Zombie Mode at the Plate

I was running on zero sleep and three hours of zombie movies with Jayden, so naturally I looked like the walking dead. Stupid idea for a Friday night, considering I had the travel baseball tournament the next morning. My jersey felt like it was made of sandpaper, and my bat might as well have been a telephone pole for all the good it'd do me.

Then I saw her in the stands.

Maya was wearing that bright orange hoodie—the one that made her look like a literal ray of sunshine in a sea of parents and siblings. She'd come. Actually showed up to watch me and the rest of the team struggle through our losing streak like we were getting paid for it.

My heart did this embarrassing little flutter thing that had nothing to do with the two energy drinks I'd slammed on the way here.

"You good, man?" Marcus asked, smacking my helmet. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"Never been better," I lied. "Just locked in."

Locked in. Right. More like locked out of my own brain.

The team mascot—a guy in a bear costume that smelled like pure regret—started dancing in the dugout to distract the other team. It was working. Their pitcher was laughing so hard he nearly dropped the ball.

I stepped up to the plate. The sun beat down like it had something personal against me. Someone had spilled water near home plate, turning the dirt into mud. Perfect.

Maya stood up, her orange hoodie bright against the dull gray of the bleachers. She cupped her hands around her mouth.

"YOU GOT THIS, ALEX!"

Her voice carried over everything. The parents stopped talking. The bear mascot stopped dancing. Even their pitcher looked over.

My face burned. I was gonna strike out. I was absolutely gonna whiff and make a fool of myself in front of literally the only person whose opinion I actually cared about.

The first pitch came—high and outside. Ball one.

"Close one," the umpire grunted.

Second pitch. I didn't swing. Ball two.

Maya was still standing. Still watching. Still believing.

Third pitch came in low, and I made contact—but just barely. A slow dribbler toward third base. I sprinted like my life depended on it, legs pumping, lungs screaming, everything from last night's zombie marathon and this morning's regret crashing together in one perfect, terrible moment.

Safe at first. By an inch.

I looked up, breathing hard, and Maya was grinning like she'd never seen anything more epic in her life. She gave me this little thumbs-up that made my chest feel weirdly light.

Maybe being a zombie wasn't the worst thing in the world. Not if it meant moments like this.

Not if it meant she came to watch.