The Seventh Inning Switch-Up

My hair was doing that thing again—that embarrassing, unfixable frizz-ball situation that made me want to dissolve into the pavement. I tugged my baseball cap lower, grateful for its brim's shadow. At least nobody could see me attempting to be a functional human being.

You're welcome for being your personal emotional support spy, Maya had texted earlier. She was positioned three rows back, providing real-time intelligence on Jordan's movements from her tactical vantage point.

My palms were sweating. Like, actually gross amounts of sweat. I wiped them on my jeans—subtle, Emma, really subtle—and tried to look casual leaning against the concession stand.

He's coming, Maya's text flashed. 3... 2... GAME TIME.

And there he was. Jordan, walking toward me with that easy lope that made everything look effortless, like physics didn't apply to him. His baseball uniform hung perfectly wrong in all the right ways, and his hair somehow managed to be messy without trying.

"Hey," he said. "You came."

"Yeah," I managed. "Cool game."

Cool game? Who says cool game? I was already mentally drafting my resignation letter from society.

But then Jordan smiled, and something shifted. He gestured toward his cap. "This thing is driving me crazy. Think I could trade?"

"Trade?"

"Yeah. Your hat for mine. Rookie superstition. We're losing by three, but my sister says whenever she switches up her luck, things turn around."

I stared at him. "You want my hat?"

"If you're cool with it. The brim's bent kind of weird, though."

I hesitated—this hat was my shield, my camouflage against the world seeing my hair disaster. But Jordan was waiting, looking at me with those eyes that seemed to hold actual sunshine.

I pulled it off. My hair sprung out in all its uncooperative glory.

Jordan didn't even blink. He just grinned, swapped hats, and put mine on backward. "Much better. Thanks, Emma."

He jogged back to the dugout, my too-small cap perched on his head.

Your hair looks fine, Maya texted. And you just traded luck with Jordan Martinez. This is HUGE.

I watched him take the field, wearing my hat like a crown. My palms were still sweating, but something about the way he adjusted the brim, making it his own, made me think maybe—just maybe—authenticity wasn't so terrifying after all.

Baseball games are seven innings long. Sometimes the real action happens in the seventh.