Strikeout in the Palm of My Hand

The baseball field lights buzzed like angry hornets as I checked my iPhone for the third time in two minutes. Still nothing from Chloe.

"You're sweating, dude," said Marcus, pointing at my right hand. I looked down at my palm — literally dripping onto my jeans. Gross.

"It's just... the game," I lied, though I couldn't have cared less about baseball. My hair was doing that stupid thing where it flopped over one eye, and I kept pushing it back like a nervous tic.

Marcus snorted. "Right. The game. That's why you've been refreshing Instagram since we got here."

Behind us, someone started a slow clap. The pitcher on the mound — this lanky kid with hair even worse than mine — threw a perfect strike. The crowd went nuts. I barely noticed.

My phone finally buzzed. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

hey

That was it. Just "hey." I stared at it like it contained the meaning of the universe.

"Well?" Marcus leaned over. "She finally text?"

"Yeah. But what do I—"

"BULL!" The crowd erupted. Someone had hit a home run. People were high-fiving, spilling popcorn, going absolutely feral.

In that chaos, my fingers moved before my brain could stop them.

hey wanna hang after the game?

The three little dots appeared immediately. They disappeared. Then appeared again.

sure meet me by the concession stand :)

"Yes!" I shouted, jumping up. My phone nearly flew out of my sweaty palm.

Marcus grinned. "Told you."

"Told me what?"

"That she'd say yes. You're not invisible, man. You're just... in your head."

The baseball game ended. People filed out. But I couldn't feel my legs, couldn't feel the cold, couldn't feel anything except the vibration of possibility in my pocket.

As we walked toward the concession stand, I pushed my hair back one last time. This time, I left it there.

I was ready.