Green Light

Alex's grandmother swore spinach made you lucky. 'Your grandfather proposed the day I ate that spinach salad,' she'd say, like the leafy greens held some romantic power.

Now Alex stood at first base, heart hammering against their ribs. Varsity baseball tryouts. Their dad watched from the bleachers, phone raised, recording everything for the family group chat.

'You got this, new kid,' Sophie said, sliding into the base beside them. Sophie's dad was the coach. Sophie had perfect hair and a reputation for dating whoever caught her eye, then ghosting them by the weekend. Alex had spent all winter thinking about her.

The pitch came—low and outside. Alex took it.

'Good eye,' Sophie said. Their knees brushed.

Then Jordan, the captain, leaned against the dugout fence. Sophie's eyes darted to him, then back to Alex. Alex's stomach twisted. Of course. Sophie wasn't interested. She was just being nice.

The next pitch, Alex swung at nothing. Whiffed. Sophie's suppressed smile said everything.

Afterward, Alex sat on the curb, cleats untied. Their grandmother's voice echoed: 'Sometimes you gotta take a swing even when you're scared you'll miss.' But Alex was tired of swinging at things they couldn't have.

'Hey,' Jordan said, sitting beside them. 'Sophie talks about you constantly. She's just... like that.' He nudged Alex's shoulder. 'You're pretty good, though.'

Alex's dad called from the parking lot. 'Spinach stir-fry tonight! Your grandmother's recipe!' He said it like a victory march, like spinach could fix everything.

Alex stood up, laces still loose. Maybe luck wasn't about baseball or Sophie or perfect swings. Maybe it was about running toward what actually mattered—like the way Jordan's face lit up when Alex laughed, or how their grandmother's spinach always tasted like love, even when it was gross.

'Nice meeting you,' Alex said, and meant it.

Jordan's answering smile was worth every missed swing.