The Riddle of Right Field

Maya's palm was sweating so hard her iphone almost slipped out of her hand. Again. She gripped it tighter, staring at the screen like it held the secrets to the universe, or at least to why Dylan hadn't texted back in forty-seven minutes.

"Batter up!" someone yelled, and Maya flinched.

Right field. The graveyard of baseball dreams, where the ball went to die. Coach had put her there because, and she quoted, "We need someone who can cover ground, not catch things." Which was generous. Really, Maya was there because she'd tripped over her own feet during tryouts.

The social pyramid of sophomore year had placed Dylan at the apex—varsity shortstop, effortless hair, probably owned cool socks. Meanwhile, Maya existed somewhere in the basement layer, alongside kids who played accordion unironically and people who still said "yeet" in 2026.

Her phone buzzed.

Maya's heart did that embarrassing little flutter thing. She'd been asking Dylan to the spring fling for three days. Not directly. That would be sane. Instead, she'd been dropping hints like a confused bird.

"Hey, the fling sounds fun lol"

"Flings are fun to have haha"

"Do you know what a fling is? (asking for a friend) (me) (I am the friend)"

The notification wasn't Dylan.

MOM: Dinner at 6. Don't be late.

Maya groaned so dramatically that the left fielder looked at her with Concern. Whatever. This whole interaction had been a Sphinx-level riddle from the start. Dylan was cute, sure, but also about as emotionally available as a limestone monument. All mysterious smiles and vague responses, while Maya sat in right field overanalyzing everything like a completely normal person.

"HEads up!"

The ball was actually, somehow, coming toward her. A miracle. A nightmare. A miracle-nightmare.

Maya positioned herself. This was it. This was her moment. She would catch this ball and Dylan would see from across the diamond and realize she was secretly cool and athletic and interesting and—

The ball hit her glove.

Her glove flew off.

The ball kept going.

It landed in the parking lot.

Dylan was definitely not watching. But someone was—this weird kid from her English class who always wrote stories about dragons during free write. He was watching her with an Expression.

Maya's phone buzzed again.

DYLAN: hey so about the fling

And right there, standing in right field with one glove and zero dignity, Maya made a decision. She would deal with Dylan's response later. Because this dragon kid was walking over, and he was smiling like he'd just seen something fantastic, and maybe the social pyramid didn't matter as much as she'd thought.

"Nice arm," he said. "Seriously. That was legendary."

Maya looked at her lone glove, then at him, then at the parking lot where her dignity and the baseball were both currently residing.

"I'm Maya," she said, grinning. "I literally never miss."