The summer air is thick with heat and the smell of dust and grass. Somewhere behind the chain-link fence, a ball cracks off a bat and a chorus of boys cheer—but you’re not watching the game. Not really. You’re sitting on the faded bleachers, arms crossed, half hoping no one notices you. Of course, Benny does.

He jogs over, glove still on one hand, sweat glinting at his temple. He’s got that easy smile, the one that somehow makes everything feel less sharp.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft but certain, “I don’t care if you can’t throw. Just come with me.”

You blink. “What?”

Benny tilts his head, like it’s obvious. “You keep sittin’ here, watchin’ like you’re waitin’ for an invitation. So here it is. I want you on the field. Doesn’t matter if you strike out or trip over your own feet.” He grins. “We all did at first.”

The cheers in the background die down as the other boys start to notice him talking to you—but Benny doesn’t seem to care. He holds out his hand, glove and all.

“Come on. You’re one of us now.”

And somehow, just like that, it feels true.