The Pregame Text

Maya's thumbs hovered over her iPhone screen, the blue light illuminating her face in the darkened team bus. She'd been doing this weird thing lately—not full-on stalking, but okay, basically spying on Liam's Instagram stories. Pathetic? Maybe. Necessary? Definitely.

Tomorrow was the first baseball game of the season, and Liam, who'd transferred to Oak Ridge three weeks ago with his easy grin and mysterious past, had somehow become the starting pitcher. Maya had played catcher since seventh grade. This was supposed to be HER season.

"You're spiraling again," said Keisha from the seat beside her, not looking up from her own phone.

"I'm not spiraling," Maya lied. "I'm conducting research."

"Bull." Keisha finally glanced over. "You've been refreshing his profile for twenty minutes. If you like him, just talk to him."

"I DON'T like him. I don't TRUST him."

Maya's career as a teenage amateur detective had begun two years ago when she'd discovered her best friend's boyfriend was cheating through some very strategic social media investigation. She wasn't proud, but she WAS thorough. And something about Liam didn't add up. His pitching stats from his old school were inconsistent. Some games he threw perfect, others he barely showed up. And nobody at Oak Ridge seemed to know WHY he'd transferred.

"Maya." Keisha's voice softened. "Not everyone has a secret agenda. Some people are just... trying to figure stuff out."

The bus hit a bump. Maya's phone slipped and caught on something in her backpack—her old baseball glove, the one her dad had given her before he moved out. She stared at it.

Tomorrow, she'd be crouching behind home plate while Liam stood on the mound, throwing whatever he threw. She could call every pitch. Could ruin his first game, could prove he was a fraud, could protect the team from whatever game he was playing.

Or she could just... catch the ball.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Liam:

"Hey—Coach said you call a solid game. You got any tips for tomorrow?"

Maya stared at the screen. Her detective brain screamed CAUTION. Her baseball brain whispered: trust your teammates.

Her fingers moved before she could overthink it:

"Throw your heater. Let's see what you got."

She pressed send. Then she opened Instagram and stopped refreshing. Some stories weren't hers to investigate. Some games, you just had to play.

The bus drove on toward tomorrow, and Maya leaned back, letting herself actually look forward to it.