Stolen Signals

The vitamin gummies tasted like artificial grape and desperation. I downed three of them before every baseball game, convinced they'd transform me from benchwarmer to varsity starter. Spoiler: they didn't.

What did work, apparently, was obsessively checking my iPhone between pitches. So when I noticed someone watching from beyond the right field fence—same spot, every day—I started calling them The Spy.

"Probably just some college recruiter," my teammate Jordan said, adjusting his snapback. "You're not that interesting, Leo."

Jordan wasn't wrong. My Instagram consisted of mediocre sunset photos and reposted batting tips. Still, The Spy was there. Thursday. Friday. Monday. Always watching, never approaching. It was creepy. It was weird. It was also weirdly flattering in a way I'd never admit out loud.

Tuesday's practice ran long. Coach kept us for extra fielding drills until my arms felt like jelly and my cleat was dragging. The August humidity wrapped around me like a wet blanket. I grabbed my iPhone from the dugout bench—battery at 8%—and spotted The Spy still lingering by the fence, phone raised like they were recording something.

That's when I snapped.

I jogged over, ignoring Jordan's confused "Leo, where you going?" The Spy didn't move until I was five feet away, flashlight from my iPhone cutting through the dusk. Then they lowered their phone slowly, like I'd caught them doing something illegal.

"Are you—" I started, then stopped. Because The Spy wasn't a college recruiter or some random creeper.

It was Maya. From AP English. The girl who sat three rows back, always wearing oversized hoodies, never speaking.

"You're Leo," she said, like this explained everything. Her voice was quiet. "You always check your phone after the third inning."

I stared. "You've been—"

"Not spying on YOU." She adjusted her glasses, nervous. "I'm filming the sunset behind the backstop. It's perfect from this angle. You just happen to be in the frame."

She turned her phone toward me. Sure enough—a timelapse of orange and pink sky, with a tiny, distant baseball player (me) fielding a grounder in silhouette. It was kind of beautiful. The kind of thing that would get 100k likes on TikTok, easy.

"Oh," I said. "Oh."

"Also." Maya dug in her backpack and pulled out a bottle. "These are just candy. Your brother's company makes them. There's nothing in here that'll help you hit harder."

She tossed me the vitamin gummies. I fumbled, dropped them, and we both reached down at the same time. Our shoulders bumped. I smelled coconut shampoo and the faintest trace of something like vanilla.

"Thanks," I said, straightening up. "For not letting me embarrass myself."

Maya shrugged. "You're fine. Your form's actually good. You just think too much."

I laughed. That's when I noticed her phone background—a slightly blurry photo of a baseball field at dusk, taken from behind home plate. Almost exactly the angle where I stood every Tuesday.

"Wait," I said. "Have YOU been watching ME?"

Maya's ears turned pink. She didn't deny it.

I grinned. Something unfamiliar bloomed in my chest, warmer than the summer air, lighter than those useless vitamin gummies. "Same time tomorrow?"

She looked at her phone, then at me. A tiny smile.

"Bring your own water this time. Mine's expensive."