Walk On

 

Story

Scene 1

The motel room smelled like detergent trying too hard.

Not dirty- just… scrubbed. Like someone had wiped away a life and left nothing behind but a bed, a chair, and a TV bolted to the wall.

Simon Ellison sat on the edge of the mattress, phone in his hand, staring at nothing.

No missed calls.

No emails.

No “we’d like to bring you in.”

Just silence.

He checked anyway. Again.

Still nothing.

The temp agency had been polite. That was the worst part.

“We’ll call you.”

That was three days ago.

Three days of sitting in this room, flipping channels, pretending he wasn’t waiting.

Three days of doing exactly what Stacy told him to do.

…and getting exactly nowhere.

Simon exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

He could hear traffic outside. Not loud. Just constant. Like Cleveland reminding him it was moving whether he was or not.

“…this is stupid.”

He sat up.

That was the moment.

Not dramatic. Not heroic.

Just… tired of waiting.

The store wasn’t far.

One of those big-box places that sold everything from groceries to power tools to sports equipment no one in the neighborhood really used.

Simon walked straight past the clothes. Past the electronics.

He knew where he was going.

Sports.

Baseball section.

It was smaller than he expected.

A couple bats. Some gloves. Catcher’s gear tucked off to the side like an afterthought.

He stood there for a second.

Just looking.

He hadn’t done this in years.

Not really.

Not seriously.

His hand brushed over a bat.

Picked it up.

Balanced it.

Too light.

He grabbed another.

Better.

He gave it a small practice swing- nothing crazy, just enough to feel it.

Yeah.

That felt… right.

The glove came next.

That took longer.

He tried a few.

Opened and closed them.

Smelled the leather- out of habit more than anything.

Finally found one that sat properly in his hand.

Not perfect.

…but good enough.

Then he looked at the catching gear.

Mask.

Chest protector.

Leg guards.

He hesitated.

This was the part that made it real.

Anyone can pick up a bat.

A glove.

That’s just messing around.

…but this?

This meant something.

He remembered being behind the plate.

The sound of the ball hitting the mitt.

The way everything slowed down for a second.

Calling a pitch and being right.

Or wrong.

…and feeling it immediately.

He remembered his dad sitting in the stands.

Not loud.

Not one of those parents.

Just there.

Watching.

Simon swallowed.

“…yeah.”

He grabbed the gear.

At checkout, the total hit harder than expected.

He stared at the number for a second.

That was a chunk of what he had left.

A real chunk.

The cashier didn’t care.

Why would she?

To her, it was just another purchase.

Simon tapped his card.

Approved.

Just like that.

Money gone.

Decision made.

Outside, the air hit him- cooler than he expected.

He stood there for a moment, holding the bag.

Bat over his shoulder.

Gear clanking softly inside.

No plan.

No call from the agency.

No one telling him where to go.

“…Crooks.”

He said it out loud.

Like testing it.

He wasn’t a kid anymore.

He wasn’t on a team.

He hadn’t played in years.

…and the Cuyahoga Crooks weren’t exactly handing out second chances.

Not to guys like him.

Not to anyone, really.

Simon adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

Started walking.

He didn’t know if this was smart.

Didn’t know if it would work.

Didn’t know if anyone would even let him through the door.

…but for the first time in three days- he wasn’t waiting.

Scene 2

Cuyahoga Castles called it a bus stop.

Simon wasn’t sure why.

It was a metal post. A faded sign. A schedule that looked like it had been printed during a different administration.

He stepped up to it anyway, plastic bag in one hand, bat sticking out awkwardly over his shoulder.

He checked the schedule.

Didn’t know why.

The bus never followed it anyway.

The wind cut through the street like it had somewhere to be.

Cooler than it should’ve been.

Simon shifted his weight, pulling his jacket tighter, watching the road like that would somehow make the bus appear.

His phone buzzed.

“Bus arriving in 5 minutes.”

He stared at it.

“…yeah, okay.”

He didn’t even sound annoyed.

Just… used to it.

Cars passed.

A guy on a bike swerved around a pothole and nearly wiped out.

Somewhere down the block, someone shouted at someone else.

Cleveland kept moving.

The bus didn’t.

Simon leaned back against the post.

…and without trying-

his mind went there.

The day after Tristan died.

He had gone to the field anyway.

Glove. Gear. Everything.

Like nothing had changed.

Like it couldn’t have changed.

He told himself playing would fix it.

That if he just got behind the plate- called a game- heard the ball hit the mitt- everything would snap back into place.

It didn’t.

Every pitch felt wrong.

Every sound was too loud.

Too sharp.

Too empty.

He didn’t quit that day.

Not officially.

He just…never went back.

Simon exhaled slowly, eyes back on the empty street.

Standing there now- waiting for a bus that might not come- he realized something.

He still didn’t know if this would work.

Didn’t know if picking up a bat again would fix anything.

Didn’t know if it would make it worse.

“…guess we’ll find out.”

Footsteps approached.

Simon glanced over.

A woman stepped up beside him.

Scrubs.

Light blue, slightly wrinkled.

Hair tied back in a way that said it had been neat once, hours ago.

She carried a bag that looked heavier than it should’ve been.

…and her face- that wasn’t just “long shift.”

That was something else.

The kind of tired that didn’t go away with sleep.

They made brief eye contact.

Shared a small smile.

The kind strangers give each other when they’re in the same situation and don’t need to say it out loud.

She glanced at the road.

Then at the sign.

Then back at the road.

“…five minutes, right?” she said.

Simon let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah. About twenty minutes ago.”

She nodded like that made perfect sense.

“Good. Just making sure it wasn’t just me.”

They stood there together.

Not talking.

Just… waiting.

The wind picked up again.

She shifted, rubbing her hands together.

Simon adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

The bat knocked lightly against his back.

She noticed.

“Baseball?”

Simon hesitated for half a second.

“…trying.”

She gave a small, tired smile.

“Better than not trying.”

That landed more than he expected.

Before he could respond- the bus finally appeared.

Slow.

Loud.

