Three Strikes at 3 AM

The carnival goldfish—that's what started it. Leo won it for me at the county fair last summer, back when we were just friends tossing baseballs at milk bottles. Now the fish, which I'd brilliantly named Splash, was doing backflips in its bowl on my nightstand while I stared at my ceiling at 3 AM.

Tomorrow was the big game. Varsity baseball tryouts. The thing I'd been prepping for since sixth grade. And I hadn't slept in three nights.

My phone lit up. Leo: You up?

Always.

Leo: Nervous about tryouts?

Me: How'd you guess?

Leo: You've got spinach in your teeth in your selfie from yesterday.

I groaned so loud my cat glared at me. Of course. I'd eaten that stupid spinach salad at lunch because Mom said "iron gives you energy," and now Leo—the Leo I'd been crushing on for eight months—had noticed. I'd been analyzing that selfie for twenty minutes and missed the most obvious thing.

Me: Thanks for telling me NOW

Leo: I thought it was kinda cute. Like, endearing.

My heart did this weird fluttery thing that had nothing to do with tryouts.

Leo: You're gonna crush it tomorrow. You've been working so hard.

Me: What if I choke? What if I strike out and everyone's watching and

Leo: Then I'll buy you another goldfish.

I laughed. Splash did a particularly dramatic flip.

Leo: For real though. You're already a winner. With or without baseball.

Something settled in my chest. Maybe it was the sudden realization that my worth wasn't tied to making the team. Or maybe it was that Leo thought spinach teeth were cute. Either way, sleep finally came.

Tryouts? I made second string. But walking home with Leo afterward, him pointing out I still had a little spinach stuck in my braces—that was the real win.

Splash got a friend. I got a boyfriend. And somewhere along the way, I figured out that the things that matter aren't the ones you can practice for.