Cannonball Confessions

Jordan's baseball cap sat pulled low over his eyes, a desperate attempt to disappear into the folding chair. The Taylor family's annual end-of-summer pool party raged around him—splash fights, shrieking laughter, and enough sunblock smell to choke a hippo.

"You coming in, Jordan?" Maya called from the pool edge, water dripping from her cutoffs. She was everything he wasn't: confident, radiant, currently floating on an inflatable flamingo like she owned it.

"Nah, I'm good," Jordan mumbled, fingers gripping his hat brim like a lifeline. "Forgot my suit."

Lies. His swim trunks were buried at the bottom of his bag, mocking him. But Jordan had successfully avoided swimming all summer, and he wasn't about to break his streak now. Not when last time he'd tried to swim, he'd flailed like a dying fish while half the baseball team watched.

"Boring!" Maya splashed water at him, droplets hitting his knees. "Live a little, baseball boy."

That was the thing about Maya—she somehow knew exactly which buttons to push. Jordan played varsity baseball, could crush a fastball into the parking lot, but put him in water deeper than his waist and he became the world's biggest awkward disaster.

"I'll live vicariously through you," he deflected. "Someone's gotta document your legendary cannonball form."

Maya rolled her eyes but grinned. "Chicken."

"Strategically cautious," he corrected.

She climbed out of the pool, water streaming down her arms, and plopped into the chair beside him. Close. Too close. His heart did that annoying flutter thing it always did around her lately.

"You know," she said, tapping her chin like she was solving world hunger, "I could teach you. My little brother's taking lessons. You could join his class."

Jordan choked on nothing. "I'm fifteen, Maya. I can't join a class with seven-year-olds."

"Could be cute," she teased. "You in your little floaties."

"Hard pass."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching some kids attempt a synchronized swimming disaster that ended in chaos and laughter.

"Seriously though," Maya said, her voice softer. "Nobody cares if you're not Michael Phelps. We just want you to have fun with us."

Jordan looked at her—really looked at her—and something in his chest shifted. The fear of looking stupid had been holding him back all summer, but Maya wasn't judging him. She was inviting him.

He pulled off his baseball hat and set it on the chair. "Alright. But if I drown, you're explaining to my mom why her favorite son is gone."

"Deal," Maya beamed, grabbing his hand and pulling him up. "Also, you're her only son."

"Technicalities."

He grabbed his bag and headed toward the pool, heart pounding but maybe, just maybe, ready to take the plunge.