Palm Reader's Pitch

I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans for the third time, trying to look chill about tryouts. The baseball diamond stretched out before me like a judgment stage, and I was seriously reconsidering my life choices.

"You're gonna crush it," Maya said, barely looking up from her phone. "Stop stressing."

"Easy for you to say," I muttered. "You're not the one who hasn't picked up a bat since, like, forever."

It was true. I'd spent my entire summer doing literally anything else—mostly swimming at the community pool where Maya worked as a lifeguard, occasionally joining the epic zombie movie marathons her brother hosted in their basement. But baseball? That was ancient history.

Coach Martinez blew his whistle. "Alright, show me what you've got."

I stepped up to the plate, heart pounding. The first pitch came flying at me, and I swung like my life depended on it. THUD. The ball connected with my bat, sailing past the outfielder's desperate reach. The team erupted.

"WHERE has that been hiding?!" Maya yelled, actually impressed.

"I have no idea," I called back, grinning like an idiot. "Maybe it's the zombie apocalypse training kicking in."

After tryouts, Maya read my palm at the pool, claiming she'd watched a YouTube tutorial. "Your lifeline shows hidden talents," she said dramatically. "And you're gonna get that callback."

"You literally just made that up."

"Doesn't mean it's not true," she winked.

Later that night, my phone buzzed. Unknown number: "Coach Martinez here. You made the team. Practice starts Monday."

I stared at the screen, unable to process it. All summer, I'd been running from baseball, convinced I wasn't good enough anymore. Turns out, I just needed someone to believe in me—even if it was a fake palm reader who spent her summers blowing whistles at annoying kids.

Sometimes the universe has a weird way of telling you to stop being your own worst enemy. And sometimes, you just need to swing for the fences and see what happens.