Struck Out at Second Base

The summer before sophomore year, I spent more time overthinking than actually living. My parents had disconnected the cable to force me to be productive, which mostly meant I stared at my ceiling instead of my TV.

"You need structure," Mom said, as if structure was something I could order online.

The only structure I cared about was baseball practice every Tuesday. That's where she was—Mia—with her sun-bleached hair and that way of laughing that made my chest feel weirdly tight. I'd been crushing on her since seventh grade, but my flirting game was basically non-existent. Last week I'd literally waved at her with both hands like a desperate seal.

Lightning cracked the sky during practice, Coach blowing the whistle early. Everyone scattered to their cars, but I took the long way home, running through the neighborhoods. Not because I loved cardio—gross—but because I wasn't ready to sit in my room and overanalyze every micro-interaction I'd had with Mia that day.

The storm broke as I passed the community pool. Through the fence, I saw someone swimming laps in the rain—powerful, determined strokes cutting through the water. Mia.

I froze. Should I say something? Keep walking? My brain provided approximately 0 helpful suggestions.

She spotted me and climbed out, dripping wet, grinning like she'd just won the lottery. "Weather's perfect for it. Join me?"

"I don't have a suit," I said, because that was the most important detail apparently.

"So?" She dove back in.

I stood there for approximately ten seconds before jumping in wearing my gym shorts. We swam until our fingers pruned, rain and pool water mixing together, neither of us saying much but somehow saying everything.

Later, walking home soaking wet, she said, "You know, you're actually pretty cool when you stop overthinking everything."

I laughed. "I'll work on that."

"Good." She bumped my shoulder. "See you at practice. Don't wave at me with both hands this time."

She knew. She'd always known. And somehow that made everything feel less terrifying and more like the beginning of something real.