Palm Lines and Line Drives

Leo's palms were sweating again. Not the cute glisten you see in rom-coms, but the full-on slip-and-slide situation that made gripping anything impossible.

"You're gonna be fine, bro," Marcus said, slapping him on the back. "It's just summer league. Not the World Series."

Easy for Marcus to say. He wasn't the one whose palm-reading-obsessed aunt had predicted three days ago that Leo's "life line would fork at seventeen" which apparently meant some massive choice was coming. Something about water and destiny, and honestly, Leo had stopped listening because *palm readings*, seriously?

But now he was standing on first base, bottom of the ninth, tied game, runners on second and third. And his palms were so sweaty he could barely hold the bat. The humidity was ridiculous—ninety degrees and the air basically thick enough to swim through. Some genius had scheduled the championship game during a July heatwave, and of course the field's sprinkler system had malfunctioned, turning the infield into what the coach called "a strategic water feature" and what Leo's cleats called "a swamp."

Their best hitter, Jenna, was at the plate, looking terrifyingly calm. She'd been crushing it all season while Leo had been... adequate. Bench material who'd only gotten subbed in when Carlos sprained his ankle warming up.

*CRACK.*

The ball sailed into left field. The left fielder—who'd been dealing with the same water-logged infield issues—slipped, fell, and by the time he recovered, Jenna was on second and the guy from third had scored. Game over. They'd won.

The team rushed the field. Someone dumped the entire cooler of ice water on the coach—classic. But Leo found himself standing near the dugout, watching everything, feeling weirdly separate from it.

"Hey," Jenna said, walking over, wiping sweat from her forehead with her wrist. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Leo said. "Just... thinking."

"About your aunt's prediction?" She grinned. "I heard Marcus talking about it. The water thing."

Leo felt his face get hot. "Yeah. It's stupid."

"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe the choice isn't about baseball at all. Maybe it's about whether you let stuff like that mess with your head." She held out her hand, palm-up. "Want a high-five?"

Leo stared at her hand, then looked at his own. Still sweaty. Still nervous. Still seventeen and facing some supposed fork in his road.

He wiped his hand on his jersey and slapped hers. "Choice made."

"Good," she said, jogging toward the celebration. "Because we're getting pizza, and if you're late, you're not getting any."

Leo ran after her. His palms were still sweating, the air was still thick with humidity, and his aunt's predictions were still ridiculous. But sometimes, that was enough. Sometimes, you just got to grip the bat, slip and slide through the water, and swing anyway.