The Spy Behind Home Plate

I've been acting like a total spy since September. Not the cool, cinematic kind with gadgets and disguises — more like the creepy, borderline-stalker kind who lurks in the shadows of someone's Instagram stories. My target? Kai Martinez, whose baseball practices I've been "accidentally" walking past since school started.

Today's the day, I tell myself, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. I'm actually gonna do it. I've spent forty-five minutes perfecting my casual-but-effortless hair in the mirror, and my iPhone battery is at a concerning 67%, but whatever.

The baseball field glows orange in the sunset, which feels like fate. I clutch the Tupperware of orange slices in my hand like it's a weapon instead of, you know, fruit.

"Hey!" I call out, my voice cracking. Smooth. Really smooth.

Kai looks up from adjusting his cap, and for a second, I consider pivoting and speed-walking away. But then he smiles, and suddenly my iphone feels super heavy in my pocket.

"What's up?" He jogs over, and I realize he's actually talking to me. ME. The girl who's been cyber-stalking him since Labor Day.

"Brought these." I thrust the orange slices at him like I'm offering a peace treaty. "For the team. You know, after practice?"

He laughs — this genuine sound that makes my chest feel weird. "You're literally my hero right now. I'm starving."

We end up sitting on the bleachers, talking about everything and nothing. I learn he hates horror movies, his dog's name is Nacho, and he's been "lowkey wanting to talk to you forever but didn't know how." My spy ass did NOT see that coming.

Later that night, my iphone buzzes with a notification. Kai_Martinez24 started following you.

Delete the spy files. Mission accomplished.