The Art of Missing

Maya parked herself on the bleachers every Tuesday, same spot, third row from the top. Baseball wasn't exactly her thing, but Jordan Carter's fastball? That was worth sweating through ninety-degree heat for. Her best friend Layla called it "stalking with better snacks."

"You're literally thirst watching," Layla said, cracking open a water bottle that had been baking in her backpack. It was practically steam. "Gross."

"I'm appreciating athletic prowess," Maya shot back, though they both knew she was full of it. Jordan had noticed her exactly twice: once when he'd lent her a pen in English, and again when he'd accidentally hit a foul ball in her direction. She'd dodged like her life depended on it. Not exactly the "meet cute" she'd pictured.

The summer league championship was today. Maya wore her lucky shirt — a faded vintage band tee that she'd "borrowed" from her brother and never returned. superstition was real, okay?

Jordan pitched like his future depended on it. Fastball after fastball,精准的 missiles that made the other team look foolish. Between innings, he grabbed a water from the cooler near the dugout, and Maya swear he looked straight at her. Layla rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful.

"He's not looking at you. He's looking at the girl behind you with the giant foam finger."

"You're just mad because Tyler isn't here."

Layla's crush on Tyler had reached stalker levels. She'd found his Spotify playlist and listened to it on repeat until Maya threatened to change all her passwords. "That's different," Layla insisted. "I'm researching his soul through music."

"That's creepy."

"That's dedication."

Final inning. Bases loaded. Jordan's team up by one. The batter hit a line drive toward right field, but Jordan — magnificent, focused, completely-unaware-Maya-existed Jordan — fielded it cleanly and threw to home for the final out. Game over. Championship won.

Everyone rushed the field. Maya hung back, because rushing the field seemed like something that happened in movies, not real life, and definitely not to people who got nervous ordering pizza.

Then Jordan was walking toward the bleachers. Actually walking toward her. Her brain short-circuited. Say something cool. Say anything except that thing.

"Hey," he said, "you're here every week, right?"

"Yeah," she managed. "Baseball is... cool."

Baseball is cool? Who was she?

Jordan laughed, and it was better than she'd imagined. "Wanna come celebrate? We're doing the whole team dinner thing. More people than just me, obviously, that would be weird —"

"Yes," Maya said.

Layla mouthed "YOU'RE WELCOME" from three rows back. Maya had no idea what she'd done, but she'd take it.

They walked toward the parking lot together, and Maya's phone buzzed. Her mom: "Don't stay out too late."

Jordan nudged her shoulder. "Everything good?"

"Yeah," she said, and it was the truth. "Just my mom being a mom."

"Parents, am I right?"

They talked about nothing important all the way to his car. Nothing important felt like everything. Layla caught up to them, Tyler in tow somehow, and the four of them headed to whatever diner had the best milkshakes.

Maya caught Jordan's eye in the rearview mirror. He smiled.

Baseball was still just baseball. But the boy who played it? That was something worth watching for. And tomorrow, she'd definitely wear the lucky shirt again. You never knew when you'd need extra help just being brave enough to say yes.