Orange Stains & Open Hearts

Marcus's palms were sweating, and not even the ice-cold orange soda in his hand could cool the panic rising in his chest. This was it — his first real chance to talk to Chloe, the girl who sat three rows ahead in homeroom and made his brain do cartwheels.

The baseball field smelled like cut grass and teenage desperation. Marcus adjusted his fitted cap, checking his iPhone for the tenth time. No new texts. Just him, his orange soda, and a seat three rows away from Chloe.

He'd practiced this moment in his mirror like a hundred times. "Hey Chloe, nice form," he'd say. She'd laugh. They'd exchange Snapcodes. Boom. Friendship unlocked.

Instead, his elbow knocked into the orange soda, which exploded across his white jersey like a sunset catastrophe. The entire section turned to stare. Someone snorted. Marcus wanted to dissolve into the aluminum bleachers.

"Smooth," Chloe said, appearing beside him with a grin. "That's definitely a fashion statement."

Marcus's face burned hotter than the summer sun. "I'm... I'm just gonna go."

But before he could escape, a scruffy golden retriever wandered onto the field, chasing an imaginary butterfly. The game stopped. Players laughed. The umpire rolled his eyes.

"That's Buster," Chloe said, watching the dog. "He crashes, like, every game."

Marcus laughed despite himself. "Seriously?"

"Best player on the field," she said, and for the first time, she was looking at him, really looking at him. "You okay? You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm good," Marcus said, and somehow, he meant it. The orange stain on his shirt didn't matter. The fact that he knew zero things about baseball didn't matter. Chloe was smiling at him, not at her phone, not at the players. At him.

"Wanna help me catch Buster before he steals someone's hot dog?" she asked.

Marcus grinned, orange-stained jersey and all. "Bet."