Strikeout in the Storm

The neon orange gummy vitamin sat on my tongue like betrayal itself. "For your immune system," Mom had said that morning, as if my immune system was the reason I'd spent third period panicking about today's tryouts. I swallowed it anyway, and it felt like swallowing actual gravel.

"You nervous?" Jackson asked, fiddling with his batting gloves like they'd personally offended him.

"No," I lied, my stomach doing enough backflips for both of us. "Why would I be nervous? It's just varsity baseball tryouts. No big deal."

"Uh-huh." He raised an eyebrow. "You've been chewing on your mouthguard for twenty minutes straight."

I spit it out, feeling my face burn. Coach Martinez blew his whistle from across the field, and suddenly everything was happening. The varsity players were stretching, looking effortless and terrifying, and there he was—Liam Rivera, leaning against the backstop and making even wearing a backwards cap look like a statement. I'd been crushing on him since seventh grade health class, when we'd been assigned partners for the nutrition unit and he'd asked if I liked vitamin-fortified cereal or "the good stuff."

"First up: Martinez, calling your name!"

My legs felt like they belonged to someone else as I stepped into the batter's box. The varsity pitcher, some junior named Kyle who threw heat, wound up and fired. The ball screamed past me before I'd even decided to swing.

"Strike one!"

I stepped out, breathing. You can do this. Mom's voice echoed in my head: "Just do your best, mija." Dad's too, earlier that morning: "Remember what we talked about. Vitamin D deficiency is no joke—stay focused." Because apparently my parents had decided the key to baseball success was nutritional supplements.

The second pitch came, and this time I swung. Clean contact. The ball soared toward left field, and for a heartbeat, everything was perfect. Then the varsity left fielder caught it easily, and my heart sank.

"Fly out!" the umpire called, and that's when the first drop of rain hit.

"Everyone off the field!" Coach Martinez shouted. "Storm's coming in fast!"

We scrambled toward the dugout as the sky opened up, sudden and violent. Thunder cracked directly overhead, and I jumped, bumping into someone. I looked up into Liam Rivera's surprised face.

"Sorry," I stammered.

"No worries." He grinned. "Nice swing, though. You've got power."

My brain short-circuited. "Thanks?"

"Serious." He leaned against the dugout rail, watching the rain transform the dirt into mud. "I saw you playing catch earlier. Your arm's solid too."

"Oh. Thanks." I could feel myself blushing and hoped the dim lighting would hide it.

"So." He nudged my shoulder. "You coming back tomorrow for the second round?"

"If the storm clears."

"It will." He looked at me, really looked at me, and something in my chest flipped over. "You should. We need someone who can actually hit."

Outside, lightning illuminated the entire field in a flash so bright it left spots in my vision, followed immediately by thunder that shook the dugout walls. Someone shouted, and then everyone was laughing, the tension broken by something bigger than any of us.

I found myself laughing too, and when I looked at Liam again, he was already watching me.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing." He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made everything else fade away. "Just—you're not what I expected."

"What does that mean?"

"It means." The umpire shouted that tryouts were postponed until tomorrow, and people started grabbing their gear. Liam stood up but didn't walk away. "It means I'm glad you're trying out. And not just because you can hit."

He walked off toward the parking lot before I could respond, leaving me standing there in the semi-darkness, heart pounding harder than it had when I'd stepped into the batter's box.

"Abigail!" Jackson called from the dugout exit. "You coming? My mom's picking us up!"

"Yeah!" I called back, grabbing my bag. But I paused at the dugout entrance, looking out at the rain-soaked field where lightning still flashed intermittently, like the sky was trying to send a message.

Tomorrow, I'd be back. And for the first time all day, the nerves in my stomach felt like something else—something like possibility.

Mom's ridiculous vitamins could wait. Some things were more important than immune systems.