Thunder in the Orange Crush

The orange hoodie was a mistake. Definitely a mistake. Standing out like a radioactive traffic cone at the one baseball game where HE might actually notice me.

"You good, Maya?" Riley asked, nudging my shoulder with her own. "You've been staring at the field for like, twenty minutes."

"I'm not staring at the field," I muttered, grateful when the stadium lights flickered. "I'm conducting a comprehensive tactical analysis."

"You're such a weirdo spy. Just talk to him already."

Him being Jordan, who played left field and had somehow become the main character of my junior year without knowing it. I'd been watching him from a distance since September—posting up near his locker, accidentally-on-purpose choosing the same lunch table, collecting data like his smile was a scientific phenomenon I needed to understand before I could participate.

The sky chose that moment to撕裂 open. Lightning cracked across the sky like someone had taken a photograph of the universe deciding it was done with everyone's nonsense.

"GAME CALLED!" the announcer boomed as thunder rattled the concession stand.

Everyone groaned. The team jogged toward the dugout, and then—THEN—the absolute UNTHINKABLE happened. The mascot, this enormous brown bear that had been lumbering around the infield high-fiving kids, suddenly lost its footing on the wet grass.

It faceplanted. Hard.

And inside that bear suit? That was definitely Jordan's number.

My brain short-circuited. The hottest guy in school spent his Friday nights inside a sweaty, polyester bear, making children smile? This information COLLIDDED with everything I thought I knew about social currency and coolness and the invisible rules that governed who deserved to be looked at and who didn't.

"We should go," Riley said, already grabbing her bag. "Before the downpour."

I stayed frozen as people streamed past me, my orange hoodie suddenly feeling like armor instead of a mistake. Jordan was fumbling with the bear head's zipper, looking ridiculous and perfect and completely, wonderfully human.

Lightning flashed again. Something shifted in my chest—like understanding that the things I'd been spying on from the outside, from a distance, were just people. Just people being weird and awkward and real.

I walked toward the dugout. My heart was absolutely, positively going to explode.

"Hey," I said, and my voice didn't even shake. "Nice faceplant, Bear."