First Pitch, Last Nerve

The air smelled like cheap popcorn and desperation. I stood behind the bleachers, fingers fidgeting with the hem of my flannel, trying to look like I belonged. Like I wasn't the new kid who'd transferred three weeks into sophomore year.

"Hey, baseball junkie!"

Brad Mitchell— varsity pitcher, grade-A tool, and the reason I'd been avoiding lunch period for days. His crew laughed like they were auditioning for a laugh track. Some big dude I didn't recognize loomed behind him, shoulders bunched like he was ready to charge.

"That's Bear," someone whispered. "Don't mess with him. He's been held back twice."

Great. A bull and a bear. My spirit animals, apparently.

"Thought you were tough, Mitchell." The words were out before I could stop them. My face burned.

Bear stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. But then his eyes slid past me, lit up. "Sarah?"

My stomach dropped. Elementary school Sarah. The one who'd moved away in fifth grade. The one I'd cried about for literally a week.

"You know her?" Brad looked confused.

"She's my cousin," Bear said, and something in his face softened. "You got a problem with my cousin?"

Brad blinked. "No, dude, I didn't—"

"Cool." Bear turned to me. "You coming to the game? Coach needs another scorekeeper."

I nodded, unable to speak. The irony wasn't lost on me—I'd spent years avoiding anything athletic, terrified of being the last picked, the awkward one, the girl who didn't belong. And here was my elementary school crush's cousin, defending me against the varsity jerk.

The game was a blur. I sat next to Bear, learning the scoring system, laughing when he made fun of his own batting average. Afterward, Brad slunk over, muttered an apology that sounded rehearsed. Bear just rolled his eyes.

"See you tomorrow," he said, bumping my shoulder like we'd been friends for years. "Bring your glove."

"I don't—"

"You will." He grinned. "We need a backup infielder. And you've got arms like you could throw down a bull from a hundred yards."

Walking home, I realized I'd survived my first high school social encounter without crying, hiding, or wishing I was invisible. Small wins. And tomorrow, I'd show up with a baseball glove and the courage to use it.