

Okay, maybe "spying" is dramatic. I was just strategically positioning myself near the baseball dugout during lunch, pretending to be deeply interested in the commemorative plaque on the back wall while actually memorizing the way his cleats clicked against the concrete when he walked.

"You know," his voice said behind me, "if you wanted to say hi, you could just... say hi."

I nearly knocked over the memorial trophy for the 2018 championship team. Marcus stood there in his practice jersey, holding a bat like it weighed nothing. His hair was a disaster of tangles and sweat, and I'd never wanted to evaporate more in my entire life.

"I wasn't—" I started. "I was just... reading. The plaque. It's very... plaque-like."

"Smooth." He grinned, and oh my GOD, he was actually looking at me like I was a person and not just background scenery. "You're Leo, right? From English?"

My brain short-circuited. He knew my name. He knew where I sat in English.

"Yeah," I squeaked. Awesome. Very cool. Very suave.

"You want to toss the ball around?" Marcus asked. "Unless you're busy being deeply moved by the 2018 championship season."

That's how I found myself playing catch with Marcus Rodriguez while my brain performed calculations normally reserved for NASA missions. My arm moved mechanically, like I was a zombie functioning on pure instinct, throwing and catching and somehow not dropping everything.

"You're actually good," he said after maybe five minutes. "You ever play?"

"Used to," I admitted. "Before I figured out that sports required, like, talking to people."

Marcus laughed, and I decided in that moment that if I could bottle that sound, I'd make a fortune. "No way. You're gonna have to tell me that story sometime."

"Sometime?"

"Yeah, sometime." He threw the ball back, easy and perfect. "Like, maybe after school tomorrow? Or at the game Friday? I can get you on the visitor list."

My zombie heart started beating again. "The game?"

"If you want. Or we could just hang. Whatever."

The bell rang, saving me from having to form coherent speech.

"Tomorrow," Marcus called as he walked backward toward the gym. "Don't make me come back here and drag you onto the field."

I watched him go, my hand still tight around the baseball he'd tossed me. The plaque behind me was definitely not plaque-like enough to justify everything that had just happened.

But Marcus Rodriguez knew my name.

And I had a date to a baseball game.

Sometimes strategic espionage works out. Mostly it just leads to commemorative plaques and near-death experiences, but sometimes—if you're stupid lucky—it leads to something better.