The Storm We Chose

I was the worst baseball player in the history of Jefferson High, but Coach kept me on the team because I could calculate batting averages in my head. Official title: Team Statistician. Unofficial title: Human Benchwarmer.

"You spying on the competition again, nerdball?" Tyler called from the dugout, flicking a sunflower seed shell at my notebook.

I flipped him off without looking up. Maybe I WAS a spy. I'd been watching Maya from behind the backstop for three weeks now—how she adjusted her batting gloves exactly three times before each pitch, how she chewed her lip when she missed, how her laugh sounded like thunder rolling in on a summer afternoon.

Not creepy. Observational.

The sky turned that weird purple-green color right as Maya stepped up to bat. First pitch—CRACK. The ball sailed toward center field where I was sitting, pretending to analyze spray charts. Instead of moving, I froze like an idiot.

"HEADS UP!" someone screamed.

The ball missed my face by inches. A miracle? No. May screamed from home plate, "MARCO, DUCK!"

And then I heard it—this sharp intake of breath, like she'd been the one almost hit. That's when I realized: I wasn't the only spy here.

Coach blew the whistle. "Everybody in! Lightning's too close!"

We crowded into the tiny equipment shed as the first real bolt struck somewhere beyond the left field fence. The whole metal structure vibrated. Maya ended up squished next to me, our shoulders pressed together, smelling like dirt and coconut deodorant and nervous sweat.

"You watch me," she said quietly. Too quietly for anyone else to hear.

My face burned hotter than the summer air. "You watch me back."

She laughed, and it sounded nothing like thunder this time. It sounded like something I wanted to hear forever. "You've got a weird way of keeping score, Marco. You circle my name every time I'm up."

Lightning flashed again, illuminating everything in stark white—her crooked teeth, the freckles across her nose, the way she was looking at me like I was something worth noticing.

"Maybe," I said, "maybe I'm not the team statistician. Maybe I'm just your biggest fan."

The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to die. LAME. So lame. But Maya didn't laugh. She reached over and squeezed my hand, just once, quick and electric.

"You know what's weird?" she whispered. "I only started playing baseball because I saw you at tryouts last year, calculating averages in your head like it was nothing. I thought, that guy has his own language."

Outside, the rain started falling in sheets. We stayed in that shed for twenty more minutes until Coach called us back out. Nobody mentioned the canceled game. Nobody mentioned that Maya and I walked back to the dugout holding hands.

I'm still the worst player on the team. But sometimes, when nobody's watching, Maya lets me take batting practice. And sometimes, just sometimes, I actually hit the ball.