The Orange Peel Bet

Maya's fingers hovered over her iPhone screen, heart hammering like she'd been running a marathon instead of just sitting in the bleachers. The baseball game below was a blur of white uniforms and green grass, but all she could think about was the text she'd just sent to Jordan.

' bet u can't eat that entire orange in the outfield during the 7th inning stretch '

It was stupid. It was reckless. It was exactly the kind of thing Jordan would dare her to do, knowing she'd never back down from a challenge in front of half the sophomore class.

Her parents thought she was at the library studying. Instead, she was here, watching Tyler—her brother's best friend, the guy she'd been crushing on since sixth grade—pitch what might be the most important game of his high school career. And she was about to potentially ruin everything by doing something completely unhinged in the name of impressing Jordan, who'd been flirting with her in chemistry lab for weeks now.

The 7th inning stretch anthem crackled over the speakers. People stood up, stretching, grabbing snacks. Maya's stomach did nervous flips as she peeled the orange, the citrus scent cutting through the hot dog and popcorn smell of the stadium.

She could feel Jordan watching her from three rows down, that infuriating smirk plastered across his face. The same smirk that made her forget her own name every time he leaned over their shared lab table to "help" her with titration calculations.

Okay. She could do this. She'd just pretend she was back in middle school, eating oranges at soccer practice while everyone else complained about the seeds. No big deal.

Except this was a huge deal. Tyler was right there on the mound, warming up for the bottom of the seventh. If he saw her—no, WHEN he saw her—she'd die of embarrassment before she could even get to the section about how Jordan had been leaving Post-it notes in her locker with increasingly terrible chemistry puns.

Maya took a deep breath, shoved a wedge of orange into her mouth, and bolted down the stairs.

She was running before she even made it to the field, orange juice dripping down her chin, the crowd's laughter rising behind her like a wave. But she didn't care. She was flying, heart pounding, legs pumping, and for the first time in forever, she wasn't worrying about being perfect or pleasing anyone else.

She reached the outfield fence just as the first batter stepped up to plate. Maya swallowed the last of the orange, turned around, and yelled to the entire stadium:

"JORDAN RIVERA, YOU OWE ME FIVE BUCKS AND A DATE TO CORNELIUS'S!"

The crowd went wild.

Later, as she sat in the dugout with Tyler (who'd pulled her aside after the game, laughing so hard he could barely breathe), her iPhone buzzed with a new message.

Cornelius's at 7? And I never agreed to five bucks. But I'll buy you an orange.

Maya grinned, her face still sticky with citrus, her heart lighter than it had been in months. Sometimes, you had to make a spectacle of yourself to realize what—and who—was worth running toward.