The Fox in Center Field

Leo stood in center field, his orange hair practically glowing under the Friday night lights. The guys called him 'fox'—partly for the hair, partly because he was sneaky fast when he needed to be. But mostly? Mostly it was because he noticed everything.

Like how Maya from chemistry sat three rows back, third from the left, at every single game. Not that he was keeping track. That would be creepy.

Okay, he was totally keeping track. He'd become a certified spy where she was concerned—tracking her socials (public only, he wasn't a monster), memorizing her schedule, knowing she ordered vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles from the concession stand in the fourth inning.

'You staring at the stands again?' Coach Miller bellowed from the dugout. The man was built like a grizzly bear and had the temper to match. 'Eyes on the ball, Reynolds!'

Leo's face burned. Everyone laughed. Well, almost everyone.

The crack of the bat snapped him back to reality. A line drive sailed toward center field, and Leo's body moved on instinct—legs pumping, arms extended, glove out. He caught it cleanly, somehow, and the crowd cheered.

'Nice one, Fox!' someone yelled.

He risked a glance toward the concession stand. Maya was there, vanilla cone in hand, watching him. Actually watching him.

His heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when she looked his way. Maybe being a spy wasn't so creepy if she looked back.

Maybe next inning, he'd actually wave.

Then again, maybe he'd just play it cool. Foxes were supposed to be smooth, right?