A little too late to be on time, not late enough to apologize.

They both stepped forward at the same time.

Not rushing.

Just… ready.

The doors opened with a hiss.

Warm air hit them.

Simon gestured slightly.

“You go ahead.”

She shook her head.

“We’re both getting on. That’s a win.”

He let out a small laugh.

“Fair.”

They climbed on.

No ceremony.

No announcement.

Just two people getting out of the wind.

As Simon dropped into a seat, bag at his feet, bat leaning against his leg- he looked out the window.

The city kept moving.

Same as before.

…but now- he was moving with it.

Scene 3

The bus was warm.

Not comfortable- just warmer than outside.

Simon sank into the seat, bag at his feet, bat resting against his leg. The engine hummed. The city slid past the window in slow, uneven pieces.

For the first time all day- he wasn’t doing anything.

Not thinking about the agency.

Not thinking about whether this was a mistake.

Just… sitting.

The bus stopped.

Doors hissed open.

A man in a wheelchair waited at the curb.

Simon barely registered it- until the driver looked straight at him.

“Hey. I need that seat.”

Simon blinked.

There were two fold-up sections at the front. Empty.

Clearly marked.

He glanced at them.

Then back at the driver.

“…there’s space right there.”

The driver didn’t argue.

Didn’t explain.

Just repeated, louder this time- “I need that seat.”

A couple people looked over.

Not hostile.

Just watching.

Simon held it for half a second.

Then stood.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He grabbed his bag, shifted awkwardly into the aisle, the bat knocking lightly against a pole as he moved.

The wheelchair rolled in.

Took his spot.

Not the empty space.

His spot.

Simon didn’t say anything.

Just stood there.

One hand on the rail.

Letting the moment pass.

Don’t make it a thing.

The bus kept moving.

First Transfer

When his stop came up, Simon stepped off and onto the curb.

The wind hit again.

Colder now.

His phone buzzed.

“Connecting bus arriving.”

He looked up.

...and there it was.

Pulling in- at the exact same time as the one he’d just left.

Simon moved.

Not running- just fast enough to make it.

The doors closed.

The bus pulled away.

He stopped.

Watched it go.

“…right.”

Five minutes later, another one came.

This one actually waited.

Wrong Direction

Simon stepped on, tapped his transfer, and dropped into a seat.

The bus pulled out.

Something felt off.

He watched the street signs.

Then the route display.

Then the direction of the sun.

“…you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He pulled the cord.

Got off at the next stop.

Crossed the street.

Waited again.

The next bus came.

He stepped on, held up his transfer.

The driver looked at it.

Then at him.

“Expired.”

Simon frowned.

“I just got off the other bus. Wrong direction.”

The driver didn’t care.

“You’ll have to pay.”

Simon glanced behind him.

People waiting.

Listening.

The driver leaned back slightly.

“Bus will be delayed until this is sorted.”

A couple groans.

Someone muttered something under their breath.

Simon closed his eyes for a second.

Exhaled.

Don’t make it a thing.

He tapped his card again.

Paid.

“Go ahead,” the driver said.

Like nothing had happened.

The bus moved.

Second Transfer

By the time Simon reached the next transfer point- he was done checking schedules.

This bus was packed.

No seats.

No space.

Just bodies.

He squeezed in anyway.

One hand on the rail.

Bag pressed against his leg.

Someone coughed.

Not once.

Not casually.

Repeatedly.

Wet.

Unapologetic.

Music blasted from somewhere behind him.

Tinny.

Loud.

No headphones.

A woman near the front was on the phone.

“…I saw the messages, don’t lie to me-”

A baby cried.

Sharp. Continuous.

Simon stared straight ahead.

Focused on nothing.

Then- movement at his feet.

He looked down.

A goat.

Just… standing there.

Calm.

Unbothered.

Like it rode this route every day.

Simon blinked.

Looked around.

No one reacted.

“…of course,” he muttered.

The bus rattled forward.

…and somewhere between the noise, the smell, the weight of too many people in too small a space- Simon felt it creeping back in.

This is stupid.

You’re out of your depth.

You should’ve stayed at the motel.

His grip tightened on the rail.

Then- almost without thinking- he shifted his stance.

Balanced himself with the movement of the bus.

Like he used to behind the plate.

Absorbing motion.

Adjusting.

Staying upright.

Not thinking.

Just reacting.

It wasn’t much…but it was something.

Final Stop

When his stop finally came- Simon pushed his way off the bus and onto the curb.

Fresh air.

Cold.

Quiet.

He took a breath.

Then another.

Ahead of him- not the Crooks’ Academy facility.

Not yet.

Just the road leading to it.

Long.

Open.

A walk he hadn’t planned for.

Simon adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

Bat resting against his back.

“…yeah. alright.”

…and he started walking.

Scene 4

The walk took longer than Simon expected.

Of course it did.

Everything in Cleveland did.

By the time he reached the Crooks’ facility, his shoulders were tight, his hands cold again, and his patience worn thin in a quiet, familiar way.

He stopped just outside the entrance.

Looked up.

The building wasn’t flashy.

No giant banners. No spectacle.

Just structure.

Clean. Functional.

Like it had no interest in impressing anyone.

Simon adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

Took a breath.

…and walked in.

The lobby was quiet.

Not empty- but controlled.

Muted conversations. Shoes on polished floors. A TV in the corner playing highlights with the volume too low to matter.

At the reception desk sat an older man.

Straight posture.

Sharp eyes.

Didn’t look bored.

Didn’t look welcoming either.

Just… present.

He looked up as Simon approached.

Took in the bag.

The bat.

The gear.

“…what are you doing here?” he asked.

Not rude.

Just direct.

Simon shifted slightly.

“I’m here to try out.”

The man’s eyes flicked once more to the gear.

“Catcher.”

Simon nodded.

“Yeah.”

The man leaned back slightly in his chair.

No surprise.

No curiosity.

Just recognition.

“We don’t do walk-ons.”

Simon blinked.

“…what?”

“You need an invite to try out,” the man said. “We don’t run open tryouts.”

