Outfield Recon

The field lights cut through the twilight like something out of a movie, except this wasn't a movie and my best friend Chloe was hiding behind the bleachers like a total weirdo. "You're literally spying on him right now," I said, adjusting my backpack strap. "That's obsessed behavior."

"I'm not obsessed," Chloe hissed, peeking through the slats. "I'm gathering intel. It's called being strategic."

Her golden retriever, Buster, sat beside us looking equally confused about why we were crouching behind metal framing during baseball practice. He'd been my walking job for three weeks now—five dollars per walk, plus the privilege of his constantly happy presence.

The baseball field stretched out like a stage, and there he was: Tyler Rivera, number 7, currently fielding ground balls like his life depended on it. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed him before. But Chloe noticed everything about everyone, which was probably why she knew his schedule, his favorite sandwich, and that he always wore mismatched socks to practice.

"He looked this way," Chloe whispered. "Did you see that? He looked."

"He was looking at the dog, Chloe."

"Same difference."

We'd been up since 5 AM studying for finals, my brain feeling like something that had crawled out of a grave. A zombie, basically. The kind of zombie that still had to walk dogs and help friends stalk their crushes because that's what you did when you were fifteen and everything felt like life or death.

Tyler jogged off the field toward the dugout, and I realized with dawning horror that he was heading straight toward the bleachers. Toward us.

" abort mission," I said. "ACTUAL SPY SITUATION."

But it was too late. He spotted us—well, mostly Buster, who was now wagging his tail so hard his whole body shook. "Hey," Tyler said, flipping his hair out of his eyes. "Is that Buster? I haven't seen him in forever."

He dropped to his knees, and the dog immediately lost his mind with happiness. Tyler looked up at us, grinning. "You guys watching practice?"

"No," I said, at the exact same time Chloe said, "Yes."

We stared at each other. Tyler laughed, and it was this awful, perfect sound that made my stomach do something traitorous.

"Cool," he said, standing up and dusting off his knees. "You should come to the game Friday. If you want. Both of you."

He walked away before we could respond, and Chloe looked at me with eyes the size of dinner plates. "Did that just happen?"

I looked at Tyler's retreating figure, then at Buster, who was now panting happily like he'd just accomplished his life's mission. "Yeah," I said. "I think it did."

"You think he was looking at you?"

I thought about the way his eyes had found mine first, the half-second before he noticed the dog. "Maybe," I said, trying to sound casual and failing completely. "Or maybe he just really likes dogs."

But Chloe was already typing furiously on her phone, probably updating their group chat with BREAKING NEWS, and I stood there feeling caught between wanting this moment to last forever and wanting to run away before anything could get complicated. Being fifteen was basically a constant exercise in emotional whiplash.

"Game on Friday," Chloe said, finally looking up. "We're going. No arguments."

"I wasn't arguing."

"You were giving me that face. The 'I don't want to hope because hoping is dangerous' face."

She wasn't wrong. Hope felt too much like standing on a cliff edge—beautiful and terrifying all at once. But as we walked home under the streetlights, Buster trotting happily between us, I found myself thinking about Friday anyway.

"Okay," I said. "But if he doesn't show, you're buying me boba."

"Deal. And if he does?"

I thought about it for a second. "Then we'll figure it out. Together."

That felt like enough. For now, anyway.