Welcome to Reefside (editing in progress)

First Game

Normal POV 
Tracy stands outside the cyber cafe, the cool evening air doing little to calm the frantic energy buzzing inside her. She's on the phone with her mom, the device pressed tightly against her ear.

"Mom, do you think you and Dad can make it to the game?" she asks, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. We have to work late again tonight," Christi answers, her voice tinged with regret.

"I understand. I guess I'll see you tomorrow then," Tracy says, forcing a cheerful tone that doesn't quite land.

"Yeah, see you then. Good luck," Christi says.

They say their goodbyes, and Tracy slides the phone back into her pocket. She takes a deep breath, pushes the door open, and steps inside. The familiar, chaotic energy of the cafe washes over her. Her friends are gathered at a large table near the back, and they immediately spot her.

"Hey Tracy, so can your parents make it tonight?" Amber asks as she approaches.

Tracy shakes her head, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes before she masks it.

"Ugh, again?" Kira says, frowning. "Well, don't worry. We'll be there. The whole crew."

Trent, who is setting up his camera bag, chimes in. "And Devin will be there, too. He's covering the game for the school news. You're going to be famous."

Amber checks the time on her phone. "The game starts in two hours. We should probably head back to school soon to meet up with the rest of the team."

Tracy nods. "Yeah, let's go."

The energy in the Krakens' dugout is a chaotic mix of pre-game jitters and excitement. Girls are stretching, chattering, and knocking dirt from their cleats. But Coach Burns stands with his hands on his hips, his brow furrowed as he scans the space.

"Alright, where is she?" he asks, his voice cutting through the noise. "Has anyone seen Burlew? Her gear is still sitting under the bench."

A few girls shake their heads. Amber, pulling on her catcher's mask, looks concerned. "No, Coach, sorry. Haven't seen her since we got here."

From the end of the bench, Zoey speaks up, her voice dripping with a sweet, insincere concern. "If she's chickening out, Coach, just let me start. I'm ready to go."

Before Coach Burns can respond, Randi Jones, a fiery first baseman, snaps her head around. "Zoey, Tracy earned the start at shortstop today. You have to stop thinking just because you're the assistant coach's kid, you get to start every game and skip practice."

The tension in the dugout spikes. Zoey's face hardens, a retort on her lips.

"Girls, that's enough!" Coach Burns's voice is sharp, leaving no room for argument. He points a finger towards the field. "I want the rest of you to go out there and warm up. Now." He then turns his full attention to Zoey, his expression firm. "Zoey, you are staying on this bench. You are only playing if Tracy gets worn down, or heaven forbid, injured. So sit back down."

Zoey's jaw tightens, but she slumps back onto the bench, muttering under her breath. With a final, sweeping glance over his team, Coach Burns turns and jogs out of the dugout, heading for the path that leads to the practice fields. He has a pretty good idea where he might find his missing shortstop.

Tracy stands on the sun-drenched path leading to the school's softball diamonds, her heart hammering against her ribs with a ferocity that feels entirely foreign. She's faced down monsters, fought in battles that would make most people sweat, and never once has this cold, slick feeling of dread coiled in her stomach. Her cleats feel like lead weights, and the distant sound of a bat connecting with a ball from the other field—a practice session for the junior varsity team—echoes the frantic rhythm of her pulse.