Sweaty Palms and Orange Hair

Marcus stood behind the gym, his palms so sweaty he could barely grip the baseball bat. Tryouts were in ten minutes, and his stomach was doing backflips that had nothing to do with breakfast.

"You got this, bro," said Tyler, slapping his back. "Just don't think about it."

Easy for Tyler to say. He'd been playing since kindergarten. Marcus had picked up a bat exactly three weeks ago when he decided he needed something—anything—to make him less invisible at Northwood High.

The coach blew his whistle. "Alright, show me what you got."

Marcus stepped up to the plate, heart hammering against his ribs. He noticed her then—Zoey, the senior with the bright orange hair who sat behind him in calc, watching from the bleachers. Of course she'd be here today. The universe had terrible timing.

First pitch: swing and a miss. Laughter from the dugout. Marcus felt his face burn hotter than the sun beating down on the field.

Second pitch: foul tip. His palms were practically dripping now. He wiped them on his jeans, gross but necessary.

Third pitch came fast. Marcus closed his eyes, swung blindly, and connected with something that sent a jolt all the way to his shoulders. The ball sailed over the fence.

Silence. Then—"HOLY SMOKES!" from Zoey in the bleachers.

Marcus opened his eyes. The coach was actually smiling. "Where'd you get that power, son?"

"Pure panic, probably," Marcus muttered, but everyone laughed. Good laughter this time.

Later, Zoey caught him by the bleachers. "That was insane. I'm Zoey, by the way."

"Marcus. And that was 100% luck."

"Whatever works." She grinned, and Marcus noticed her eyes matched her orange hair—not literally, but somehow. "Hey, a bunch of us are going to Sweetgreen after practice. You should come."

Maybe trying something new wasn't so terrible after all. Marcus wiped his sweaty palms one last time and smiled. "Yeah. I'd like that."