Simon stood there for a second.

Then, almost reflexively-

“Then invite me.”

The man didn’t even react.

“I can’t do that.”

Silence.

Simon felt the words lining up in his head.

All the things he’d been carrying since the motel.

Since the store.

Since the bus.

I can play.

I just need a shot.

I’m not like the other guys.

I used to be good.

I’ll prove it.

He opened his mouth-

“-you just need a chance,” the man said.

Simon stopped.

“-you’re different from the others.”

Simon stared at him.

“-you used to be good, just fell off.”

The man’s tone never changed.

Calm.

Measured.

Like he was reading from something he’d memorized years ago.

“-you’ll prove it if someone gives you five minutes.”

Simon didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

The man leaned forward slightly.

Hands folded.

“I’ve heard all of it,” he said.

No anger.

No condescension.

Just… fact.

“You think you’re the first one to walk in here with a bag and a story?”

Simon’s grip tightened on the strap over his shoulder.

“I’m not saying you’re lying,” the man continued.
“I’m saying it doesn’t matter.”

That landed harder than anything else.

Simon looked past him.

Into the facility.

Players moving in the distance.

Structured.

Purposeful.

Belonging.

He looked back.

“…so that’s it?”

The man held his gaze.

“That’s it.”

Silence again.

Longer this time.

Simon nodded once.

Slow.

“Alright.”

He turned.

Started toward the door.

“Hey.”

Simon stopped.

Didn’t turn right away.

Then did.

The man had already picked up his phone.

“Where you staying?”

Simon hesitated.

“…motel off Ridge.”

The man nodded.

Tapped a few times.

“I’ll get you a ride.”

Simon frowned slightly.

“You don’t have to-”

“I know.”

Another beat.

“It’s a long walk back.”

Simon stood there for a second.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t thank him either.

Just… accepted it.

The man set the phone down.

“It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Simon nodded.

Turned back toward the door.

“Kid.”

Simon stopped again.

“You played before, didn’t you?”

Simon didn’t turn this time.

“…yeah.”

A pause.

“Then you know,” the man said.

Simon waited.

“This isn’t where you start.”

Simon stood there for a moment longer.

Then pushed the door open.

Outside, the wind hit him again.

Same as before.

…but this time- he didn’t stand still.

Scene 5

The room looked smaller than it had before.

Same bed. Same chair. Same TV bolted to the wall.

Just… tighter.

Simon sat on the edge of the mattress, phone in his hand again.

Different reason this time.

He stared at the contact for a few seconds.

Then hit call.

It rang twice.

Three times.

“Simon?”

Carina didn’t sound surprised.

She never did.

“…hey, Mom.”

A pause.

Not long.

Just enough.

“How’s Cleveland?” she asked.

Simon rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s… fine.”

Another pause.

This one heavier.

“Simon.”

He exhaled.

“…I need a little help.”

Silence.

Then- a quiet sigh on the other end.

“I was hoping,” Carina said, measured but firm, “that by now you’d be telling me you had something lined up.”

“I’m working on it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Simon didn’t answer.

“I’m not saying don’t try,” she continued. “I’m saying you can’t just drift and hope something finds you.”

“I’m not drifting,” he said, a little too quickly. “I went to the Crooks facility today.”

That got her attention.

“…and?”

“They don’t do walk-ons.”

Carina didn’t react right away.

When she did, it wasn’t anger.

It was something quieter.

“Simon… you knew that.”

He looked at the floor.

“…yeah.”

Another pause.

Then- “How much do you need?”

He hesitated.

Gave her a number.

A beat.

Then- “I’ll send it.”

Simon closed his eyes briefly.

“…thanks.”

“I’m not funding you sitting in that room forever,” she said. “You understand that, right?”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

A softer pause.

“You sound like him sometimes,” she added.

Simon’s eyes opened.

“…yeah.”

Neither of them said Tristan’s name.

They didn’t need to.

“I’ll figure it out,” Simon said.

Carina didn’t argue.

Didn’t agree either.

“I hope so,” she said.

The call ended.

Simon lowered the phone.

Sat there for a moment.

Then leaned back.

Reached for the remote.

The TV flickered to life.

Low-budget studio.

Bad lighting.

A desk that tried to look expensive.

Didn’t quite get there.

A graphic read:

“CROOKS PROSPECT WATCH”

“…and I’m telling you,” one of the commentators said, leaning forward like he was delivering something profound, “this whole Trinity Barr thing- it's a waste of time.”

Simon frowned slightly.

On screen, footage rolled.

A pitcher on the mound.

Smooth delivery.

Quick arm.

“Five pitches,” the commentator continued. “Fastball, slider, change, curve—and now a forkball? Come on.”

The co-host tried to jump in.

“That’s kind of the point- she’s-”

“No,” the first guy cut him off. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Simon sat up a little.

“You know what women players are in this league?” the commentator went on. “They’re jacks of all trades. Masters of none.”

The co-host shifted, uncomfortable.

“They don’t have the velocity to dominate. They don’t have the power to change a game. So what do they do? They learn a little bit of everything.”

Simon’s grip tightened on the remote.

“…and that sounds nice,” the man continued, “until you realize it means they’re not elite at anything. You can’t build a team on that.”

Simon stared at the screen.

“That’s not development,” the commentator said. “That’s a novelty act.”

Something in Simon snapped.

“That’s not-” he started.

Then stopped.

The room didn’t respond.

The TV didn’t care.

He let out a breath through his nose.

Shook his head.

“Yeah. okay.”

…but his eyes stayed on the screen.

Trinity Barr again.

Slow-motion replay.

Release point.

Grip.

That forkball.

Not dominant.

Not overwhelming.

Just… controlled.

Precise.

Simon leaned forward slightly.

Five pitches.

Most guys he grew up with had two.

Maybe three.

…and half of those barely worked.

He watched the replay again.

Different grip. Same arm speed.

Same look out of the hand.

You wouldn’t know what was coming until it was already there.

Simon shook his head slightly.

He remembered calling games for guys who barely had one pitch they trusted.

Barr?

This was a problem.

