The Spy in Left Field

Marcus's palm was sweating against his phone screen, slick with the kind of nervous moisture only a fourteen-year-old boy could produce. He'd been refreshing Maya's Instagram for twenty minutes straight, analyzing every caption like they were encrypted messages. This wasn't stalking. It was research. Strategic reconnaissance. Okay, fine, maybe it was a little creepy, but Maya Rodriguez deserved to be studied—she was basically the main character of their freshman class, while Marcus was still trying to land a speaking role.

His golden retriever, Buster, nudged his hand with a wet nose, demanding attention like the needy attention hog he was.

"Not now, bro," Marcus muttered, shoving the dog's snout away. "I'm in the middle of an operation here."

Tomorrow was baseball tryouts, and Marcus needed to be focused. Not obsessing over whether Maya's story about "someone special" meant him (unlikely) or Tyler from the varsity team (very likely). Tyler probably didn't have sweaty palms. Tyler probably didn't have to bear the humiliation of striking out in front of everyone during gym class softball. Tyler definitely didn't have his dad's old baseball glove that smelled like it had been through a war.

And then his phone pinged.

Maya had posted something new. Marcus's heart did that embarrassing fluttery thing. He clicked through immediately.

It was a picture of a dog. Not just any dog—a dog wearing a baseball cap. The caption: "This good boy left his favorite glove at the park today. If you're at tomorrow's tryouts, hit me up ;)"

Marcus stared at the screen. Then he looked at Buster. Then he rushed to his closet, grabbed his glove, and—yep. Gone. He must've left it at the park when he'd taken Buster for a run yesterday.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

So now he had to message Maya. He had to DM the girl of his dreams to ask for his glove back because he was literally the person she was indirectly calling out. This was either the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him or... actually, no. There was no "or." This was just mortifying.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He could pretend to be sick tomorrow. He could claim his hand had fallen off. He could transfer schools.

Buster barked like the traitor he was.

Marcus typed: "Umm, that might be my glove? I'm at tryouts tomorrow."

Three dots appeared immediately. Then: "OMG yes! See you there, Left Field Mystery Boy ;)."

Marcus dropped his phone on his face. Maybe tomorrow wouldn't be terrible after all.