The Ballpark Conspiracy

Felix sucked at being a teenager. This was an objective fact, ranking somewhere between "can't grow a mustache" and "palms sweat when answering questions in class." Which, coincidentally, was happening right now.

"You going to the game Friday?" Chloe asked, sliding into the seat across from him.

His palms instantly betrayed him, growing moist against his jeans. "Maybe."

"It's the playoffs." She raised an eyebrow. "Everyone's going. Even Miller." Miller was The Guy™—baseball team captain, currently dating someone whose name Felix refused to learn.

"I'll think about it."

The truth was more complicated. Felix had developed a sophisticated reconnaissance operation involving his bedroom window, his cat Luna, and a pair of binoculars his dad claimed were for birdwatching. Every evening at 6 PM, Miller and the baseball team practiced at the field behind Felix's house. Every evening, Felix documented Miller's mistakes, bad calls, and obvious crush on Chloe.

He was basically a spy. A sweaty, awkward, cat-owning spy who never left his room.

Friday arrived with the humidity of a locker room. Felix stood at the fringe of the bleachers, Luna nowhere to be found (she had better things to do), while the baseball game unfolded in predictable patterns. Miller missed an easy catch. The crowd groaned. Felix didn't.

"You see that?"

Felix jumped. Chloe stood beside him, holding nachos.

"See what?" He wiped his palms on his jeans again. Stop doing that.

"Miller's been throwing off his game all week. He keeps looking at the stands." She took a bite of a nacho, cheese stretching dramatically. "You notice anything?"

His throat went dry. "No?"

"Good." She handed him a nacho. "Because I was hoping you'd explain why he keeps checking his phone during innings. That's weird, right?"

"Super weird," Felix agreed, though he'd been watching Miller through binoculars all week and hadn't noticed this particular detail. His spy credentials were officially revoked.

"Hey." Chloe shifted closer. Her bare arm brushed his. A single drop of condensation from her soda dripped onto her palm, which she casually wiped on her shorts. "You're funny. You know that?"

"I've been told," Felix lied. "By my cat."

She laughed, actually laughed, and for the first time in sixteen years, Felix didn't feel like the weird kid with binoculars and a cat named Luna.

"The game's boring," she said. "Wanna bail?"

"You hate baseball?"

"Hate it." She grinned. "But Miller's going to ask me to the dance after they win, and I'd rather not deal with that right now. I need an excuse to leave."

Felix's palms stopped sweating. "I have a cat. She likes pizza more than I do."

"Perfect." Chloe grabbed his hand, her palm dry, confident, completely unbothered. "Let's go before they notice we're gone."

They walked away from the field, from the baseball game, from Miller and his obvious mistakes. Behind them, someone shouted—a home run, maybe—but Felix didn't look back.

His cat was going to lose her mind. Felix had never felt more alive.