“…yeah, good luck sitting on that.”

He thought about the bus.

The chaos.

Everything out of sync.

Then he thought about the plate.

Catching that.

Managing that.

Calling that.

Not power.

Not dominance.

Control.

Adjustment.

Reading what’s in front of you and making it work.

Simon sat back.

The commentator kept talking.

Didn’t matter anymore.

Simon muted the TV.

The room went quiet.

“…that’s not nothing,” he said.

He looked down at his gear.

Bag sitting by the chair.

Bat leaning against the wall.

The clerk’s voice echoed in his head.

This isn’t where you start.

Simon nodded slightly.

“…fine.”

He grabbed his phone again.

Not to call his mom.

To search.

Local leagues.

Tryouts.

Anything.

Because if the Crooks weren’t where he started- then he needed to figure out where he did.

Scene 6

Simon reached for his phone.

Reflex more than intention.

A notification sat at the top.

Isolde Ellison- new post

He tapped it.

Video.

Mound shot.

Clean angle.

Isolde in a FUCC uniform- modified. Cropped vest. Briefs. Makeup done. Hair set just enough to look effortless.

Simon didn’t react to that part.

Not really.

That was Isolde.

Always had been.

She started her motion.

Compact.

Balanced.

Release.

The ball snapped into the catcher’s glove.

Next pitch.

Different grip.

Same arm speed.

Next.

Again.

Simon leaned forward slightly.

Five pitches.

He didn’t need a graphic to tell him.

He could see it.

Fastball.

Off-speed.

Breaker.

Something with late drop.

Something that just… disappeared.

Not overpowering.

Not flashy.

Just- hard to sit on.

He scrubbed back.

Watched again.

She was getting hitters out the same way she always had.

Not by beating them.

By getting ahead of them.

Simon’s thumb drifted down.

Comments.

🔥🔥🔥
“she’s unreal”
“what a body”
“fucc is different fr”
“beauty AND talent 😍”

A tagged repost:

“Beauty in Sports- Rising Stars”

Simon scrolled for a second.

Then stopped.

“…yeah,” he muttered.

Muted the video.

Looked back at the pitch.

Paused right at release.

That grip.

That angle.

He’d seen that before.

High school.

Dusty field.

Bad lighting.

No one watching.

“Outside. Let it run.”

She’d nodded.

Thrown it.

Got the weak contact.

Same look now.

Just… cleaner.

Sharper.

Simon leaned back slightly.

She’d kept going.

While he stopped.

Not dramatically.

Not all at once.

Just… didn’t come back.

He looked at the screen again.

Watched one more pitch.

“…yeah. alright.”

He closed the app.

Opened a browser.

local baseball tryouts Cleveland

A few dead ends.

Old listings.

Pay-to-play nonsense.

Then- something real.

A local league.

Lower tier.

IBC-affiliated.

International Baseball Council structure.

Open tryouts.

Simon read it twice.

Just to be sure.

Date.

Time.

Location.

He nodded once.

“…tomorrow.”

The room didn’t feel as small anymore.

Scene 7

The field sat under the shadow of a half-finished overpass.

Concrete pillars. Chain-link fences. A scoreboard that worked when it felt like it.

The Bridge Guardians.

It wasn’t much.

…but it was baseball.

Simon stepped through the gate, bag over his shoulder.

A handful of players were already there.

Stretching. Talking. Some half-throwing like they hadn’t fully decided to care yet.

…and one pitcher- already on the mound.

The sound hit first.

A fastball popping into a glove- then another.

Then one that didn’t.

The catcher in front of him stabbed at it.

Missed.

Ball slammed into the backstop.

“By Jove, man!” the catcher snapped. “You trying to kill somebody?”

The pitcher didn’t answer.

Just walked back to the rubber.

Paige Palacios stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

Focused.

Not impressed.

Not unimpressed.

Just… evaluating.

Simon set his bag down.

“Tryouts?” he asked a guy tying his cleats.

The guy jerked a thumb toward the plate.

“Yeah. You catch?”

Simon nodded.

“Good,” the guy said. “We need one. Bad.”

Another pitch.

High and arm-side.

The catcher bailed on it.

“Yeah,” the guy added. “That’s why.”

Simon watched the pitcher.

Not just the velocity.

The movement.

Late.

Unfriendly.

…but not random.

The catcher waved himself out.

“Done,” he muttered, pulling off his mask. “Not worth it.”

He dropped the gear on the grass.

Walked off.

A coach—mid-40s, tired eyes, clipboard that had seen better days—looked around.

“…anyone else?”

No one moved.

Simon stepped forward.

“I got it.”

A few heads turned.

Paige’s eyes flicked toward him.

Simon grabbed the gear.

It didn’t fit perfectly.

Didn’t matter.

He jogged out, crouched behind the plate.

“Alright,” the coach called. “Let’s see it.”

The pitcher didn’t look at Simon.

Didn’t say anything.

Just got the sign- even though Simon hadn’t really given one yet.

Windup.

Release.

The ball came in hard- and ran.

Late.

Sharp.

Simon shifted- caught it off-center.

Not clean.

…but caught.

“Ball,” someone called out lazily.

Next pitch.

Lower.

…but it dove.

Simon dropped.

Blocked it with his chest.

Ball kicked out in front.

He smothered it.

A couple murmurs.

“Better than the last guy,” someone said.

Simon stood, tossed the ball back.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t talk.

Just watched.

Third pitch.

The pitcher sped up.

Rushed it.

The ball sailed.

Way outside.

Simon didn’t chase it.

Let it go.

He exhaled slowly.

Not random.

He set up again.

Lower this time.

More centered.

“Just throw it,” Simon said.

Calm.

The pitcher hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then delivered.

The ball ran again- but into the glove.

Cleaner.

Simon held it there.

Strike.

The coach looked up.

Simon tossed it back.

“Again.”

The pitcher nodded.

Barely.

Next pitch.

Same motion.

Same speed.

Better.

Not perfect.

…but repeatable.

Simon adjusted again.

Tiny movement.

Barely visible.

