The Orange Hat Summer

The baseball tryouts were today, and my stomach was doing full-on gymnastics. I stood behind the backstop, wearing my older brother's lucky baseball cap—pulled low, obviously—like it could somehow make me belong on a field I'd never actually played on.

"You running or what?" Tyler yelled from the pitcher's mound. He was the kind of guy who made everything look easy, all golden boy confidence and effortless charm. I'd been crushing on him since seventh grade, which was exactly why this was a terrible idea.

I stepped up to the plate, gripping the bat like my life depended on it. First pitch? Missed. Second pitch? Missed harder. Someone snickered, and I felt my face burning hotter than the sun beating down on us.

Then it happened—the third pitch came right at me, and somehow, miraculously, my bat connected. *CRACK.* The ball soared toward left field, and I took off, my legs churning like I'd been running for years. I rounded first base, my sneakers digging into the dirt, heart hammering against my ribs.

"Keep going!" Tyler shouted, actually excited.

I made it to second, then third, sliding home just as the ball thunked into the catcher's mitt. Safe.

I lay there a second, my chest heaving, dirt everywhere. Then I looked up and saw it—an orange Gatorade bottle being lowered toward my face, Tyler's upside-down smile hovering above.

"You're not half bad, new girl," he said.

I sat up, accepting the bottle. My hand shook a little, but not from nerves anymore. The cool water washed away the dust in my throat, and I realized something as I wiped my face with my sleeve and adjusted my hat.

I hadn't just made the team. I'd found my people.

"Thanks," I said, and for the first time all day, I didn't feel like pretending.

The orange hat stayed low, but my head was high. Game on.