Strike Zone

The baseball field smelled like cut grass and teenage anxiety. I'd been **running** around the perimeter for forty minutes, supposedly "training" for cross country, but actually just **spying** on practice.

Emma stood at home plate, her cleats digging into the dirt like she owned the place. Every time she swung, I flinched. She was everything I wasn't: confident, coordinated, completely unaware that I existed.

"You're gonna wear a groove in the grass," said a voice behind me.

I jumped. Marcus, the backup catcher, stood there with his gear under one arm. "I'm just... getting my steps in."

"**Bull**." He dropped his equipment bag. "You've been circling since practice started. You know she can see you, right?"

My face burned. "She cannot."

"Bro, you're literally the only person wearing a neon yellow shirt in a sea of maroon uniforms. You're not exactly undercover." Marcus sat on the bench. "Why don't you just talk to her?"

"Because I'm about as smooth as sandpaper."

He laughed. "Same. But hey, watch this." He picked up a ball and fired it toward the backstop. It ricocheted off Emma's bat with a sound like **lightning** cracking.

She turned, and our eyes locked.

"Marcus!" she yelled. "Who's your friend?"

My stomach did something complicated. Marcus gestured me over with the grin of someone who'd just created chaos for entertainment.

I walked toward the plate like I was heading to my execution.

"This is my cousin," Marcus lied smoothly. "He's pretty good. Want to hit with us?"

Emma tossed me a bat. "Show me what you got."

The first pitch came fast. I swung and missed completely. The second one, I connected with so hard my wrists vibrated. The ball soared over the fence, clearing the backstop, disappearing into the trees beyond.

Silence.

"Okay," Emma said, grinning. "You're not terrible." She held out her hand. "I'm Emma."

"I know," I said, then immediately wanted to die. "I mean... I've seen you play. You're good."

"Wanna play catch tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I do."

Later, when I was running home, I realized something: sometimes the worst moments become the best stories, and confidence is just acting like you're not terrified until you actually aren't.