Sweaty Palms

Marcus's palms were sweating. Again. The kind of sweat that makes your grip slippery when you're trying to look chill holding a bat you've never actually swung before.

"You're up, Martinez," Jordan called from the mound, grinning like he knew exactly how out of place Marcus was. The entire baseball team was watching. The social pyramid at Lincoln High had Jordan at the apex—star pitcher, student council president, somehow both effortlessly cool and genuinely nice. Marcus existed somewhere near the base, mostly known for reading palms during lunch as a joke that stopped being funny three months ago.

"I've never played," Marcus muttered, stepping toward the plate anyway.

"Just swing," Jordan said, tossing a gentle pitch. Something about his tone made Marcus feel like this wasn't about making him look stupid. Maybe Jordan actually believed in giving people chances.

The bat felt alien in Marcus's hands. He remembered what his abuela had taught him about palm reading—how the lines supposedly told stories, how everyone's hands had their own unique map. He'd shared that with Jordan once, months ago, when Jordan'd asked about the crescent-shaped scar on his thumb.

Marcus squeezed the bat, palms still slick but maybe that was okay. He swung.

Connection. The ball arced into center field.

"Damn!" Jordan jogged in, laughing. "Since when do you play?"

"Since never," Marcus admitted, heart pounding. "Think it was just beginner luck."

"Or maybe you're actually good," Jordan said. "We need an outfielder. Practice Tuesday?"

Standing there with Jordan and the rest of the team, Marcus realized something: the social pyramid wasn't as rigid as he'd thought. Sometimes you could climb it—or maybe more accurately, sometimes someone at the top would toss you a ball and ask you to play.

"Tuesday," Marcus said, grinning. "I'll be there."

His palms were still sweating. But for the first time, it felt like excitement, not fear.