Palm Prints and Fastballs

The summer before sophomore year, I discovered two things: my best friend had zero chill, and I could actually read palms.

"Dude, you're obsessed," Maya said, watching me study the lines on her hand for the third time that week. We were sitting on her front porch, melting in the July heat. "You've been staring at my palm for like ten minutes. What, do you see my future or something?"

"Your life line is messed up," I said, tracing the jagged path across her hand. "And your heart line... it's complicated."

Maya rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. "You're not a psychic. You're just weird."

But I kept doing it. Reading palms became my thing. At lunch, between classes, whenever someone let me. It made me feel like I had something — some weird little superpower that made me interesting. That made me not just the quiet kid who sat in the back.

Then baseball season started, and everything got weird.

Maya's boyfriend was the pitcher. Varsity, starting, annoyingly confident. Tyler. The kind of guy who walked through hallways like he owned them, who'd never once looked in my direction until the day he caught me studying my own hand during lunch.

"You really believe that stuff?" he'd asked, sliding into the seat across from me. His teammates laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

I'd shrugged. "It's just interesting."

"Read mine," he said, holding out his hand like a dare. His palm was rough from baseball, calloused and scarred. "Tell me my future."

I didn't want to. But Maya was watching, and the whole table was watching, and suddenly I was trapped.

So I took his hand. And the thing was — I actually saw something. Not magic, not really. But his hands told stories. The callus patterns from gripping a ball. The scar across his knuckles. The way his fingers curved.

"You're scared," I said quietly.

Tyler stopped smiling. "What?"

"You pitch like you're angry at everyone," I said, tracing a line across his palm. "But you're not angry. You're scared that if you mess up, everyone will know you're not as good as they think."

The table got quiet.

"You've got a big game Friday," I continued. "You've been practicing since January. But you think you're gonna choke."

Tyler pulled his hand back. His face did something complicated.

"Whatever," he said, but his voice shook a little. "Freak."

He walked away. His friends followed. Maya stayed.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"No," Maya said, "you shouldn't have let him make you feel small. Also? You called him out and he deserved it. That was brave, Leo."

Friday, I went to the game. I didn't know why. Maybe to apologize. Maybe to see if I was right.

Tyler pitched differently that night. Not angry. Just focused. Like he was finally playing for himself instead of an audience.

We won.

Afterwards, he found me near the concession stand.

"You were right," he said, not looking at me. "About everything. I was scared. Still am."

I waited.

"Your friend — Maya — she says you do this thing. Reading hands. You really see stuff?"

"Sometimes," I said.

He held out his palm, offering it like a gift instead of a dare this time.

"What do you see now?"