Thunder in My Palm

The baseball field smelled like cut grass and teenage desperation. I sat in the bleachers, my iPhone burning a hole in my pocket like I was carrying illegal contraband. Maya was pitching today—of course she was. She made it look effortless, all lean muscle and focus, while I was over here hyperventilating about a text I'd typed seventeen times and still hadn't sent.

"You gonna send that or what?" Jordan whispered, elbowing me. He'd been my best friend since sixth grade, which meant he witnessed all my disasters. Including the one in eighth grade when I accidentally liked three years of Maya's Instagram photos at 2 AM. Still recovering.

"Shut up," I muttered, wiping sweaty palms on my jeans. "It's not the right moment."

The sky decided to make it the right moment. Lightning cracked across the sky like someone had taken a photo with the world's brightest flash—too bright, too sudden, way too dramatic. The umpire shouted something about weather delay. Parents grabbed folding chairs and coolers. Players sprinted for the dugout.

Maya looked up at the sky, then her eyes found mine in the chaos. She waved.

I froze. My brain short-circuited. My hand decided it was now or never, autopilot engaging as my iPhone emerged from my pocket. Text sent. The little whoosh sound was lost in thunder that rattled my teeth.

Game over. I died. Please come to my funeral and delete my browser history.

Rain started falling—big dramatic drops like the sky was making a point. Everyone scattered. I stood there like an idiot until Jordan grabbed my arm.

"Dude, MOVE."

We bolted for the covered concession stand, skidding through wet grass. Something collided with me—hard. Someone. We both went down in a tangle of limbs.

"Watch where—"

Maya.

We were both soaked, hair plastered to our faces, my heart hammering like I'd just run a marathon. She was laughing. Actually laughing.

"Nice slide," she said, water dripping from her chin.

"I practice," I managed, which was the stupidest thing I'd ever said, and I'd said a lot of stupid things.

She reached out—palm open—and pulled me up. Her hand was warm and rain-slick and everything in my universe condensed down to five fingers.

"Did you just text me?" she asked, eyes bright with mischief. "Because my phone's in my bag and I felt it vibrate."

I looked at my palm, still tingling where she'd touched it. Lightning flashed again, illuminating everything.

"Maybe," I said. "You'll have to check after. If we survive."

Maya grinned. "Good answer, Reynolds. Good answer."