Lightning in the Outfield

I'd had spinach stuck in my teeth for three innings and nobody told me. That's what I get for trying to look casual leaning against the dugout fence while Maya watched from the bleachers. The varsity baseball game was tied 2-2, bottom of the seventh, and I was literally dying inside.

Then came the lightning.

Coach Miller blew the whistle—everyone off the field, storm rolling in fast. The team scrambled toward the school, leaving equipment everywhere. I grabbed my gear bag and started jogging toward the parking lot when I spotted it: a red fox, just standing there near second base, looking at me like I was the weird one for playing baseball in the middle of a thunderstorm.

"Dude, you seeing this?" I whispered to myself, pulling out my phone to document the impossible. The fox tilted its head, almost mocking me.

That's when I heard Maya's voice behind me. "Caleb!"

I spun around too fast, tripped over my own cleats, and faceplanted directly into a puddle. My phone skidded across the mud. The fox vanished. Maya reached me just as the first real crack of thunder shook the ground.

"You okay?" She asked, extending a hand. When she helped me up, she started laughing. "You have something in your teeth."

The spinach. OF COURSE.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, mortified. "How long has that been there?"

"Since the third inning," she said. "I was trying to figure out how to tell you without making it weird." She paused. "But you also just faceplanted for a fox, so I think we're past weird."

More lightning flashed, purple and jagged across the sky. The rain started coming down for real. We ran toward the school together, and somewhere between the field and the overhang, she grabbed my hand.

"Tomorrow," she said, ducking under the shelter, rain plastering her hair to her face. "Let's get food. Somewhere without spinach on the menu."

The fox was long gone. My dignity was gone. But somehow, I'd won anyway.