Sweaty Palms at Home Plate

My palms were sweating through my baseball grip, which was honestly pathetic considering I was just standing in the dugout, not even up to bat. But that's what happens when Maya Rodriguez is watching from the bleachers. The way she leaned against the chain-link fence, cable-knit sweater pulled over her uniform like she didn't care about the game, made my stomach do backflips.

"You good, bro?" Marcus asked, handing me his water bottle. "You look like you're gonna pass out."

"Fine," I lied, wiping my palms on my uniform pants. "Just thinking about... stuff."

"Stuff? You mean how you've been staring at Maya since third period?" He grinned. "Just talk to her, dude. It's not rocket science."

Easy for him to say. Marcus was the kind of guy who could accidentally spill vitamin water on his crush and somehow make it cute. Meanwhile, I couldn't even say "hey" without my voice cracking like I was still twelve.

The game crawled on. When Coach finally signaled me in to pinch-hit in the seventh inning, my heart hammered against my ribs. The pitcher wound up, and I saw everything in slow motion—the spinning seams, the dusty sunlight, Maya finally looking up from her phone.

I swung at the first pitch like my life depended on it. And missed. By a mile. The ball thudded into the catcher's mitt with a sound that echoed my entire existence.

Second pitch? Another swing, another miss. Two strikes. The crowd groaned. I wanted to dissolve into the ground.

But then I heard it—a single, clear voice from the bleachers. "You got this, Leo!"

Maya. On her feet, actually watching.

Third pitch came floating in, and I didn't overthink it. I just swung. The sweet crack of the bat sent the ball soaring into left field, dropping in for a double. As I stood on second base, grinning like an idiot, Maya caught my eye and gave me the smallest nod.

Maybe I'd survive high school after all.