Three Strikes at First

The papaya chunks were melting all over my phone, but I couldn't stop staring at the screen. Three papayas later and Maya still hadn't texted back.

"Dude, you're gonna burn a hole through that thing," Jordan said, cracking open a coconut like it was nothing. We were at Kualoa Beach Park, the kind of place where palm trees leaned over the water like they were eavesdropping on conversations.

I shoved my phone in my pocket. Sticky. Great. "Whatever. She's probably just busy."

"Busy avoiding you," Jordan laughed, then his dog Max—some ridiculously fluffy husky mix—started barking at a crab. "Chill, Max!"

My phone buzzed. My palm actually sweated. Like, embarrassing dad-joke level sweat.

*Sorry!! super behind on chem project. can we reschedule?*

The disappointment hit me like a baseball bat to the chest. I'd spent all morning picking out this outfit, even borrowed my brother's cologne (which probably smelled like desperation).

"She bailed," I muttered, suddenly super interested in the sand.

"Classic." Jordan tossed me a soda. "Welcome to dating in 2024, bro. Girls these days have more backup plans than NASA."

That's when I saw her—Maya, walking down the beach with her friends. Laughing. Looking completely amazing in that sundress that made my stomach do weird gymnastics routines.

She saw me. Our eyes locked. For like three full seconds.

Then she turned back to her friends like I was just another palm tree in the scenery.

"Ouch," Jordan said, way too sympathetically. "That looked painful."

My phone buzzed again. Not Maya.

*Mom: Baseball practice at 5. Don't be late.*

Some days you're the player who hits the home run. Some days you're the guy dropping papaya all over his shirt while the girl pretends she didn't just completely ignore you.

"Let's go," I said, wiping sticky fruit juice on my shorts. "I need to hit something."

"Baseball?" Jordan asked.

"Harder," I said. "Just... harder."