The Art of Not Looking

Max's golden retriever, Buster, had absolutely zero concept of social nuance. Which was exactly why Max was currently hiding behind the bleachers at the community baseball field, heart hammering like he'd just finished a 5K instead of just sitting there breathing.

"Buster, come back," Max whispered through gritted teeth, but the dog was already three-quarters of the way across the field, tail wagging like he'd just discovered the meaning of life.

Which, in a way, he had. Because over there, leaning against the backstop with that effortless cool that some people just *had*, was Jordan. Jordan, who'd moved to town three months ago and somehow already had better hair than everyone Max had ever known combined. Jordan, who Max had been lowkey *spying* on from across the cafeteria since February—not in a creepy way, just... observational research.

Now Buster was at Jordan's feet, and oh god, Jordan was bending down to pet him, and Max was still hiding behind the bleachers like a total weirdo.

"Hey buddy," Jordan said, and Max's stomach did that annoying flip thing it always did when he heard Jordan's voice up close. "Who do you belong to?"

Max's phone buzzed. A text from his best friend: *dude where r u? coach is gonna kill u*

Right. Baseball practice. The thing he'd been avoiding all week because he sucked at it and everyone would see and judge and—

"Yo!" Jordan called out, spotting him. "Your dog's awesome."

Max stepped out from behind the bleachers, face burning. "Yeah. He's... yeah."

"You coming to practice?" Jordan asked, scratching Buster behind the ears.

"Was gonna skip, honestly."

Jordan shrugged. "I was gonna skip too. But then this dog showed up, so now I feel like I should at least stick around for a bit. Karmic balance or something."

Max snorted. "That's not how karma works."

"Pretty sure that's exactly how it works." Jordan stood up, wiped dog hair off their jeans. "I'm Jordan, by the way. We have English together."

"Max. I know." Max immediately regretted everything. "I mean, I've seen you. In English. Not like—"

"Cool." Jordan's grin said they knew exactly what Max meant. "Warming up?"

The sun beat down on the field. Max could see his teammates gathering in the distance, could feel the upcoming embarrassment of missing every ball that came his way, could practically taste the awkwardness.

"Sure," Max said. "Why not."

They walked toward the field together, Buster trotting happily beside them like this was exactly how it was supposed to be. Max's heart was still *running* a mile a minute, but for the first time all spring, he didn't feel like hiding.

After practice, Coach made everyone run laps because "conditioning." Max was dying, sweating through his shirt, lungs burning, but Jordan kept pace beside him, somehow making it look easy.

"Hey," Jordan said between breaths, "some of us are hitting the *water* park this weekend if you wanna come. Bring your dog?"

Max almost tripped. "Yeah," he said, trying to play it cool and probably failing. "That sounds... yeah."

"Perfect." Jordan flashed that grin again. "See you there, Max."

That night, Max fell asleep with his phone in his hand, three texts from Jordan already saved to his favorites, and Buster curled up at the foot of his bed like the absolute legend he was.