Three Strikes at Sunset

Maya's been running from her feelings since freshman year, literally. Cross country, track, soccer — if it involved moving fast and not thinking, she was there. But some things you can't outrun.

Like Tyler's basement party last Friday.

She stood there, Red Solo cup in hand, watching him across the room. Tyler with his backwards baseball cap and that smile that made her forget English existed. Then, out of nowhere, her best friend Jacey grabbed Maya's hand. "Let him read your palm!"

"What? No!" Maya pulled back, but Jacey was already dragging her toward where Tyler sat with his cousins.

"My cousin's basically psychic," Tyler said, grinning. "Show him your palm, Maya."

She almost ran. Literally ran. But something made her stay. She extended her hand, palm up, heart pounding harder than any race she'd ever won.

"You're gonna break some records," his cousin said, tracing the lines on her hand. "But not the running kind. You're gonna stop running from what you want."

Everyone laughed. Maya laughed too, but her face burned like she'd been standing too close to a bonfire.

Now it's Wednesday, and she's sitting in the dugout, watching Tyler at baseball practice. The way his jersey clings to his back when he pitches. How he adjusts his cap between innings. Baseball had never been her sport — she didn't even understand half the rules — but suddenly here she was.

"You gonna sit there all season or actually say something?" Jacey texted her.

Tyler looked over at the dugout. Their eyes met. He smiled.

Maya stood up. For once, she wasn't running anywhere.

"Hey," she called out. "After practice, you wanna —"

"Yeah," he said, like he'd been waiting for her to ask. "Yeah, I do."

Later, walking beside him under the parking lot lights, Maya realized something: Sometimes the best winning streaks don't happen on the field. Sometimes they happen when you finally stop running and just let yourself want what you want.