Green Between My Teeth

The baseball sat heavy in my glove, sweat already pooling at the base of my spine. First varsity start, and naturally, my parents decided today was the day to amp up the 'performance diet' nonsense. I'd choked down a spinach smoothie that tasted like lawn clippings two hours ago, and now I was standing on the mound, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break out.

Coach yelled from the dugout, but honestly? All I could think about was whether Maya was in the stands. She'd been watching my stories all week, finally responded to my 'good luck' text this morning with a simple 'u got this 🔥' that I'd screenshotted and immediately sent to the group chat. The guys were relentlessly roasting me for being down bad, but whatever. They didn't understand how Maya's laugh sounded like actual sunlight.

'You good, Martinez?' the umpire called, and I realized I'd been staring at the dirt for a solid thirty seconds.

'Yeah. Yeah, I'm good.' Except I wasn't. My phone buzzed in my back pocket—I could feel it through the uniform. Probably the group chat asking if I'd embarrassed myself yet. Or worse, Maya. What if she'd changed her mind about coming? What if the whole 'u got this' was just pity because I'd mentioned she should come after school yesterday?

First pitch: ball. Way outside. The batter smirked.

Second pitch: strike, but barely. My mechanics were off, everything felt stiff and wrong. I could feel the water bottle sloshing in my stomach, making me nauseous. Why did I drink so much hydration? Rookie mistake.

Third pitch: line drive straight back at me. I snagged it barehand, pure instinct, and the batter stood there stunned. The small crowd cheered, and I finally let myself look up at the bleachers.

There she was. Pink hoodie. Phone up, probably recording. And then—oh god. My phone buzzed AGAIN, and I instinctively glanced down at the ground where it had fallen out of my pocket.

The screen lit up with a notification from Maya: 'turn around lol'

She was three rows back, grinning, and when I waved like an absolute dork, she just shook her head and mouthed something I couldn't quite catch. Later, she'd tell me she said 'your smile,' but at that moment, all I could think about was how the spinach smoothie had probably turned my teeth green, and I'd played the whole inning looking like a photoshopped mess.

Somehow, I made it through five innings. We won. And afterwards, when Maya found me by the water cooler, she didn't mention the spinach or my nervousness or the fact that I'd tripped over second base.

'Solid game,' she said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. 'My sister says your form is actually terrible, though.'

I laughed. 'Yeah, well. I got the win.'

'Mhm.' She held up her phone, showing a video of me making that line drive catch. 'Sent this to my friends. They think you're kinda clutch.'

'Kinda clutch?'

'Don't push it.' She smiled, and I swear, nothing else mattered. Not the embarrassing smoothie, not the group chat roasting me for looking like a 'simp' when I waved at the bleachers, not even the fact that I'd left my phone on the mound and had to run back and get it while everyone watched.

Baseball's weird like that. You can feel like the most awkward person alive, greasy hair and spinach teeth and overthinking every single thing—and then one good moment, one genuine laugh, and suddenly you're not thinking about any of that anymore.

Just the game. Just her. Just the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you're exactly where you're supposed to be.