They went through a sequence.

Fastball.

Miss.

Adjustment.

Fastball.

Closer.

Then- something else.

The ball dropped late.

Hard.

Simon read it just in time.

Dropped his glove.

Caught it.

He nodded once.

“…yeah.”

Behind the fence, Paige shifted slightly.

Watching closer now.

Simon stood, walked halfway to the mound.

Not dramatic.

Not a speech.

“You’re rushing,” he said. “When you miss, it’s when you try to guide it.”

The pitcher frowned.

“Just throw it,” Simon added. “Same arm. Don’t think about it.”

A beat.

The pitcher nodded.

They reset.

Next pitch- cleaner.

Still movement.

Still heavy.

…but controllable.

Simon stuck it.

Strike.

The coach closed his clipboard.

Didn’t say anything yet.

They ran a few more.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

…but working.

Simon finally pulled the mask off.

Walked back in.

The guy from earlier looked at him.

“…how’d you-”

Simon shrugged.

“Just catch it.”

Paige stepped forward.

“You played somewhere,” she said.

Not a question.

“Yeah,” Simon replied.

She nodded once.

Looked past him- toward the coach.

“He’s not ready,” she said.

Simon didn’t react.

Then- after a beat-

“He can catch him.”

Silence.

The coach looked at Simon.

Then at the mound.

Then back.

“You got a place to be?” he asked.

Simon shook his head.

“Good,” the coach said. “Practice is tomorrow.”

A beat.

“You’re catching.”

No ceremony.

No handshake.

Just- decision made.

Simon nodded.

“…alright.”

He turned back toward the field.

The pitcher was still on the mound.

Waiting.

Simon picked the mask back up.

“Again?” the pitcher asked.

Simon dropped into his stance.

“Yeah,” he said.

Scene 8

The call came in the middle of the afternoon. Unknown number. Simon almost didn’t answer.

“Simon Ellison?”

“…yeah.”

“This is Lakeside Staffing. We’ve got something for you if you’re still available.”

Simon sat up a little. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m available.”

Warehouse. Logistics corridor just outside the canal district. Early hours. Long shifts. Physical.

“I’ll take it,” Simon said before they could finish.

A pause on the other end. “…alright. We’ll send you the details. There’s also a unit opening up nearby. Short-term lease. Nothing fancy.”

“That’s fine.”

“Okay. Check your email.”

The call ended. Simon stared at the phone for a second. “…okay.” It wasn’t excitement. Not exactly…but it was something solid.

The apartment was smaller than the motel, but it wasn’t temporary. That was the difference. A real door. A real key. A window that didn’t face a parking lot. Simon stepped inside, bag over his shoulder, and just stood there. Bare walls. Scuffed floors. A kitchen assembled from whatever parts had been available at the time. Nothing matched. Nothing needed to. He set his bag down. The bat leaned against the wall like it belonged there now.

Music drifted in from outside. Not loud. Not polished. Just… there. Simon stepped back out onto Mercado Street. The block stretched unevenly in both directions- shops that looked permanent beside ones that didn’t, signage half-finished or repurposed, people moving through it like they’d decided this worked whether it actually did or not. Down the way, the canal. Above it, the Half Built Bridge- concrete ending midair like someone had walked off the job and never come back.

Simon looked at it for a second. “…yeah.” It made a kind of sense.

He followed the sound into Festival Square. A handful of people stood scattered around a DJ booth. Not a crowd. Just people choosing to be in the same place. The DJ- a woman with a laptop and headphones around her neck- nodded along to something that sounded unfinished. The beat looped. Shifted. Restarted. A couple of people danced anyway. Not because it was good. Because they wanted it to be.

Simon stayed at the edge. Nobody looked at him. Nobody asked anything. They just… existed. Same as him. He took a breath. The canal carried that faint metallic smell. The track skipped for a split second, then corrected itself. Someone laughed too loudly at something that probably wasn’t that funny…and for a moment, Simon felt it settle. Job. Apartment. Team. A place to go in the morning. A place to come back to at night. “…yeah.” He nodded once. I’ve got something.

The track looped again. Same section. Same drop. The DJ adjusted something. Didn’t quite fix it. The beat drifted off for a second, then came back a little out of sync. Simon frowned slightly. Looked around. No one stopped. No one complained. They just adjusted and kept going. He glanced back toward the bridge- half finished, still standing. Then back to the square. The music. The people trying to make it work. Then his building. Paint peeling near the door. Window frame just a little off. “…huh.”

It wasn’t disappointment. Just recognition. This wasn’t a place that worked. It was a place that kept going anyway. Simon let out a quiet breath. “…alright.” He turned back toward his apartment. The music followed him in- slightly off, slightly unfinished, still playing.

Scene 9

The first thing Simon noticed was the temperature.

Not cold.

Not warm.

Just… stone.

He woke up on the mattress he’d dropped onto the floor the night before, staring at a ceiling that didn’t quite look like a ceiling. The lines were wrong. Too curved. Too uneven. Like it had been something else first and only later decided it would tolerate being a roof.

Simon sat up slowly.

His breath didn’t fog.

…but it felt like it could.

“…alright.”

He swung his legs over the side and stood.

The floor was colder than expected.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… firm. Final.

The walls weren’t drywall.

That became obvious the moment he reached out and touched one.

Stone.

Actual stone.

Smoothed in places. Rough in others. Patches of plaster filling gaps like someone had done just enough to call it finished.

He knocked on it once.

Solid.

No echo.

“…okay.”

The bathroom was down a short hallway that didn’t quite run straight. It bent slightly, like the building itself had an opinion about where people should go.

Simon flicked the light on.

It buzzed.

Then stayed on.

The mirror was mounted into the stone at a slight angle. Not enough to be useless. Just enough to notice.

The sink worked.

Eventually.

The shower- He turned the handle.

Nothing.

Then a cough from the pipes.

Then a blast of water that was either freezing or scalding, with no clear transition between the two.

Simon stepped back instinctively.

“…good.”

He adjusted it.

Carefully.

Like defusing something.

The water settled into something usable.

