Zombie Mode at Home Plate

I looked like a zombie. Not the cool kind from movies — the kind that's had three hours of sleep and whose eyes are basically begging for mercy. Practice started in twenty minutes, and I was still tying my cleats while my phone blew up with texts.

"u coming??" Marcus had sent. "coach is gonna flip his shit"

"running there now," I typed back, though I was absolutely not running anywhere. I was shambling.

The baseball thing was supposed to be my fresh start. New school, new Marcus (who turned out to be basically the same Marcus, just with better hair), and suddenly I'm the varsity catcher because apparently desperation looks like talent. The other guys had been playing together since tee-ball. I'd been...

Well, I'd been busy overthinking everything and avoiding mirrors.

By the time I reached the field, my lungs were burning. Coach Richardson's whistle cut through my wheezing like, well, like something that cuts through wheezing.

"Late again, Williams."

"Sorry, Coach. Traffic was —"

"I don't pay for excuses. I pay for results. You're up first."

First. Of course. The team was already watching, some leaning against the dugout fence, others pretending not to. I could feel their judgment like humidity. Marcus gave me a thumbs-up that was supposed to be encouraging but mostly made me want to throw up.

I stepped into the batter's box. The pitcher — some junior whose name I still didn't know — wound up and threw. Strike one, before I'd even decided to swing.

"Eyes up, Williams!"

Second pitch. I swung at nothing but air. The team's collective mental sigh was practically audible.

Then it happened — that thing everyone talks about but you don't believe until it happens. Time slowed down. The third pitch was coming, and for some reason, I saw it before it left his hand. Lightning moment. That flash where suddenly everything makes sense, where you're not thinking about what you're supposed to do or who's watching or how badly you don't belong — you just know.

*CRACK.*

The ball sailed past the outfielder's reach and kept going. I dropped the bat and stood there, genuinely confused for a second, before Marcus's yell snapped me back.

"RUN, YOU IDIOT!"

So I ran. My legs pumping, cleats digging into dirt, lungs working properly for the first time all afternoon. The zombie feeling evaporated. I slid into home plate, safe by a mile, and looked up to find the whole team staring at me like I'd grown a second head. But not in a bad way.

Coach nodded. Almost smiled. "About time."

Marcus jogged over. "Dude. Where did THAT come from?"

I honestly didn't know. But for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like I was faking it. The zombie had left the building.