Sweaty Palms and Strikeouts

Marcus's palms were sweating. Again. He wiped them on his jeans, leaving dark streaks on the denim, but it didn't matter. The moisture would return in thirty seconds anyway.

"You good, bro?" asked Tyler, slugging his baseball bat against the chain-link fence. "You look like you're about to puke."

"I'm fine," Marcus lied.

He wasn't fine. He was anything but fine. In forty-five minutes, the baseball game would end, and Maya would be waiting by the concession stand like she'd promised to. Or not promised. Whatever that text meant.

*maybe c u after the game ;)*

What did the winky face mean? Was it flirting? Was it just emoji syntax? Marcus's brain felt like a browser with too many tabs open.

A calico cat wandered onto the field from behind the backstop—the same one that'd been hanging around all season. Marcus had started leaving snacks in his bag, and now the cat would appear during practice like clockwork. He'd named her Lucky, which was objectively the worst name ever, but whatever. It's not like the cat cared.

"Dude, focus," Tyler said. "Coach is looking."

Marcus stepped into the batter's box. The pitcher wound up and threw a fastball. Strike one. The second pitch came, and Marcus swung, making contact but sending it weakly toward third base. He sprinted to first, sliding headfirst just as the ball slapped into the first baseman's mitt.

"Safe!" the umpire called.

By the seventh inning, Marcus had reached base three times and scored twice. The cat sat regally near the dugout, watching like she understood the game. His team was up 5-3, and most importantly, Maya was still in the stands.

After the final out, Marcus grabbed his gear and headed toward the concession stand. His palms had started sweating again. This was it.

"Hey!" Maya fell into step beside him, wearing a jersey that was way too big—probably her brother's. "You were actually fire today."

Marcus's brain short-circuited. "Thanks. You, uh, you watched?"

"The whole game." She smiled, and something in his chest did a complicated flip thing that definitely wasn't just adrenaline. "So, there's this party at Fox's house tonight. You going?"

Fox was Maya's friend from English class—sly, clever, probably actually planning something with that party invitation. The pieces clicked into place.

"I wasn't planning on it," Marcus said.

"Well, you should." Maya shifted closer, their shoulders brushing. "I mean, if you want to."

The cat twined around his ankles like she knew exactly what she was doing.

"Yeah," Marcus said, and for the first time all day, his hands were steady. "I want to."