Not comfortable.

…but usable.

He showered quickly.

Partly because of the temperature.

Partly because the acoustics made everything sound louder than it should have been.

Water hitting stone didn’t echo- it amplified.

By the time he stepped out, the mirror had fogged unevenly, clinging to the stone edges like it didn’t want to leave.

The kitchen wasn’t really a kitchen.

It was a corner that had been designated as one.

A stove that leaned slightly.

A fridge that hummed like it had something to prove.

Cabinets that didn’t quite line up with each other or the wall.

Simon opened one.

It creaked.

Closed it.

It creaked again.

“…yeah.”

He found a mug in one of the boxes he’d brought.

Ran the tap.

Waited.

The water came out eventually.

Clear enough.

He leaned against the counter and took a sip.

Outside, Festival Square was already alive in its own way.

The DJ was back.

Different track.

Same unfinished feel.

Simon walked over to the window.

Looked out.

The Half Built Bridge sat in the distance, unchanged.

Still going nowhere.

Still there.

Below, a couple people had already gathered in the square.

Coffee in hand.

Nodding along to something that didn’t quite land.

Simon rested his forearm against the stone edge of the window.

It felt different in daylight.

Less like a place he’d arrived at.

More like a place he’d have to figure out.

A faint sound came from somewhere behind him.

Drip.

He turned.

The sink.

Drip.

He walked back over.

Tightened the handle.

Drip.

“…okay.”

He grabbed a towel.

Wrapped it loosely around the base.

Temporary solution.

Good enough.

Simon stepped back.

Looked around the apartment again.

Stone walls.

Uneven floor.

A kitchen that leaned.

A bathroom that argued.

A window that didn’t quite close all the way.

…and his bag.

His gear.

The bat against the wall.

“…yeah.”

He nodded once.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t even close.

…but it held…and for now- that was enough.

Scene 10

Simon got there early. Not by choice, just awake before he needed to be. The sky was still a dull grey when he stepped off the bus, the air carrying that damp, metallic smell from the canal. The warehouse lights were already on, humming faintly like they’d never been off. He checked his phone. Too early. Of course.

Inside, the front office was warmer, but not comfortable. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A clock ticked louder than it should. A guy behind the desk looked up briefly.

“You starting today?”

“Yeah.”

“Break room’s down the hall. Someone’ll grab you.”

Simon nodded and kept moving. The hallway was narrow, lined with doors that all looked the same. He pushed into the break room and was hit with the smell of coffee- strong, burnt, constant. A couple of people sat scattered around, quiet in that early-shift way. No one looked up. Simon poured himself a cup. Then another. He sat, leaned back, let the heat do what it could.

The first one didn’t do much. The second one tried.

He stared at the wall, eyes half-lidded. Castle walls didn’t creak. They shifted. Not loud, not obvious, just enough that your brain kept checking for it. The window didn’t seal right, so the wind slipped in whenever it felt like it. The pipes had their own schedule. The sink dripped until it didn’t, then started again just when you thought it was done. Simon took another sip.

“…yeah.”

He checked the time again. Still early. He stood, poured a third, sat back down.

The door opened. Stacy stepped in like she already had momentum- clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, hair tied back, eyes already working through something. She clocked him immediately.

“…you’re early.”

Simon lifted his cup. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Castle?”

“Yeah.”

“Which part?”

“Mercado. By the bridge.”

She nodded once. “That explains it.”

Simon let out a breath. “…does it ever stop?”

Stacy poured herself coffee without looking, like she’d done it a thousand times. “Depends what you mean by stop.”

“The noise. The… shifting. Pipes doing whatever they want.”

She took a sip. “Not really.”

Simon stared at her.

“You get used to it,” she added.

“That’s what everyone says.”

“That’s because it’s true.”

He shook his head slightly. “Feels like the place is moving.”

“It is.”

He blinked. Stacy didn’t smile.

“Not going anywhere,” she said, “but those buildings weren’t meant for this. They just made them work.”

Simon looked down at his cup, thinking. “So what do you do? Just ignore it?”

“No.” She leaned back against the counter. “You stop fighting it.”

He frowned.

“You try to make it quiet, make it normal, you’re gonna lose. Let it do its thing. You’ll sleep eventually.”

“…eventually.”

“First week’s the worst. After that, your body figures it out.”

Simon took another sip. “What about the cold? Walls feel like a fridge.”

“Layers. Don’t rely on the heat. It works when it feels like it.”

“Good to know.”

“…and get used to the pipes. They’ll wake you up at the worst times.”

“They already did.”

She smirked faintly. “Yeah. They do that.”

A short pause settled between them. Simon looked at her.

“You just… live with it?”

Stacy met his eyes. “I live where I can afford to live. Everything else is adjustment.”

That landed. Simon nodded once. “…fair.”

She finished her coffee and set the cup down.

“Alright,” she said. “You ready?”

Simon stood. Still tired, but upright. “Yeah.”

He set his cup down with the others.

Stacy pushed the door open. The warehouse hit him immediately- noise, movement, forklifts whining, pallets shifting, voices cutting through the air in short bursts.

She glanced back at him.

“Same rule as the apartment.”

Simon raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t fight it,” she said. “Figure out how to work with it.”

Simon nodded slowly, taking it in. “…yeah. alright.”

…and he followed her in.

Scene 11

The warehouse didn’t start fast. It started… on. Lights already humming, machines already awake, people already moving like they’d been there longer than they had. Simon followed Stacy onto the floor, the noise settling into something that wasn’t overwhelming so much as constant. Forklifts cutting across lanes, pallets stacked and unstacked, voices calling out numbers that didn’t need repeating.

“Stay with me,” Stacy said, not looking back.

“Yeah.”

She moved him through aisles, pointing as they went. “Shipping there. Receiving on the other side. You’ll float today. Fill gaps, move what needs moving, don’t stand still too long.”

Simon nodded, trying to keep up.

“Questions?”

“…not yet.”

“You will. Ask someone who looks like they know what they’re doing. If they don’t, ask someone else.”

“Got it.”

