//////
~~=POV change
//////
~~
I let out a slow sigh as I started the walk back home. One hand was shoved deep into my pocket, fingers curled tightly—still warm from the match. The other gripped my mitt, its leather worn thin and cracked.
My eyes stayed locked on the cracked pavement, each step falling into the rhythm of this worn-down street I knew too well. Same potholes. Same faded graffiti.
As I kept walking down the street, the familiar quiet was broken by a voice in the distance. At first, I didn't think much of it—probably just someone neighbors yelling at each other for stealing their things, like usual. I didn't even look up.
I knew better than to engage with anyone out here.
"Hey, kid!"
The voice rang out again—closer this time. I stiffened. My steps quickened.
Not today.
I didn't want trouble. Didn't want conversation. I just wanted to get home.
The footsteps behind me picked up.
'Shit.'
Right as I was about to break into a sprint, a blur moved past me, and a man suddenly stopped dead in my path.
I froze, stumbling back a step, heart kicking into overdrive.
He was tall—really tall. Blond hair slicked back like he walked off a magazine cover. Light brown eyes that studied me with too much focus. His clothes screamed money: clean sneakers, crisp jacket, not a speck of dirt on him.
My eyes narrowed.
He didn't belong here.
Not in these streets. Not among the junk and rust. And I sure as hell had never seen him before.
I scanned him with suspicion. Every part of him felt out of place.
"Kid, who taught you how to pitch?" the man asked, brushing off my obvious skepticism like it didn't even register.
I stared at him, silent. Still trying to figure out if he was dangerous or just… weird.
Who is this guy?
His eyes didn't leave me—waiting, maybe hoping for an answer. Something about him was off. Too eager. But also… oddly sincere.
I hesitated, then finally muttered,
"No one… I found a busted TV a while back. Some match was playing. I just watched the guy on the screen and copied the way he held the ball."
His eyes lit up like I'd just handed him a winning lottery ticket.
"Do you like playing baseball" he asked, and his tone wasn't casual—it was hopeful, like he was clinging to the answer before I even said it.
I gave a slight shrug, keeping my voice even.
"It's the only time everything feels quiet. Just me, the ball, and the catcher. Doesn't matter who's watching or what's going on around me—it all fades when I'm on the mound."
The moment the words left my mouth, the man broke into laughter—loud, unfiltered, like he'd just heard the best punchline of his life.
I blinked.
Ah. Yeah. That settles it. Total weirdo. Just my luck—cornered by a rich lunatic on the way home.
I shifted my grip on the mitt and was ready to sidestep around him when he suddenly blocked my path again, this time more serious.
"Kid, instead of staying out here in this dump—why not come with me?
You can play all the tennis you want. Live in a better place without having to worry about not having enough food on the table or clothes on your back"
I looked up at him, eyes narrowing.
Disbelief.
Suspicion.
This wasn't normal.
Nothing about this was normal.
A stranger in rich clothes shows up out of nowhere, offers me a golden ticket out of this dump, and expects me to just say yes?
Yeah, right.
Every instinct I had was screaming. My gut twisted with a familiar tension—one I knew better than to ignore.
So I did the only thing I know how to do when the world gets too close.
I ran.
***********************************************************************
Walking into my rundown, one-story house, the heavy front door groaned on rusted hinges before I forced it shut with my shoulder. The wood was warped and chipped, the paint long gone—just gray, weather-beaten panels eaten away by time and rain.
The stale air inside clung to my skin, thick with dust, mildew, and something I stopped trying to identify a long time ago. The floor creaked beneath my steps, sagging slightly in places where the boards were warped or cracked. Water stains bled down the peeling walls, and cobwebs clung to the corners like they'd claimed the place before I had.
I lplaced my mitt carefully against the wall near the door—one of the few things here that wasn't broken or half-dead—and made my way into the kitchen.
It was small, cramped, and stained with the stories of too many nights without enough food. The cabinets were crooked, hanging off their hinges, and the linoleum floor was curling up at the edges, dotted with dark spots I didn't want to think about. Mold crept up from the sink tiles, and the faucet dripped a slow, rhythmic beat into a rusted steel basin.
I pulled open the old fridge, its motor whining like a dying animal. A wave of cold hit my face, but inside, there was nothing but a chipped plate with a peanut butter and jam sandwich—the bread stale and sagging at the edges.
I stared at it for a moment—at that sad excuse for a sandwich—then closed the fridge with a dull thud.
"Guess we're not eating today," I muttered under my breath.
After a moment, I turned and walked to the only bedroom in the house. The floor creaked under every step. My eyes passed over what used to be a nightstand—now just a broken mess of splintered wood and screws scattered across the floor like forgotten pieces of a puzzle.
I knelt down, pushed aside the debris, and reached beneath it. My hand found the hidden jar tucked in the dark, wedged against the wall. Inside were a few wrinkled bills, all folded with care.
I unscrewed the lid and added a few pennies I found around while walking home. It wasn't much. But it was something.