Sweaty Palms & Pre-Race Jitters

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could barely grip her phone. The cross-country championships were in twenty minutes, and she'd just discovered a massive chunk of spinach wedged between her front teeth.

"You're kidding me, right," she groaned at her reflection in the school bathroom mirror. She'd been eating that stupid spinach salad because her coach said "leafy greens build endurance." What he apparently meant was "leafy greens will humiliate you before the biggest race of your life."

Her phone buzzed. Group chat from the team: *where r u?? we're all stretching without u maya*

"Stuck in the bathroom committing social suicide," she typed back, then deleted. Instead: *omw!*

She scrubbed at her teeth with her fingernail until her gums throbbed. The spinach finally dislodged, but now her eyes were watering and her mascara was probably running. Great. Just fantastic.

The thought of running—of her legs pumping, her lungs burning, the endorphins kicking in—was the only thing keeping her from hiding in a stall until graduation. Cross-country had been her thing since middle school, the one place where being quiet and determined was actually praised instead of questioned.

She found the team near the starting line. Jordan, the senior captain, was doing his weird pre-race ritual—tapping his temples three times with his index fingers.

"You good?" he asked. "You look... intense."

"Just nervous," Maya managed. Her palms were still sweating.

He held out his fist. "First race jitters. Even after three years, I still get 'em. But hey—you've been training since August. You're ready."

Their coach blew the whistle, calling them to the line.

"And Maya?" Jordan added, lowering his voice. "Whatever you're stressing about? Save it for after. You're gonna crush this."

Maybe he'd seen the spinach. Maybe he just knew. Either way, something in her chest loosened.

The gun went off.

And as Maya's feet hit the dirt, as her body found its rhythm, as she passed three girls in the first half-mile, she thought: this. This right here. This was worth the embarrassment. This was worth the spinach salad. This was everything.

Her palms stopped sweating.

She crossed the finish line third, personal best time, and yeah—there was probably still spinach somewhere in her teeth, but honestly? Who cared. She was running, and she was flying, and for the first time all day, she wasn't worried about a thing.