The Bleachers Spy

My baseball cleats clicked against the concrete as I stepped up to the plate. Coach Miller's voice carried across the field—something about keeping my eye on the ball—but my mind was elsewhere. Specifically, on the girl who'd been watching me from behind the backstop for three weeks straight.

Every day after school, same spot. Orange hair like a sunset caught in a bob, even though clearly dyed—the roots showed dark brown. She'd bring a notebook, scribble stuff, sometimes duck down when I looked her way.

"Your girlfriend's here again," Marcus whispered, sliding into the batter's box beside me. "The spy."

"She's not my girlfriend," I muttered, though my face burned. "And stop calling her that."

"Bro, she's been watching you practice since April. Either she's plotting your murder or she's mad obsessed." Marcus grinned. "Personally? I think it's the second one."

The nickname stuck. The Spy. Fox, because Marcus said orange hair made him think of foxes, and foxes were sneaky.

Today was different though. Practice ended early. Coach called it a day when Jensen took a line drive to the shoulder—nothing serious, just enough to spook everyone. As I packed my gear, I noticed she hadn't left yet.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I walked toward the backstop. Her eyes went wide, and she actually grabbed her backpack like she was gonna bolt.

"Wait," I called out.

She froze. Up close, her orange hair had faded to a weird peachy color, and she had this tiny constellation of freckles across her nose.

"I'm not—" she started, then stopped. Her voice was quieter than I expected. "I'm not spying."

"You've literally been here every day for a month."

"Okay, fine, I'm spying." She lifted her chin. "But not in a creepy way. I'm on yearbook committee. I'm supposed to photograph spring sports and I kept procrastinating and now I have like three weeks to get everything done and I'm behind on everything and—" She cut off, face bright red. "Also, you're kinda good at baseball."

My stomach did this weird flip thing. "You're not secretly plotting my murder?"

"No." She smiled, and it was lopsided and perfect. "But I did take like fifty pictures of you batting. So that's probably worse."

"Worse than murder?"

"Way worse." She adjusted her backpack strap. "I'm Maya, by the way. Since you've been calling me 'the spy' with your friend for like a month."

"You heard that?"

"I hear everything." Maya's smile turned sly. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be observant as a batter, you're really unobservant about everything else."

"Fair." I should've said something cooler. Something that would make her laugh or think I was interesting. Instead I just stood there like an idiot.

She checked her phone. "I should go. My mom's picking me up. But I'll be back tomorrow? If that's okay?"

"Yeah." My voice came out weirdly raspy. "Yeah, that's—that's fine."

"Cool." She started walking away, then turned back. "Hey, your form's off on your swing. You're dipping your shoulder when you connect."

Then she was gone, orange hair catching the last light of the day.

Marcus jogged over, jaw practically on the ground. "Did you just get coaching advice from the fox who's been stalking you?"

"Shut up, man."

"Did you get her number?"

"No."

"Weak." Marcus shook his head. "Absolute weak sauce. But hey, at least now we know she's not plotting your murder. Probably."

I watched until Maya turned the corner, disappearing from view. Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I'd ask for her number. And maybe I'd actually fix that shoulder thing.

The fox had been right about my swing, after all.