“You’ve got to be joking me,” Milo said, snatching away his card binder. “Why would I trade one of my ultra rares for your dogwater common card?”

  “Because,” Redd replied, still trying to snatch for Milo’s binder with his grubby little hands. His blonde hair stuck out at odd angles from under his baseball helmet, though why he bothered wearing it, Milo didn’t know. It wasn’t like he ever got to hit. “I need it to win the tournament this weekend.”

  “Win it with your own cards,” Milo said, turning away from Redd to flip through his book. On the field, Coach called a play, and one of the outfielders sprinted towards the bases. The day was hot and sticky, and Milo was sweating beneath his baseball uniform.

  “Milo, you don’t even play.”

  “I don’t have to play to know your trade is ass.”

  Redd launched to his feet, his face going pink. “What difference does it make?” he snapped. “You won’t get to play at the tournament this weekend anyway—“

  “I will too!”

  “You will not! Do you really think you’re gonna convince your mom to take you to a card shop for a game when we’ve got that baseball tournament this weekend? No way.”

  “You’ve got one too, or did you forget?” Milo said, trying to keep his cool. It wouldn’t be long before he’d have to go to bat—he didn’t want Redd getting in his head.

  “I’m not starting. I never start.”

  “We still have to be here.”

  “Not me,” Redd said smugly. “I asked coach. Now are you gonna trade or not?”

  Milo stuffed his card binder away in his bag. “Of course I’m not trading, you moron. Are you deaf?”

  “But—“

  He tossed his bag over the dugout to his mother, who caught it, giving him one of those looks that told him he’d pay for it later. She was probably going to come confiscate it anyway, Milo thought, suddenly annoyed. He spun on Redd instead. He was halfway to opening his mouth to unleash on the other boy when the coach called his name. Sighing, Milo shoved Redd aside, muttering under his breath. “Stuff it, Redd. I’ve got a game to win. Especially since you won’t help.”

  Milo marched to the plate, bat in hand. His cheeks went a bit red at the cheering in the stands—that was still hard to get used to—but his mind wasn’t on the game at all, really. He should have been elated to be there—after all, his team was on track to go to the Little League world series. The only thing that stood between Milo and the opportunity of a lifetime was this game and a blowoff tournament this weekend. He shouldn’t have even had to go, but Coach had insisted.

  Cleats scuffing against the plate, Milo took up his batting stance, eyeing the pitcher, a boy who looked at least a little bit worried he was pitching to Milo of all people. Why do I feel so bummed out? He wondered, testing a few swings through the air.

  He loved baseball—was brilliant at it, even. He’d played since he was barely old enough to walk, and he’d been slamming balls out of the park even when they were wiffle balls—he even had the YouTube videos to prove it. He could hit a ball from every angle. He knew the plays to make, the slides to execute, when to swing and when to wait. He had no doubt that his mom was right when she insisted that his baseball would pay for his college.

  That was all well and good, of course. Milo did love baseball.

  But what he really wanted to be was a Pocketeer Master.

  A few other boys in the outfield yelled, and the pitcher made a few motions behind his back as Milo stood ready, daydreaming of Pocketeers. He’d watched every episode of the show. He tried, at least, to collect all the cards—when his mom would let him spend his allowance money on it and when Redd wasn’t trying to fleece him for his good ones.

  He knew it was a stupid thing to want to be. A kid’s silly dream based off a cartoon show. He was twelve now, and he had bigger issues than his silly fantasies. Every twelve-year-old knew that there was no such thing as Pocketeers, and certainly no such thing as a world where you could capture and command creatures in battle.

  It didn’t stop him from dreaming, though. Or from being pissed that Redd had tried to rip him off. Maybe he couldn’t be a Pocketeer Master, or even play at the Pocketeer tournament this weekend, but he certainly wasn’t about to get robbed by his stupid friend.

  Sighing, Milo waited for the ball and tried to figure out how, exactly, he might manage to convince his mother to let him go to the Pocketeer tournament instead of the Little League tournament.

  He had his batting routine down to a science; plant his feet, rotate his trunk, grip the bat at just the right angle. He barely had to think about it anymore. It was downright boring. So instead, he racked his mind for some sort of way to convince his mother.

  Maybe I could pretend to be sick, he thought. Or maybe I could convince Redd to swap with me—and give him that card as payment. He twisted his mouth, shaking his head. That would never work. But maybe—maybe he could feign injury somehow.

  The pitcher tossed the ball, Milo swore, planted his feet, and swung, but something was wrong. The bat didn’t crack. The ball didn’t fly. The cheers didn’t start. Instead, something slammed into Milo’s face, erupting in pain, and the world went black.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  The last thing he heard was the umpire behind him: “Strrriike one!”

  You’re out was all Milo could think.

  ***

  Green. Everything was green. Milo groaned, rolling over until he felt something beneath his fingers…grass? And he swore that was the warmth of sunlight against his aching head. Am I on the field? He thought, trying roll over.

  And yet it was too quiet, and his mom would definitely be making a huge fuss if he was injured. And the sunlight was wrong—not the overbearing heat of the baseball field, but light filtering through the trees, blinking faintly with the breeze.

  Wincing, Milo rolled to a sitting position, trying to get his bearings. He was in a sunny clearing with soft grass beneath his fingertips. Trees swayed overhead. His bat was in one hand, and scattered at his feet…

  Milo stumbled onto his hands and knees, dragging the bat through the grass. “No way,” he whispered. He picked up one of the little balls and turned it in his hand, marveling at the thing.