She stopped, looked at him once. “Pace yourself. It’ll come in waves.”

Then she was gone, folded back into the flow like she’d never left.

Simon grabbed a vest, pulled it on, stepped into it. The first hour hit like she said it would. Boxes coming in faster than they could be sorted. Someone barking numbers. Someone else misreading them. Simon moved without thinking too much—lift, stack, shift, repeat. It wasn’t complicated. Just constant.

“…alright,” he muttered.

Then it stopped. Not completely, just… dropped. The urgency bled out of the room. People drifted. One guy leaned against a pallet scrolling his phone. Another walked past carrying nothing, looking busy anyway.

Simon stood there for a second, unsure what “don’t stand still” meant when everyone else clearly was.

He spotted a broom leaning against the wall, grabbed it, and started sweeping a stretch of floor that didn’t look like it needed it.

“New guy, huh.”

Simon glanced up. An older man stood a few feet away, arms loose at his sides, watching him with a look that wasn’t unfriendly, just familiar.

“Yeah,” Simon said. “First day.”

The man nodded at the broom. “Good instinct.”

Simon let out a small breath. “Figured standing around wasn’t it.”

“It isn’t,” the man said. “Even when it is.”

Simon kept sweeping, slow, even strokes, more about motion than dirt. The man didn’t move on.

Simon looked again, longer this time. Something clicked. The stance, maybe. The way he watched without staring.

“…wait.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

“You’re—” Simon hesitated, then committed. “Colton Benson?”

A small exhale through the nose. Not quite a smile. “Been a while since someone said that like it meant something.”

Simon straightened a bit. “You played for the Cuyahoga Crooks. Late 2000s. When they were in the Second.”

Colton nodded once. “Yeah.”

Simon looked him over again. Older now. Movements economical. The kind of slow that came from doing things the same way for a long time.

“…what are you doing here?” Simon asked, then caught himself. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Colton said. No edge to it. He leaned back against a pallet. “Same thing you are.”

“Working, yeah, but—”

“But I played,” Colton finished for him. “So this shouldn’t be where I end up.”

Simon didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to.

Colton looked out over the floor. “You think that means it lasts?”

Simon didn’t answer.

“Couple injuries,” Colton went on. “Nothing dramatic. Just enough. Lose a step. Then another. Teams call less. Then they don’t call.”

He said it like he was reading off a schedule.

“I hung around,” he added. “Independent ball. Lower tiers. Thought I could climb back.”

Simon kept the broom moving.

“Didn’t,” Colton said. “At some point you stop being a guy they’re waiting on and start being a guy they’ve already replaced.”

A forklift beeped as it reversed. They both shifted half a step without looking.

“So I found something steady,” Colton said. “And I kept showing up.”

Simon glanced around the warehouse. The noise, the motion, the pauses in between.

“Doesn’t bother you?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” Colton said. “Depends on the day.”

He pushed off the pallet, stood upright again.

“But here’s the thing,” he added. “You either spend your time thinking about where you were… or you deal with where you are.”

He nodded toward the floor.

“This place isn’t glamorous…but it’s honest.”

Simon looked down at the section he’d already swept. Clean. Pointless. Still something to do.

“Yeah,” he said.

Colton started to move past him, then stopped.

“You still playing?” he asked.

Simon hesitated. “…trying to.”

Colton studied him for a second.

“Good,” he said. “Then don’t confuse this with that.”

Simon looked up.

Colton gestured around them. “This keeps you alive. It’s not the thing.”

Simon nodded slowly. “…yeah.”

Colton gave him a small look, not quite approval, then kept walking.

Simon stood there a second longer, then shifted a step to the left and kept sweeping.

Scene 12

The slowdown came all at once. Not announced, not called- just a shift in the room where people stopped pushing and started leaning. A forklift idled near a stack of pallets, its driver sitting sideways in the seat with his head back. Someone else dropped onto an upturned crate. A few made their way toward the break room, but most didn’t bother.

Simon set the broom against the wall and rolled his shoulders. The work hadn’t been complicated, but it had weight. Repetition had a way of finding muscles you didn’t think about. He wiped his hands on his vest and looked around.

No one was moving with urgency anymore.

Stacy walked past at a steady pace, glanced at the cluster of people settling in, and kept going. No clipboard raised, no reminder about rules. Just a quick scan, then back to whatever she was tracking.

“Break,” someone said, more out of habit than instruction.

A couple of guys nearby were already mid-conversation, voices carrying just enough to pull others in.

“I’m telling you,” one of them said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, “if you start letting everyone tweak the uniform, it stops being a uniform.”

“That’s not what she’s even saying,” another shot back. “She’s saying let them wear compression under it. That’s not changing anything.”

“It is,” the first guy insisted. “It’s a step. You give that, next thing you know the whole thing’s different.”

A third guy laughed under his breath. “You’re acting like the Cuyahoga Crooks are gonna fall apart because someone wears a top under a jersey.”

“It’s not about falling apart,” the first guy said. “It’s about standards. You don’t mess with that.”

Simon leaned back against a pallet, listening without trying to. The name came up again.

“Zlydasyzk’s been loud about it,” someone else added. “Always has something to say.”

“Yeah, well, maybe she should focus on playing,” another voice said. “Instead of trying to redesign everything.”

“That’s not redesigning,” the second guy pushed back. “It’s comfort. It’s practicality.”

“Looks matter,” the first guy said, quick, like he’d been waiting to say it. “Fans don’t tune in to watch people covered up head to toe.”

A couple of nods. Not everyone. Enough.

Someone glanced over at Simon.

“Hey,” he said, pointing with his chin. “You play, right?”

Simon looked up.

“…yeah.”

“What do you think?” the guy asked. “All that stuff with Hailey- uniforms, compression, whatever. Good idea or just noise?”

A few heads turned. Not aggressively. Just curious enough to hear a new voice.

Simon took a second before answering.

“I think,” he said slowly, “if someone plays better or lasts longer because they’re more comfortable, that matters more than how it looks.”

