Fox in the Outfield

Maya felt like a straight-up zombie as she trudged onto the baseball field for tryouts. Three hours of sleep after finishing that AP History paper would do that to you. But Dad had been giving her that disappointed look all week, the one that said, "You used to be such a sporty kid. What happened?"

So here she was, gripping a bat like it was an alien artifact while Coach Miller—seriously, the man had shoulders like a **bear** and zero chill—barked orders.

"Hustle, Martinez! This isn't nap time!"

Maya adjusted her cap, praying she didn't have **spinach** in her teeth from her smoothie that morning. That would be on brand for her life, honestly.

Then she saw him—Leo, leaning against the fence, all effortless cool in his varsity jacket. He waved. She practically hallucinated the word "SUS" written on her forehead in neon letters.

"You got this, Maya!" he called. For the first time all week, the zombie brain fog lifted. Maybe she wasn't some awkward imposter.

The pitcher wound up. The ball came flying. Maya's body moved on instinct—her dad's old training kicking in. *Contact.* The ball sailed into left field, then kept going, clearing the fence entirely.

Silence. Then someone yelled, "What a **fox**!" Probably not the compliment she wanted, but whatever.

Leo jogged over. "That was literally sick." He paused. "Hey, um, you wanna hang after this? My friends and I are going to that arcade downtown."

Maya's face burned. She mustered every ounce of cool she had. "Yeah. Definitely."

Walking to the dugout, she caught her reflection in her phone screen. No spinach. Just her, grinning like an idiot.

Later, she'd text her best friend: I think I just figured out who I'm supposed to be. Not the athlete Dad wants. Not the zombie her grades are turning her into. Just Maya. The girl who hits home runs and stumbles through conversations with cute boys and sometimes feels like everything's too much.

And honestly? That felt like winning.