The Bleachers
1033 Words
Chapter 5
The Bleachers
Amira’s POV
The school bell rang, screaming freedom. My feet hadn’t even planted on the hallway floor before I was already thinking of one place—just one.
The field.
Not for exercise. Not to jog. And definitely not to kick balls with sweaty boys.
But to watch… her.
Lexi had barely caught up with me when I spun around to face her. “Where’s the baseball field?”
She blinked, confused. “Huh?”
“The baseball field. Where is it?” I repeated, trying not to sound too desperate.
A slow smirk spread across her lips.
“Ohhh,” she dragged out the word, grinning. “So someone’s crushing.”
I rolled my eyes, tugging the straps of my backpack. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she said with mock innocence, walking alongside me. “I just said you might want to check out the baseball field. Maybe watch someone special stretch in slow motion.”
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t need to.
The way I practically ran toward the open bleachers said everything.
The baseball field was huge—wide open space with dirt paths and a green lawn that sparkled under the evening sun. I spotted a few players already gathering near the dugout, pulling on gloves, adjusting caps, tossing balls with practiced ease.
And then I saw her.
Peyton.
Catcher’s gear slung at her side, helmet tucked under one arm, hair pulled into that signature ponytail that had officially taken up permanent residence in my head.
She was squatting behind home plate, stretching her arms, glancing up at the pitcher.
Confident. Unbothered.
My breath caught.
I climbed up into the stands, heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might crash through my ribs. It was like I was about to take a test I hadn’t studied for—but worse.
Lexi plopped next to me, shaking a bag of chips she probably smuggled from the cafeteria.
“You know,” she said between crunches, “this is kind of romantic.”
“It’s not romantic.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
I tried to focus on the field, even though her teasing made my skin crawl.
Warm-ups started. Peyton jogged past us in full gear—shin guards, chest protector, helmet tucked under her arm. Her movements were swift, efficient, like she’d done this a hundred times. Probably had.
She didn’t look our way, but that didn’t stop my eyes from trailing her like a magnet.
Coach called for catching drills.
Peyton crouched into position, glove up, eyes sharp. The pitcher launched the ball. She caught it clean. Another one. And another. Each one landing in her mitt with a satisfying pop.
Then—a wild pitch.
It bounced off the dirt, fast and awkward. She reached low.
Missed.
The ball thudded past her.
I winced.
My whole body tensed like I’d missed it myself.
Lexi glanced sideways. “Wow. That bad, huh?”
“She missed one,” I said quickly. “It happens.”
“Mmhmm,” she said, tossing another chip into her mouth.
But Peyton was already shaking it off. She adjusted her chest gear, slapped her mitt, and signaled for another pitch.
CRACK.
Clean catch.
The rest of the drill was flawless.
And just like that, my lungs remembered how to breathe.
Peyton’s POV
I hate early practices. I hate the way my gear sticks to my skin before the real heat even kicks in. And I hate how Coach always makes us start with catching drills like the whole world revolves around pitchers and their lousy aim.
But whatever. I crouched low, glove up, eyes fixed. The first pitch flew in—fast and perfect. Straight into the mitt. Next one was low. I snatched it just before it hit the dirt.
Then the third came in bouncing.
I lunged. It scraped past my glove.
Ugh.
I stood, shook it off, reset. Wasn’t the first time. Won’t be the last.
The drills continued.
Focus. Breathe. Catch. Throw.
It was all muscle memory at this point.
But between reps, I caught something. Movement in the stands. Someone new.
That girl. The one from earlier.
Amira.
I wasn’t sure why it stuck with me. Maybe because she looked like she was trying hard not to be noticed and failing terribly at it.
She sat next to Lexi, half-hidden under the shade of the bleachers, arms folded over her knees, face unreadable—but her eyes were locked on the field.
On me?
Maybe.
I looked away. Refocused.
Gear back on, I stepped into position for blocking drills. Fast pitches straight into the dirt. My job was to stop them.
I dropped, caught, blocked. Over and over. Knees burning. Forearms bruised.
I didn’t look back up again. No reason to.
But the weight of a stare is hard to shake.
Amira’s POV
She was incredible.
Even when she missed, even when she fumbled—there was this grace in how she bounced back. Like nothing rattled her.
She wore her focus like a second skin.
And I hated how affected I was by it.
I leaned forward when she crouched. Tensed when she reached for a stray ball. Winced when it got past her.
I was living every moment she played.
Lexi crunched loudly beside me.
“You look like a lost puppy.”
I glared at her. “Go away.”
“You go away.”
Down on the field, Coach blew his whistle. The players grouped up. Peyton peeled off her gear and wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her glove.
And maybe it was just instinct.
Maybe she looked up out of habit.
But our eyes met.
Just for a heartbeat.
And then she looked away.
Like nothing happened.
But everything had.
Lexi nudged me. “You okay?”
I nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Just breathing weird.”
“Sure, sure.” She stood. “Come on, Romeo.”
I stayed for a few seconds longer, watching Peyton blend back into the team.
I wasn’t sure what I was feeling.
But I knew it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
- Writer
