Palm Sweat and Bull Sessions

The baseball cap sat three sizes too big on my head, brim swallowing my forehead like I was playing dress-up in my dad's closet. Which I kinda was.

"You're gonna wear it backward," Marcus said, not asking. "That's the whole thing."

I flipped the brim around, caught my reflection in his bedroom mirror. Someone else stared back—some version of myself who didn't overthink every social interaction like life was a multiple-choice test with no right answer.

Tonight was Jen's party. The Jen. The one whose laugh sounded like wind chimes and who somehow made AP English feel like salon hour in Paris.

My palms were already sweating. I wiped them on my jeans, leaving dark streaks on the denim. Marcus noticed because of course he did.

"Dude, you're psyching yourself out again." He flopped onto his bed, scrolling through his phone. "It's just bull sessions and cheap soda. Nobody's watching you that close."

Easy for him to say. Marcus had been dating Maya since seventh grade, back when "going out" meant holding hands between classes and maybe—MAYBE—sharing a chocolate milk.

Baseball practice had been brutal that afternoon. Coach Miller making us run until our lungs burned, then timing our sprints like he was training Marines. I'd still smelled like locker room when Marcus summoned me for the pre-party pep talk.

"What if I say something stupid?" I asked. "What if I choke?"

"Then you choke. Everyone chokes." Marcus sat up. "Last week, Liam told Jen her sneakers looked 'aggressively comfortable.' She laughed. They're still friends. The world didn't end."

I nodded. Something about that made it worse and better at the same time.

The party was already loud when we got there. Basement lights dimmed, music thumping against my ribs like a second heartbeat. Jen was near the speakers, holding court like she'd been doing this her whole life, not just since freshman year.

She spotted us. Waved.

My stomach did this full-on gymnastics routine.

Then she was walking over, and my palms started sweating again, and I could feel the hat sliding forward, and I thought about baseball practice, about how Coach always said don't think, just swing, and—

"Hey," she said. "Nice hat."

I touched the brim. "Thanks."

"You play?"

"Baseball? Yeah. Center field."

"That's cool." She smiled, and suddenly the basement wasn't so loud anymore. "I'm terrible at sports. Like, impressively bad."

"No way."

"Way. Once I hit a tennis ball backward. Into my own face."

I laughed before I could stop myself.

She grinned like she'd just scored a point. "So, you gonna stand there all night or come say hi to everyone?"

I adjusted my hat. Followed her toward the group. My palms were still sweating, but the bull session in my head had finally shut up.

Sometimes that's enough. Sometimes that's everything.