Zombie Mode at Home Plate

Marcus dragged himself through third period like a **zombie**, three hours of sleep and four hours of scrolling TikTok will do that to you. His phone buzzed in his pocket — probably Ty again, blowing up his group chat with memes that weren't even funny anymore.

"Dude, you look dead," Ty whispered, sliding into the desk beside him. "You good?"

"Never been better," Marcus lied, wiping his **palm**s on his jeans. They were sweating. They always sweated when Emily Rodriguez was in the room, which was coincidentally also every time his brain decided to short-circuit.

Coach Miller's voice boomed down the hall: "**Baseball** tryouts today after school! Don't make me regret signing up for this gig!"

Marcus's stomach did that thing where it felt like someone was wringing it out like a wet towel. He'd been playing catch with his dad since forever, but tryouts? That was next-level. That was Emily-watching-from-the-bleachers level.

His childhood **dog**, Buster, used to wait by the fence whenever he played catch in the backyard. Buster passed last year, but sometimes Marcus still found himself looking for the old golden retriever, expecting that familiar wet nose nudging his hand when he missed a catch.

"You trying out?" Ty asked.

"Maybe." Marcus shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Probably not."

"Bruh, you've got that arm." Ty gestured dramatically. "Emily's gonna be there watching Jordan, so you might as well ball up."

Wait, Emily was watching Jordan try out? Jordan, who wore his hat backwards and called everyone "fam" unironically?

Marcus sat up straighter. Maybe he wasn't so **zombie** after all.

"Alright," Marcus said, already mentally calculating how much Red Bull he'd need to survive tryouts and Emily in the same afternoon. "I'm in."