The Strikeout Confession

My palms were sweating so much I could barely grip the bat. Classic. Absolutely classic.

"You good, Marcus?" Tyler called from the dugout, that annoyingly confident grin plastered across his face.

"Yeah, just vibing," I lied, wiping my hands on my uniform pants for the third time.

The scoreboard lights flickered on as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting everything in this insane orange glow. It would've been romantic if I wasn't about to embarrass myself in front of literally everyone.

Including Jordan.

She sat in the front row behind home plate, wearing my letterman jacket because it was "chilly" (it was 72 degrees, but I wasn't complaining). Her hair was pulled back in that messy ponytail thing she did when she was actually focused on something, and somehow she looked better than usual. How was that fair?

"Batter up!" the umpire shouted.

I stepped into the box. First pitch: fastball, right down the middle. I didn't even swing. Too busy thinking about how Jordan had smiled at me in fourth period today. Like, actually smiled. Not the polite smile she gave everyone. The smile.

"Strike one!"

Second pitch: I swung so hard I almost lost my balance. Missed by three feet. The baseball team's bench erupted in laughter.

"Looking good, Marcus!" someone yelled. "Too bad the bat doesn't agree!"

Third pitch came in slow. I connected – but it was a weak dribbler toward third base. I was already running, tearing down the baseline like my life depended on it, sliding awkwardly into first base. My cleat caught the bag wrong. I went down. Hard.

Everything went quiet.

Then Jordan was standing above me, holding out her hand. Her palm was soft when she pulled me up, and she was trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly.

"That was legendary," she whispered, still holding my hand. "You literally flew. I think I saw your soul leave your body for a second."

"My dignity definitely left," I groaned, dusting off my pants.

"Eh, dignity's overrated." She squeezed my hand once before letting go. "Besides, I like a guy who's not afraid to face-plant in front of the entire school. Shows character."

I was still brushing dirt off my uniform when she walked away, leaving me there on first base, grinning like an idiot.

My palms weren't sweating anymore.

Sometimes the best things happen when you're running so hard you trip over your own feet.