The Curveball

Leo sat in the dugout, his heart doing somersaults that had nothing to do with the baseball game unfolding on the field. varsity tryouts, and he'd already struck out twice. The third pitch was coming, and his phone buzzed in his pocket—probably Maya finally texting back.

He'd sent that dumb text three hours ago: "u going to the game?" Nothing. No typing bubble. No reply. Just the orange sunset bleeding across the sky like a bruise.

"You up, Leonard?" Coach yelled.

Leo stepped to the plate, the iPhone burning a hole in his pocket. One swing. One chance to prove he belonged. But his mind was stuck on Maya's silence, on the way she'd smiled at him in the hall yesterday, on whether that had meant anything at all.

The pitcher wound up. Leo's eyes locked on the ball, but his peripheral vision caught something in the stands—Maya. She was there, wearing that oversized orange sweatshirt she refused to zip up, her phone pressed to her ear. Not watching him. Not even looking at the field.

The pitch came—high, outside. Ball four. He'd walked.

As he trotted to first base, Leo's phone buzzed again. A notification lit up his screen: Maya had tagged him in a post. Not a text. A photo she'd taken earlier that day: the two of them at lunch, him mid-laugh, captioned "this one ☄️"

Behind him, the game continued. But Leo stood on first base, grinning like an idiot, realizing sometimes you don't need to hit a home run to win.