The Bleachers, The Pool, The Secret

I never thought I'd be that person — the one lurking in the bleachers like a total creep, practically a spy with binoculars. But there I was, every Tuesday after school, watching baseball practice like my life depended on it.

Okay, maybe it wasn't the baseball I was watching.

Jordan Rivera. Shortstop, varsity jacket, hair that defied gravity after two hours of sprinting around bases. I'd pretend to scroll through my phone, stealing glances like I was conducting some top-secret investigation. "Just observing the game," I'd tell myself. Liar. I was observing him.

The worst part? I knew exactly zero things about baseball. I'd cheer at the wrong times. I once shouted "YEAH!" when someone struck out. The whole team turned to look at me. I wanted to dissolve into the aluminum bleachers.

Then came the worst Friday of my life. The end-of-season pool party at Tyler's house. Jordan would be there. Jordan, who I'd been spying on from a distance for three months.

I stood by the snack table, clutching a lukewarm soda like it was a life preserver. Everyone was in the pool, laughing, splashing, acting like this was completely normal. Social situations weren't my strong suit, but SWIMMING? Where people could see my legs? Where my hair would do whatever it wanted? Hard pass.

"Hey."

I jumped, nearly spilling my soda. Jordan stood there, dripping wet, shirt slung over his shoulder. His abs. I'm not describing them, but they were there, and I was suddenly very aware of my existence.

"You're Maya, right? From English?"

"Yeah. Hi. Hello. I'm here."

Kill me now.

He laughed. It was nice. Annoyingly nice. "You coming in?"

"I'm good. I'm more of a land person. Walking's my sport."

"That's okay." He stepped closer. "I noticed you at practice sometimes. Watching."

My soul left my body. "I was just —"

"It's cool." His voice dropped, like he was sharing classified information. "Between us? I only joined baseball because my dad pushed it. I'd rather be swimming anyway. But don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

I stared at him. The star shortstop? The guy I'd been pining over from behind binoculars? hated baseball?

"So," he said, "you want to get in the pool and maybe talk about something that's not baseball for once?"

I looked at the water. At Jordan. At the version of myself who was too scared to take a chance.

Then I jumped in. Clothes and all. Sometimes you have to stop watching from the bleachers and make your own splash.