Palms, Secrets, and Stolen Bases

My palms were sweating so bad they practically slid right off my backpack straps. That's what happens when you're the school self-appointed spy, and today I was about to get caught.

I'd been spying on Lucas Medina since September. Not in a creepy way—well, okay, maybe a little creepy. But I needed to know everything about the star baseball player before I finally talked to him. That's how it works when you're the new girl with zero social capital. You gather intel.

The problem was, I'd never actually spoken to Lucas. I'd just watched from the bleachers during baseball practice, noting how he adjusted his lucky cap three times before every pitch, how he_signed autographs for the little kids even when his teammates rolled their eyes, how his face lit up when someone mentioned photography.

Photography. That was my in.

"Hey," I said, sliding onto the bench beside him during lunch. My palms were actually slippery now. "I saw your photography portfolio online. The light in those baseball shots is insane."

Lucas looked up, surprised. "You've seen my stuff?"

"Oh yeah," I said, channeling every confident influencer I'd ever spied on through social media. "I'm kinda obsessed with composition. The way you framed that sunset through the backstop? Chef's kiss."

His face broke into this grin that made my stomach do this weird flippy thing. "Thanks! That's—no one at school really cares about that stuff. They just want to talk about baseball."

"Same," I lied smoothly. "Everyone thinks that's all I care about too."

We talked for twenty minutes about aperture settings and golden hour lighting. I learned that Lucas secretly hated the pressure of being the star pitcher, that his abuela taught him photography, that he was terrified of failing.

"Can I see your hand?" I blurted out, then immediately wanted to die.

"What?"

"I mean, I read palms. It's this whole thing. My cousin taught me." Another lie. I'd watched a YouTube video once.

Lucas hesitated, then extended his hand. His palm was warm, with calluses from baseball. I traced the life line with my finger, buying time, pretending I knew what I was doing.

"You're going to do something brave soon," I said, suddenly serious. "Something that scares you but you should do it anyway."

Lucas looked at me, really looked at me, like he was seeing something real.

"You think?"

"I know."

He took a deep breath. "Okay. Then I'm brave enough to ask—do you want to come to my game Friday? And maybe after, we could... I don't know, take pictures?"

I grinned. "I'd like that."

As I walked away, I realized my palms weren't sweating anymore. Turns out, the best spy is the one who stops spying and starts being real.