Sweaty Palms and Curveballs

Marcus's palms were basically swimming pools at this point. Like, actually dripping onto his khakis. First time starting varsity baseball as a sophomore, and the universe decided today would be the day his crush, Maya, finally noticed he existed.

"You good, Marcus?" his best friend Ty whispered from the dugout bench. "You look like you're about to yeet yourself into the sun."

"I'm chill," Marcus lied, wiping his hands on his pants again. "Totally chill."

He wasn't chill. The coach had put him in as relief pitcher in the seventh inning, tied game, bases loaded. The entire school was in the stands, including Maya, who'd somehow transformed from someone he'd barely spoken to into the absolute center of his universe in like, two weeks flat.

Her hair was this insane shade of orange — not natural, but the kind of vibrant sunset orange that screamed I don't care what anyone thinks. She'd been dyeing it weird colors since seventh grade, and Marcus had been lowkey obsessed with it since forever.

Now she was sitting behind home plate, wearing that oversized hoodie she always lived in, not even watching the game really. Just scrolling on her phone and occasionally looking up when everyone cheered.

Marcus took the mound. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest. The batter — some junior from the rival school who looked like he'd been hitting gym since birth — stepped in, swinging his bat like he owned everything.

First pitch: ball. Way outside. The crowd groaned.

Second pitch: foul tip. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Third pitch, and Marcus's mind went blank. Not in a bad way — in that weird, calm way where suddenly everything clicked. He wound up, released, and watched the ball curve perfectly into the strike zone. The batter swung, missed completely.

"Strike three!" the ump yelled.

The dugout erupted. Ty tackled Marcus in a hug. But Marcus didn't even care about that. Because through the chaos, he saw Maya look up from her phone, actually look up, and pump her fist in the air. Just once. A tiny, real smile.

His palms were still sweaty. His heart still raced. But as he walked off the field, Marcus realized maybe — just maybe — he didn't have to be someone else to get noticed. Maybe he just had to throw the right pitch.

Or maybe, probably, he just needed to survive long enough to actually talk to her at the team dinner tonight.

Baby steps.