  Riddled with holes and completely hollow, it was a bit like the wiffle balls he’d played with when he was still young enough for t-ball. But this ball was more like a cage, a series of red and white hexagons connecting in an alternating pattern. The whole thing felt plasticky beneath his fingertips, but it had a good weight to it.

  Milo tossed it up and down in his hands for a few seconds, impressed. Wherever he was, they sure knew how to make a good wiffle ball. The ball landed in his hand again, but Milo froze as something nearby rustled in the bushes.

  It’s just the wind, he told himself. But the rustling grew stronger, and there was a low sort of growl in the bushes. Milo stumbled to his feet, bat and ball in hand as something charged out the bushes, flying at him, teeth bared.

  “Oh crap.” He barely had time to utter the words. All he saw was a flash of teeth, and an animal he could only describe as a sort of blend between cat, rabbit, and fox, black fur shining as it dove at him. But those were blue rings on it. And those eyes—he swore he’d seen them somewhere before.

  On the card Redd was trying to cheat me out of, he thought. Still, he had no time to think about the implications of it all—or what he was doing in a world that had a creature just like the Pocketeer on his card.

  Instead, Milo reacted in the only way he could—by tossing the ball up in the air and swinging at it with all his might.

  His aim was true, his form so good even his mom would have been proud. The ball slammed into the creature, flashed red and white, then surrounded the Pocketeer before settling on the ground with a click and a flash of light.

  Milo settled back into the grass with a thud, his breath coming in thick gasps, and crawled towards the ball, warily poking at it. The thing shrank just a bit as he picked it up—maybe for convenience—and he turned it in his hands, marveling at the thing. It was now slightly translucent, and the Rocketeer was curled up inside the ball, clearly asleep.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, muttering to himself. “I really caught a—“

  But his tongue hung on the name. He tried several times, but the words caught in his throat each time. He tried a whisper. Nothing.

  Scowling, he shook the ball gently. “Why can’t I say it? It’s just a—“

  But he couldn’t even say Pocketeer. He tried several other creature names, several attacks, everything he could think of from his years of watching the show and collecting the cards. Nothing.

  “What the heck?”

  “MY BOY!!! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

  Milo spun, ball in hand, and nearly dropped the thing as an older man came running towards him, his hair disheveled, his boots way too big for the lab coat that covered them. Milo’s first instinct was to panic. Was he supposed to even have this ball? Or the bat?

  “I, uh—I just woke up like this and found it here and I—“

  “Nevermind that, your mother’s been looking everywhere for you.” The man came to a stop in the grass nearby, tilted his head at Milo, and scratched his head, looking faintly confused.

  “What was your name again?”

  “Uh, Milo.”

  “Right! Milo. And are you a boy or a girl?”

  This can’t be happening, Milo thought, but he stuttered out the words anyway, feeling at least a little bit insulted. Sure, the question was in the game, but didn’t he at least look like a boy? “A boy. Can I keep this, uh, Shadow Fox? And what was, uhm, your name, uh, sir?”

  It seemed his manners had evaporated alongside the sunny baseball field, but Milo was trying, at least. His mom would be proud of that. But the older man smiled at him, and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “With that kind of battling skill, Milo, you can keep any Ledimon you want!”

  “Ledimon?”

  The man laughed. “You must have taken a pretty bad spill, Milo! Everyone knows about Ledimon—Legally Distinct Pocket Companions. The world is inhabited by these creatures! Some raise them as pets, but others raise them as companions.” He held up a single finger. “But I study them as a profession.” Milo mouthed the words Legally Distinct Pocket Companions back at the man, still stunned, but he let him lead him out of the sunny clearing and into the woods. “The name’s Professor Fir! You must be a great trainer to catch Shadow Fox so easily—that one’s been escaping my lab for years now.”

  He actually used my name, Milo thought, stunned. But why? “You can have it back,” he said, pushing the—was it a Lediball?—towards Professor Fir. But Fir shook his head, still smiling.

  “I’d like you to keep it. Truly, you’ve got a talent for this, Milo! How many years have you been a trainer?”

  “I just started, actually.”

  Fir paused in the woods, examining him before a look of surprise came over his face. “Ah! You must be the new boy who just moved in. The same age as my grandson.”

  “Uhhh, sure.” At this point there was little point in arguing with the man. Either Milo had gone crazy or Fir had, and he wasn’t sure he liked the former option. Regardless, it hardly hurt anything to follow the professor. And, maybe if he was lucky, he could catch a few more Ledimon along the way. The rest of the Lediballs had clipped easily to his belt loop, and he found himself scanning the woods for more Ledimon as they walked.

  The woods were stuffed with Ledimon, of course, but there was little batting room, and most of the ‘mons he found were tiny caterpillars or other useless creatures—hardly worth trying to capture, not with his limited number of Lediballs.

  “Well,” Professor Fir said, ducking a branch, “you’ll find that your great swing will come in handy on your Ledimon journey—the better the swing, the better the stats.”

  Milo nearly dropped the Lediball. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Milo practically stumbled through the last thicket of grass as they burst into a clearing. Not a clearing, he realized, but a town.

  The same starter town as every Pocketeer game he’d ever played.

  And standing right there, grinning, was Redd.