The Sphinx in the Dugout

I was crushing the anxiety gummies like they were actual **vitamin** supplements instead of basically overpriced candy. Mom swore they'd help with the "jitters" before my first varsity **baseball** tryout, but honestly? I think they were just placebo-ing me into broke.

"You got this, Leo," said Jordan, slapping my back with enough force to dislocate a vertebrae. "Just don't think about it."

Easy for him to say. Jordan was the team's golden boy, already verbally committed to USC's baseball program. I was just the sophomore who'd barely made JV, now trying not to embarrass myself in front of half the school.

That's when I noticed HER—the girl sitting on the bleachers behind home plate, wearing a hoodie that said "riddle me this" across the chest. She had these intense eyes that watched everything, said nothing. The guys called her the **sphinx** because nobody knew her name, her deal, or why she showed up to every practice but never actually spoke to anyone.

I stepped up to the plate. Coach Miller pitched batting practice—slow, straight, totally hittable.

And then my brain did that thing where it forgot how to basic motor function.

First swing: miss. Airball. Absolute tragedy.

Second: foul tip. The ball ricocheted into the backstop with a pathetic CLANG.

Someone laughed. I didn't look, but I felt it in my chest.

"Reset, Leo," Jordan called out. "You're overthinking it."

And then—quiet, barely above a whisper—I heard a voice from the bleachers.

"You're holding the bat too tight."

I turned. The sphinx was actually looking at me.

"What?"

"Your knuckles. You're gripping them white. You're gonna snap something." She stood up, walked to the fence. "Loosen up. Let the bat do the work. You're trying too hard to control everything."

I blinked. "Who are you?"

"Maya." She shrugged. "My dad's the assistant coach. I've been watching you guys for three weeks. You're talented but you play like you're terrified of making mistakes."

I laughed bitterly. "I mean, aren't I? Everyone's watching."

"Yeah, but the ones who matter? They know you're human." Maya gestured to the field. "Try again. And this time, breathe first."

So I did. I breathed. I loosened my grip. I swung—and this time, I made contact. Solid. The ball sailed into the outfield, clean and perfect.

"Told you," Maya said, already walking away.

I made the team. But honestly? The best part wasn't making varsity. It was finally understanding that sometimes, you don't need to be perfect—you just need someone to remind you to breathe.