The Spy in the Batter's Box

I stared at my iPhone screen, thumb hovering over Harper's Instagram story for the third time in five minutes. Pathetic. I shoved the phone in my back pocket and grabbed my gym bag, trying to ignore the way my stomach did that weird flippy thing whenever I thought about baseball practice.

"You've got something in your teeth," Maya said as we walked to the field.

"What?"

"Spinach. From lunch. It's been there for like, two hours."

I groaned and scrubbed at my teeth with my tongue. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I was enjoying the show." Maya grinned. "Also, Harper's totally going to notice you today."

"Yeah, right."

But she wasn't wrong. Harper Martinez had been watching me from the dugout since freshman year. Or maybe I was just the one watching him—feeling like some creepy spy who memorized his batting average (.387) and the way his hair curled under his baseball cap when it was humid.

The field stretched out before us, emerald green and impossible. Coach blew his whistle. "Batter up!"

I stepped into the box, heart hammering. First pitch—a ball. Second pitch, swing and miss. My phone buzzed in my pocket but I ignored it. Third pitch came fast, low and outside.

Crack.

The ball sailed toward right field. I sprinted, legs burning, dirt flying. Safe at second. When I looked up, Harper was watching from his position at shortstop, grinning. Actually grinning. At me.

"Nice hit," he called.

My face burned. I managed a nod.

Later, as we untangled our equipment bags from the pile, Harper caught up with me. "Hey, you want to come over? My parents are out, we could order pizza. Watch the game?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to sound casual. "That would be... yeah."

"Cool. My cable's been out all week, so we might have to stream it on my phone though."

I smiled, suddenly aware that the real game wasn't on any screen. It was happening right here, and I was finally ready to play.