The Spy in Left Field

My palms were literally sweating through my batting gloves. Again.

"You good, Marcus?" Tyler called from the mound, flicking his chin like the wannabe TikTok boy he was.

I nodded. Totally fine. Just dying inside because Emily was sitting behind the backstop, probably watching me fail at baseball for the third time this week. Coach Miller insisted I play left field because I couldn't mess anything up too badly out there. Coach thought he was being nice. He wasn't.

The pitch came. I swung. Missed.

"Strike three!"

The team groaned. I caught Emily's eye for exactly 0.3 seconds before pretending to find something fascinating on the ground. Main goals for the season: survive, avoid making eye contact with my crush, and somehow bear the weight of my entire family's baseball legacy without actually being good at it. My dad had played college ball. My brother was the starting pitcher. And then there was me. The disappointment.

"Marcus!" Coach yelled. "Head in the game!"

I trudged to left field, where the grass was always slightly too long and the sun hit different. At least I could think here.

Or I could spy.

Not creepy spying. Okay, maybe a little creepy. But from left field, I had a perfect view of the soccer field, where the girls' team was practicing. Specifically, where Emily was practicing. She laughed at something her friend said, throwing her head back. My palms started sweating again. This was pathetic.

"What are you looking at?" whispered my best friend, taking the opportunity to roast me during a rare pop fly situation.

"Nothing."

"You're literally staring at Emily. Again. Bro, just talk to her."

"I can't just talk to her. I have zero rizz."

"Then get some rizz. You can't just bear your soul from left field like a weirdo forever."

He wasn't wrong. But he also didn't understand that talking to Emily required social skills I definitely didn't have.

The game dragged on. I missed another ball. Tyler made three TikTok-worthy plays. Emily and her friends left. The day was a L across the board.

After practice, I was grabbing my gear when someone touched my shoulder.

I turned around.

Emily.

"Hey, Marcus."

My palms: sweating. My brain: buffering.

"Uh, hey."

"You were pretty good today. In left field. You almost caught that one ball."

"Thanks."

"I play too. Shortstop."

"Oh. That's cool."

Why was I like this?

She smiled. "Maybe we could practice together sometime? If you want."

"Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool. See you tomorrow then. Baseball spy."

Baseball spy?

She walked away. I looked down at my hands. Still sweating.

But maybe, just maybe, tomorrow I'd actually catch the ball.