Zombies in the Infield

Maya's palms were sweating so much she was practically leaving puddles on her backpack straps. First day of summer as the new concession stand girl at Oak Creek Baseball Field, and naturally, she'd already managed to spill an entire tray of nachos on herself. Cheese everywhere. Her uniform shirt now looked like a zombie victim in a B-movie.

"Smooth," said a voice behind her. She turned to see a guy with the most unfairly cute smug face she'd ever encountered. He wore his baseball cap backward and had this fox-like cleverness in his eyes. "I'm Leo. I've been working here two summers, and I have never seen someone take down a nacho tray with such commitment."

Maya's face burned. "Maya. And it was my first day, okay?"

"First days are zombie walks," he said, grabbing a mop. "My first summer here, I forgot to turn off the soft serve machine. Had to scrape melted ice cream off everything for three hours. My manager called me Ice Cream Zombie for the rest of July."

She couldn't help it—she laughed. The tension in her shoulders finally loosened.

They spent the rest of the summer trading shifts, stories, and increasingly ridiculous work mishaps. Leo taught her how to properly fold hot dog wrappers so they didn't fly everywhere. Maya taught him her secret technique for getting customers to actually check the "exact change" box instead of pretending.

The night of the championship game, palm trees swaying in the breeze, the whole town showed up. Maya was on register duty, her heart doing nervous cartwheels every time Leo looked over from the grill and grinned at her.

"Hey," he said during a lull, leaning against the counter. "Some of us are doing a zombie movie marathon tomorrow. You should come. I promise no nachos will be harmed."

Maya looked at him—really looked at him—and felt something shift in her chest, warm and electric and terrifying.

"Only if you promise not to call me Ice Cream Zombie," she said.

Leo's grin widened. "Deal."

Her palms still sweat every time he looks at her. Some things, apparently, don't change. But somehow, that's not so bad anymore.