Bear In the Outfield

Maya stood at the plate, the baseball bat feeling heavier than it should. This was it—freshman year, varsity tryouts, and her stomach was doing that thing where it felt like a swarm of angry hornets were throwing a rave.

"You got this, May," said Liam, her best friend since kindergarten, adjusting his Cubs cap. "Just don't think about it."

Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one whose dad had been the star pitcher back in the day. The one who kept leaving those weird multivitamin gummies on her pillow every morning with a sticky note that said GROW BIG AND STRONG like she was still twelve.

Coach Miller blew his whistle. "Batter up!"

Maya stepped into the box. The pitcher—some sophomore named Jordan who looked like they'd been injecting muscle supplements since birth—gave her this look. That look. The one that said you don't belong here.

First pitch: swing and a miss. So hard her shoulders protested.

Second pitch: foul tip. She grimaced.

Third pitch came flying at her, and in that moment, something shifted. She remembered last summer, camping with her cousins in Colorado, how they'd all laughed when she'd frozen at a rustling in the bushes. Turned out it was just a raccoon, but for five seconds she'd been convinced it was a bear. How her cousin had said, "Maya, you gotta stand your ground. Even if you're terrified, you act like you own the place. Bears can smell fear."

She channeled that energy. Stood her ground. Eyes locked on the ball like it owed her money.

CRACK.

The ball sailed past the outfielder's desperate reach and kept going. Over the fence. A home run on her first at-bat.

For a second, nobody moved. Then the dugout erupted.

"No freaking WAY," Liam shouted, abandoning all cool. He sprinted toward her as Maya walked toward home plate, her legs feeling weirdly floaty. "Did you see that? DID YOU SEE THAT?"

Coach Miller actually nodded. Respect. Actual respect.

That night, Maya found the gummy vitamins on her pillow again. Same sticky note. She smiled and popped two in her mouth. Some habits were worth keeping, even if she was figuring out she didn't need them to be strong anymore.

She grabbed her phone and texted her dad: Made the team. First at-bat home run.

His reply came instantly: I knew it. BEAR HUGS when you get home, kiddo.

Maya laughed. Maybe she'd earned those after all.