The Palm Reader's Fastball

Leo's palms were sweating. Again.

"Dude, you nervous or just leaking?" Bull McCoy leaned against the dugout fence, his varsity jacket looking like it had been painted on. "Tryouts are for players, not hydrants."

Leo wiped his hands on his jeans. This was supposed to be his fresh start—Oklahoma to California, middle of sophomore year, zero friends, maximum awkwardness. Back home, he'd been the kid who got cut from every team. Here, nobody knew his embarrassing athletic history. Yet.

"I'm good," Leo mumbled. "Just breaking in the glove."

Bull snorted. "Right. You look like you're gonna hurl. Or maybe you need your mommy to palm your forehead and check for—"

"Leave him alone, Bull." A girl with electric blue streaks in her hair slid down the bleachers behind them. "Your toxicity is showing again."

Bull's face did something complicated. "Chloe. I was just—"

"Being yourself? Unfortunately." She hopped the fence and landed next to Leo. "I'm Chloe. resident palm reader and unofficial baseball scout."

Leo blinked. "Palm reader?"

"Shows me things." She wiggled her fingers. "Let me see your hand." Before he could process, she'd grabbed it, tracing lines with deliberate focus. "Whoa. You've got crazy weird lifelines. Like, tornado weird."

"That's supposed to be good?" Leo pulled his hand back, blushing.

"Means you're about to stir stuff up." She grinned. "Also, you've got baseball hidden somewhere unexpected."

"COACH IS WATCHING!" someone hollered.

Leo's stomach dropped. Coach Miller had his clipboard out, pen hovering, eyes locked on their conversation. This was it—the moment Leo Anderson became the new kid who couldn't catch, couldn't hit, and definitely couldn't handle Bull McCoy's nonsense.

"Alright, let's see what you've got!" Coach Miller's voice carried across the field.

Leo stepped onto the dirt, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He picked up a ball, his fingers finding the seams automatically. Don't think. Just throw.

The ball left his hand wrong—totally, absolutely wrong. It sailed high and outside, nowhere near the strike zone, nowhere near anything resembling athletic competence.

"TIMBER!" Bull shouted. "That one's still climbing!"

Laughter rippled through the tryout. Leo's face burned. This was it. The end. The new kid who couldn't even—

"WHOA!" The catcher was scrambling. "Coach, did you SEE that?"

Leo's throw had slammed into the backstop with impossible force, vibrating the entire fence. Silence dropped over the field.

Coach Miller stood up, walking to the backstop. He examined the dent, then turned to Leo. "Son, what was that?"

"I—I missed the strike zone?" Leo's voice squeaked.

"That was ninety miles an hour. From the outfield grass." Coach's face transformed. "Show me that again."

Bull's jaw had unhinged. Chloe was grinning like she'd just won the lottery.

"Told you," she called from the fence. "Palm reader, baby!"

Leo's hands weren't sweating anymore. They were gripping the ball like it belonged there. Maybe California palms weren't so bad after all. Maybe being the new kid with the weird throw wasn't a curse—it was a curveball nobody saw coming.

"Again!" Coach shouted. "And this time, hit the target!"

Leo smiled. Bull wasn't laughing anymore. But Chloe was. And somehow, that felt like the beginning of everything.