Three Strikes and You're In

Maya's iPhone screen glowed in the dark of her bedroom, illuminating the notification that made her stomach do that weird flip thing it always did when *he* posted. Lucas was at the baseball game, obviously. In the photo, he stood at home plate, bat slung over his shoulder like he owned the world, his jersey stained with genuine dirt from sliding into second.

She'd become a pro at this particular kind of social media spying—knowing exactly how many times to tap on his story before it became weird (three, maximum), learning to recognize his friends by their sneakers, tracking his movements through Instagram backgrounds like some kind of pathetic private investigator. It was exhausting, being this invested in someone who probably thought of her as "that quiet girl from pre-calc."

"You're going to bear this burden alone if you don't just talk to him," her best friend Priya had said earlier that day, whipping a peeled orange at her head across the lunch table. "Also, eat some fruit. You look like you haven't seen sunlight since finals week."

The baseball game was Friday night. The whole school would be there, buzzing with that electric energy that made everything feel possible. Maya stood in the bleachers, squeezing between couples who were practically fused together, feeling like the world's most awkward interloper. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple, like someone had spilled a cosmic smoothie across the clouds.

Then Lucas looked up.

Right at her. Not through her, not around her. AT her.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. He smiled—that genuine, lopsided thing that made his nose crinkle—and motioned for her to come down to the field.

"Maya!" he called, and the way he said her name made it sound like something important. "You gonna help me with this math assignment or what?"

She descended the bleachers on shaky legs, certain this was some cosmic joke. But when she reached the dugout, he was still there, still smiling, holding out his phone with a new contact open.

"I was hoping you'd show up," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "I didn't know how to ask you without it being weird."

Maya's phone buzzed in her pocket. A new follower request. From him. Sometimes the universe didn't just give you signs—it practically screamed them in your face.