The Papaya Pitch

Maya's sophomore year was shaping up to be a disaster. She'd already struck out with Tyler—literally—when she accidentally hit him in the face with a **baseball** during gym class. Now she was stuck working her uncle's fruit stand at the county fair, watching everyone else live their best lives.

"You're overthinking it," her best friend Kiana said, sliding behind the counter with an iced coffee. "Tyler doesn't even remember. He's too busy being the varsity star and looking fine doing it."

"He literally has a bruise on his jaw," Maya deadpanned. "From my fastball."

Kiana snorted. "Whatever. Just focus on selling this exotic stuff. Who even buys **papaya** at a fair?"

Fate, apparently. The same Tyler she'd been avoiding walked up, wearing his baseball uniform like a second skin.

"What's good?" he asked, nodding at the fruit display.

Maya's brain short-circuited. "The papaya. It's... tropical. Like me."

*Like me?* She wanted to evaporate.

But Tyler just grinned. "Cool. I'll take one."

As she reached for it, the bottom of the fruit basket gave way. Papayas everywhere. Tyler's jersey got doused with **water** from the cooler nearby as Maya tried—and failed—to catch everything.

The silence was absolute. Then Tyler started laughing. Not mean laughing, but genuine this-is-the-best-thing-that's-happened-all-week laughing.

"You know," he said, wiping papaya chunks from his uniform, "you've got way better aim than you think."

Maya froze. Was he—

"Because that papaya literally flew three rows back. Impressive."

Kiana was losing it behind the counter. But Maya found herself laughing too. Maybe sophomore year wouldn't be so bad after all. At least she'd never be boring.

"Next one's on the house," she said. "But I'm keeping the baseball."