The Bear in Left Field

Leo's baseball cap sat low on his forehead, shielding eyes that kept darting toward the bleachers where she sat. Chloe. The girl who'd somehow liked his Instagram story of his dog looking ridiculous.

"You're staring again," said Marcus, his best friend since third grade, currently shoving sunflower seeds into his mouth like a chipmunk. "Just text her already."

"I can't," Leo groaned, pulling his iphone from his pocket. The screen showed his unsent message: *Hey, want to hang after the game?* It had been sitting there for twenty minutes while his thumbs argued with each other. "What if she thinks I'm weird? What if she was just being nice?"

"Bro, she's been watching you practice for three weeks." Marcus adjusted his own hat. "She's not here for the amazing vending machine selection."

Coach blew the whistle. "Alright, scrimmage time! Leo, you're pitching."

Leo's stomach did that thing it always did before something important—like it was trying to escape through his throat. He'd worked hard on his pitching this season, spending extra hours after school when everyone else had already gone home. But pitching when *she* was watching? That was different. That was terrifying.

The first batter stepped up. Leo wound up and threw—straight into the dirt.

"Nice bear impression!" someone yelled from the dugout. "You gonna hibernate now?"

His face burned. The hat suddenly felt like it was made of lead. His phone buzzed in his back pocket, but he ignored it. Probably just his mom asking if he wanted pizza for dinner. Not that he deserved pizza after that performance.

*Focus,* he told himself. *Just throw the ball. Not that hard. You've done this a million times.*

The next pitch sailed perfectly over the plate. Strike one. Then strike two. His confidence started creeping back, like a cat that wasn't sure it was safe yet.

But then—a line drive shot straight back at him. Leo didn't even have time to flinch as the ball smacked into his forehead, right above the brim of his hat.

Everything went quiet. Then fuzzy. Then people were rushing toward him, asking if he was okay, was he seeing stars, did he know his name.

He sat up, rubbing his forehead. "I'm fine," he mumbled, even though his head was throbbing like someone had set up a drum solo inside it. "Totally fine."

Coach made him sit out, obviously. Because getting hit in the head with a baseball apparently meant you were done for the day, even if you claimed you were "totally fine" and could "absolutely keep playing."

Leo slumped on the bench, hat tilted back, still dizzy but mostly just embarrassed. *Great,* he thought. *She watched me get knocked out by a baseball. That's definitely going to make her want to hang out.*

His phone buzzed again.

He pulled it out, expecting his mom. Instead: a message from Chloe.

*Are you okay? That looked like it hurt.*

Leo stared at the screen. His thumbs, which had been arguing all day, suddenly knew exactly what to type.

*Yeah, I'm tough. I can take a hit. Are you still here?*

*I am. Saving you a spot on the bleachers if you're done being dramatic.*

Leo grinned. His head still hurt, his hat was probably ruined, and he'd be hearing bear jokes for weeks. But as he stood up and headed toward the bleachers, phone in hand, he figured sometimes getting knocked down was exactly what you needed to finally get back up.