Pitch Perfect Panic

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could practically water plants with them. Which would be fine, except she was currently gripping the chain-link fence at the **baseball** field where Lucas—the reason she'd voluntarily attended six games this season—was warming up.

"You good?" asked Jada, fanning herself with a crumpled schedule. "You look like you're about to pass out. Again."

Maya shoved her **hair** out of her face. The $50 blowout she'd begged her mom for had lasted exactly twenty minutes in this humidity. Now it was some kind of frizzy halo situation. Perfect. Just perfect.

"I'm fine," Maya lied. "Totally chill."

Jada snorted. "Girl, your nose is bright **orange** from that cheap blush you caked on this morning. You are NOT chill."

Maya's stomach dropped. She'd spent forty-five minutes getting ready, which was a personal record. Her usual routine was mascara and hope for the best. But today she'd worn her favorite crop top—the one that made her feel confident—and actually attempted a makeup tutorial from YouTube. Apparently attempting was the keyword.

Lucas looked over from the pitcher's mound and waved. Maya awkwardly waved back, hitting her hand on the fence.

"Wow," Jada said. "Smooth."

"Shut up."

"Hey, at least he noticed you," Jada pointed out. "That's progress from last week when you literally hid behind a concession stand for three innings."

Maya groaned. "Can we talk about something else? Anything else?"

"Sure," Jada said, reaching into her bag. "My mom made me bring these weird **papaya** chips she's obsessed with now. Want some? They're actually kind of fire."

Maya took one, mostly to distract herself. "What is with your mom and weird health food lately?"

"She says she's 'entering her wellness era,'" Jada air-quoted. "Whatever that means. Last week it was kale smoothies, now it's papaya everything. I think she saw something on TikTok."

The umpire yelled "Play ball!" and Maya's attention snapped back to the field. Lucas threw a fastball that made the satisfying *thwack* into the catcher's mitt. Someone behind them screamed "LET'S GO LUCAS!" and Maya felt that weird fluttery feeling in her chest again.

"He's really good," she admitted.

"Yeah, and he's also been looking over here every five minutes," Jada said knowingly. "Just talk to him after the game, Maya. It's not rocket science."

"Easier said than done."

"What are you gonna say? 'Hey Lucas, nice game, also I've been lowkey stalking you for six weeks and I may have memorized your batting average'?"

Maya choked on her papaya chip. "I hate you."

Jada laughed. "You love me. Now fix that orange nose before you actually have to talk to him."

The game flew by in a blur of strikeouts and stolen bases. Lucas's team won, and suddenly they were all spilling out toward the parking lot where families were gathering. Maya's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

"Go," Jada shoved her. "I'll cover for you."

Maya walked toward where Lucas was talking to his teammates, her palms suddenly sweating again. He noticed her and smiled, and something about that smile made her forget everything she'd planned to say.

"Hey!" he said. "I didn't know you came to my games."

"Just this one," Maya lied smoothly. "My friend dragged me."

"Well, I'm glad she did." Lucas ran a hand through his hair. "Hey, some of us are going to get food later. You should come."

Maya's brain short-circuited. "Yeah? I mean, yeah, sure. Let me just... text my friend."

"Cool." He grinned. "See you there."

As Lucas walked away, Maya turned back to Jada, who was watching with her arms crossed and that annoyingly smug I-told-you-so expression.

"So," Jada said. "That happen?"

Maya couldn't stop smiling. "That happened."

"Good. Now let's go before I have to witness you being all gross and happy. Also, I need real food because those papaya chips are NOT hitting like I thought they would."

Maya laughed, feeling lighter than she had all day. The makeup might have been a disaster, her hair was definitely a mess, and her palms were still sweating—but somehow, none of that mattered anymore.