Trading Old Bases

The baseball cap sat in my locker like a ghost from middle school, collecting dust next to my vape pen and half-eaten protein bar. I hadn't touched it since freshman year when I quit the team after what I now call The Great Bench-Warming Incident of 2022.

"You still have that thing?" Maya asked, leaning against the lockers next to mine. She smelled like coconut shampoo and the cafeteria's Friday pepperoni pizza.

"Yeah," I muttered, shoving it deeper. "My mom keeps saying I'll regret quitting. She's all about how team sports build character or whatever."

Maya snorted. "She still buying you those nasty vitamin gummies that taste like battery acid?"

"The exact ones," I groaned. "She thinks they'll help me 'focus'."

Truth was, I'd been unfocused for months. Ever since Jordan started inviting me to play padel at that fancy club his parents belong to. Padel was like tennis met squash in an elevator and had a weirdly attractive baby. All the cool kids played it now, speaking Spanish terms I had to Google and wearing outfits that cost more than my car.

But I sucked at padel. Like, genuinely terrible. The ball would fly over the glass walls while everyone watched in that awkward silence that feels worse than actually getting yelled at.

"You coming tonight?" Jordan asked at lunch, sliding onto the bench beside me. "We need a fourth. Chloe's sick."

Running laps in gym class was one thing. This was different. This was social suicide waiting to happen.

"I, uh, have to..."

"Bro, it's just padel." He lowered his voice. "Maya's playing."

That's how I found myself at 7 PM on a Friday, standing on a padel court while Maya served in this cute little tennis dress that made my brain malfunction. I missed the ball three times before it even crossed the net.

"You're thinking too much," Maya said between points, tossing her hair back like she did in math class when Mr. Henderson was being boring. "Just hit it."

"I'm overthinking," I admitted.

"Yeah, no duh." She smirked. "Remember when you pitched that no-hitter in eighth grade?"

I stared at her. "You remember that?"

"I was there." She stepped closer. "You threw the ball like you meant it. Do that now."

So I did. I stopped thinking about how stupid I probably looked and just hit the damn ball. Game to us, 6-4.

Afterward, Jordan was all, "Bro, where have you been hiding this?" and Maya was looking at me differently, or maybe that was just me hoping.

"So," Maya said as we walked to our bikes. "You still have that baseball cap?"

"Somewhere. Why?"

"Bring it next time." She bumped my shoulder. "It's kinda cute when you stop overthinking everything."