Sweaty Palms at Sunset

The baseball field smelled like cut grass and teenage awkwardness. Maya sat in the bleachers, trying not to look like she was trying not to look at Jordan.

"You're being so obvious," whispered Riley, her best friend since kindergarten. "Just talk to him already."

"I literally can't," Maya hissed back. "My palms are sweating. Look." She held up her hand.

Riley rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "Maya, everyone's palms sweat. It's called being human."

But this was different. This was Jordan, with his messy dark hair and that crooked smile that made Maya's stomach do actual gymnastics. He was up to bat, standing there like he owned home plate, which, okay, he kind of did.

The sky was turning that perfect orange color it only got right before sunset, the kind that made everything feel like a movie scene. Jordan adjusted his cap, swung the bat a couple times.

CRACK.

The ball sailed into center field. Jordan took off, and Maya watched his long legs eat up the distance between bases. She was so focused that she almost didn't notice when the ball came flying back toward the bleachers—

Until it landed two rows behind them.

"OMG," someone shrieked.

Jordan was heading for second, but he glanced toward the bleachers as he rounded the base. His eyes locked with Maya's for like, half a second. Half a second that felt like a year.

Her palms were definitely sweating now. Like, actually sweating.

"He looked at you!" Riley whisper-screamed. "Maya, he TOTALLY looked at you!"

"He was looking at the ball," Maya said, but her heart was doing something weird and fluttery that she refused to name.

After the game, Jordan walked by the bleachers. Maya's brain went completely blank. All those things she'd planned to say—funny, cool, charming things—evaporated.

"Nice hit," she blurted. Internally, she face-palmed. NICE HIT? That's what she came up with?

Jordan stopped. He smiled—that smile, the one that made her palms restart their whole sweating situation. "Thanks."

He kept walking.

"THAT WAS IT?" Riley demanded. "MAYA."

"I don't know what you want from me!" Maya groaned, putting her face in her hands. Her palms were still sweaty. The orange sky was fading to purple. Somewhere in the distance, a baseball coach yelled something about tomorrow's practice.

But Maya was still thinking about that half-second look, the way his eyes had found hers in the orange light, and the tiny smile he'd given her when she'd said the world's most awkward thing.

Maybe—just maybe—sweaty palms weren't the worst thing in the world.