Running With the Pack

Maya's hair refused to cooperate that morning. She'd spent forty-five minutes trying to tame the frizzy monster into something resembling a respectable ponytail, but it kept exploding like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket. Great. First day of freshman softball tryouts, and she already looked like a science experiment.

"You gonna keep fixing your hair or actually show up?" her brother called from the hallway, already dressed in his varsity baseball uniform like he owned the place.

"Shut up, Tyler," she grumbled, grabbing her bat and sprinting out the door. Her neighbor's dog — a chaotic golden retriever named Bingo — bolted through an open gate and decided today was perfect for a high-speed chase through Mrs. Henderson's prize-winning petunias.

"Bingo, NO!" Maya yelled, instinctively sprinting after him. Because apparently looking like a disaster wasn't enough — now she had to literally chase dogs while carrying a softball bat. Meanwhile, Tyler was already in his car, laughing so hard she could hear him through rolled-up windows.

She somehow cornered Bingo near the community field where the varsity baseball team was practicing. Every single guy stopped what they were doing to watch this freshman girl, hair wild, chasing a dog in a flannel shirt and cutoff shorts.

Then she saw him: Chase Miller, senior shortstop, perfect hair, irritating everything. He was watching her with that half-smile that made all the girls at North Valley High simultaneously hate and adore him. The running joke was that Chase had more rizz than the entire sophomore class combined. He'd never spoken to Maya before.

"Need help?" he called, jogging over like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Bingo chose that exact moment to shake off violently, spraying pond water everywhere. Including all over Chase's pristine white jersey.

Maya froze. Chase Miller, golden boy of North Valley, was now covered in pond sludge, courtesy of her dog. He wiped his face, looked at his ruined jersey, looked at her hair that had somehow gotten even worse, and started laughing. Not mean laughing — actually laughing.

"Okay, that's iconic," he said, grinning. "You're at tryouts today, right?"

"How'd you —"

"Your brother's my teammate. Also, I saw you at the batting cages last week. You've got a killer swing." He high-fived her somehow sticky hand. "See you on the field, disaster girl."

Her first day of tryouts ended with her making varsity as a freshman, still trying to process that Chase Miller called her iconic while covered in dog pond water. Sometimes the bull by the horns meant literally running after chaotic dogs and accidentally impressing the guy you'd been lowkey obsessing over since orientation.

Also, her hair never did cooperate. She learned to work with it.