The Dog Who Knew My Secrets

Buster, my golden retriever, nudged my hand with his wet nose. He knew something was up. He always knew.

"Another Monday, another baseball practice where Coach Taylor pretends I'm invisible," I muttered, tying my cleats. Buster whined in agreement, which honestly said more about my social standing than I wanted to admit.

The thing about being sixteen is that sometimes you feel like a spy in your own life. Watching from the sidelines while everyone else executes their perfectly scripted plays. The popular kids had their dramas, their inside jokes, their weirdly synchronized Instagram posts. Meanwhile, I was just... background texture. The guy who pitched okay and sat alone at lunch.

But I had a secret mission now.

Last week, I'd seen Maya—the girl who'd barely glanced at me since seventh grade—sitting behind the bleachers during practice, writing in a notebook. She'd looked up, caught me watching, and actually smiled. A real smile, not the polite one she gave teachers.

Now every day at practice, I found myself "spying" (okay, glancing) in her direction. Was she writing about someone? Something important? Buster, who came to all my games (Dad brought him because my dog has more game spirit than I do), had even wandered over to her once. She'd scratched his ears like she'd known him forever.

"Jordan! You gonna pitch or daydream?" Coach yelled.

I pitched. Maya watched. Buster barked approvingly from the fence.

After practice, I found her notebook sitting on the bleachers. abandoned. A spy opportunity dropped right in my lap. I should've walked away. Should've been decent.

I opened it.

*Pages filled with baseball statistics. My baseball statistics.* Every pitch I'd thrown for three weeks, carefully logged. Notes: *Jordan's curveball is getting nasty. Watched him from behind the bleachers today—he's finally trusting his changeup.*

"You know, most spies ask permission before reading classified intel."

I jumped. Maya stood there, grinning. "I'm keeping stats for the team newspaper article. Coach asked me to scout players."

"Oh."

"You thought I was writing something else?" She tilted her head. "Dramatic."

Buster chose that moment to escape Dad's grip and sprint toward us, tackling Maya with enthusiastic kisses. She laughed, kneeling to hug him.

"He likes you," I said stupidly.

"I like him too." She looked at me, then at the notebook. "And I think your curveball has real potential, Jordan. Want to grab coffee after practice tomorrow? I could use a second opinion on my article."

Maybe I wasn't so invisible after all. Maybe being the spy meant you weren't just watching—you were finally ready to be seen.

Buster wagged his tail like he'd known this was coming all along.