Three Strikes of Summer

My palms were sweating so bad I could barely grip the bat. Great. Just what I needed right now—first day of freshman baseball tryouts, and I was already channeling a nervous water fountain.

"Batter up!" Coach barked, and I shuffled toward the plate, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. Spoiler: I didn't. I was only here because Maya had mentioned she thought guys who played baseball were cute, and I was down bad enough to risk total humiliation for a microscopic chance with her.

The pitcher wound up and fired. I swung so hard I practically spun myself into a different timezone. Strike one. My sweaty palms slipped on the bat handle.

Behind the backstop, I saw Maya leaning against the chain-link fence, wearing that orange sundress that made my brain do something stupid. I hadn't eaten anything all day except that stupid spinach wrap from the cafeteria, which I was currently regretting for approximately seventeen reasons.

Second pitch. Strike two. I looked ridiculous and I knew it.

"You're swinging like your arms are made of spaghetti," someone called from the bench. Everyone laughed. I wanted to dissolve into the ground.

Then I noticed something—Marcus, the junior shortstop who'd been giving me dirty looks all practice, was watching me weirdly intense. Not like he was evaluating my swing. More like he was... I don't know, spying on me? Which made zero sense because I was literally the least important person on the field.

Third pitch came. I closed my eyes, swung, and somehow—MIRACULOUSLY—made contact. The ball dribbled off the end of the bat and rolled about three feet. I ran like my life depended on it, barely beating the throw to first.

"Safe!" the ump yelled.

I stood there, bent over with my hands on my knees, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. When I looked up, Marcus was still staring at me. Then he did something weird—he pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at me. Like, I'm watching you.

After practice, I found him by the dugout.

"Dude, what's your deal?" I asked, trying to sound confident instead of terrified.

Marcus smirked. "Your fly was down the whole practice, freshman. I was trying to figure out how to tell you without embarrassing you in front of everyone. Failed, obviously."

My face burned. Of course. Of COURSE that's what he was doing.

"Anyway," he said, tossing me a Gatorade, "you've got a weird swing, but you're fast. We need a pinch-runner. Show up tomorrow."

He walked away, and I stood there holding the orange bottle, grinning like an idiot. Maya had already left, but somehow that didn't even matter anymore.

I was gonna make the team. And I was definitely, definitely going to invest in a belt.