The first guy shook his head immediately. “See, that’s what I’m saying. It’s always ‘comfort’ until the game doesn’t look like the game anymore.”

Simon didn’t push back. Just kept his tone even.

“Uniform’s still a uniform,” he said. “You’re not changing the team. You’re just letting players manage themselves better.”

“Manage themselves,” the guy repeated, skeptical. “It’s not supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to be the same.”

“Same doesn’t always mean better,” Simon replied.

A brief pause. Not silence- just a shift where people registered it.

The second guy nodded slightly. “That’s what I’m saying.”

The first guy waved it off. “Yeah, alright. You guys can have it. Next thing you know we’ll be arguing about sleeves and colors again.”

Someone else chimed in, redirecting it. “We already do.”

A couple laughs.

The tension eased, but not because anything changed.

Simon could feel it. They heard him. They didn’t move.

The conversation drifted, looping back through the same points in slightly different words. Comfort. Standards. What the game is supposed to look like. What people want to see. Nobody said it outright, but it sat underneath everything- familiar, unexamined.

Simon didn’t jump back in.

He just leaned there, listening until the voices blended back into the general noise of the warehouse.

After a minute, someone stood up, stretched, and slapped their hands together.

“Alright. Back at it.”

Others followed. Slow at first, then with more purpose.

Simon pushed off the pallet, grabbed the broom again out of habit more than necessity, and stepped back into the motion.

Scene 13

The field wasn’t much. Patchy grass, uneven dirt, a backstop that had seen better years and decided it wasn’t worth the effort anymore. The scoreboard worked, technically. Someone had to tap the side of it once to get the numbers to show properly.

Simon stepped through the gate with his gear bag over his shoulder and took it in. It wasn’t impressive, but it was alive. Players stretching, tossing, a couple already arguing about something that didn’t matter.

“Ellison.”

Simon turned. The coach gave him a short nod. “You’re catching today.”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Go meet your pitchers.”

That was it.

Simon nodded and moved toward the bullpen area, where most of the staff had already gathered. He didn’t get introductions so much as he got nicknames.

“That’s ‘Wild’ Cherry,” someone said, pointing.

Cherry Bertram stood on the mound, loose and relaxed, hair tied back, grin already there before the pitch left her hand. The fastball came out hard-

-and missed the target by a mile, slamming into the fence.

Cherry didn’t flinch. Just laughed and waved like nothing had happened.

“Don’t stand too close,” the guy added.

Simon nodded slightly.

“That’s Harry,” another voice said. “Or ‘Haphazard,’ if you ask anyone else.”

Harry Dean gave a half shrug, like he didn’t disagree.

“…and that’s ‘Zippy’ Bill.”

Bill Coulter fired one into a partner’s glove with a sharp snap that sounded right- until the next one sailed high and forced the guy to bail.

Simon watched quietly.

Didn’t say much.

Just took it in.

Cherry’s arm speed was real. The ball jumped…but her release wandered when she rushed it. Harry had a decent shape on his pitches, but he tried to guide them the second he lost confidence. Bill’s rhythm collapsed the moment something didn’t go right.

Same pattern.

Different versions.

“…yeah,” Simon muttered under his breath.

Now he understood.

It wasn’t that they were bad.

It was that they were unpredictable in ways that made them hard to trust.

Hard to catch.

Hard to stay with.

He shifted his bag on his shoulder and stepped a little closer.

They weren’t lost.

Just untuned.

…and that was something.

If he could settle them- even a little- they’d be effective here. Maybe more than effective.

That thought stayed with him as he turned back toward the dugout.

That’s when he saw Paige.

She was already moving, tracking a ball off a teammate’s bat. Clean first step. Good read. She made the catch without breaking stride and tossed it back in.

Simon watched that for a second.

Then walked over.

“Palacios.”

She turned, already recognizing the voice.

“Ellison.”

No surprise. Just acknowledgment.

Up close, he noticed it- the compression top under her jersey, tight, practical. The briefs were folded shorter, worn the way she wanted them.

She caught him noticing.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Simon said. Then, after a beat, “You might want to think about compression shorts too.”

She frowned immediately.

“Why.”

Not curious. Defensive.

Simon caught it.

“It’s not- ” he started, then reset. “It’s not about how it looks.”

She crossed her arms slightly.

“Didn’t say it was.”

“You thought it.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did.”

She held his gaze.

Simon nodded once.

“Look,” he said, calmer now. “You’re playing out here, you’re gonna take hits. Not just balls- ground, slides, bad hops. Inner thigh’s a bad place to get one.”

She didn’t move.

“…and sliding?” he added. “You’re gonna feel that. Every time.”

That landed differently.

Not agreement.

…but not dismissal either.

“I’m not telling you what to wear,” Simon said. “Just… think about it.”

Paige studied him for another second, then exhaled slightly.

“…that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She nodded once.

“Alright.”

No thanks. No pushback.

Just filed away.

Simon gave a small nod back and stepped away.

He didn’t need to win that.

He turned back toward the field just as Cherry let another fastball go- this one running hard and late, missing high.

Someone ducked.

Cherry laughed again.

Simon picked up his mask.

“…yeah,” he said quietly.

This was going to be work.

…but it was work he understood.

Scene 14

It didn’t happen in one session.

Or two.

Or even a clean stretch of days.

It was messy. Frustrating. Repetitive in the way that made you question if anything was actually improving.

Simon crouched behind the plate, gear already scuffed more than it should’ve been this early, and gave Cherry a target.

“Here,” he said. “Don’t chase it. Just throw through it.”

Cherry nodded, then rushed the motion anyway.

The ball came out hot- too hot- and rode high and arm-side.

Simon shifted, got a piece of it. Not clean.

“Again,” he said, tossing it back.

Cherry exhaled, rolled her shoulder.

Next pitch.

Better start. Same finish.

Miss.

Simon didn’t react much.

Didn’t sigh. Didn’t lecture.

Just reset.

“Slower,” he said. “You’re trying to win the pitch before you throw it.”

Cherry gave him a look like she didn’t fully agree.

But she adjusted anyway.

Next one came in- still moving, still not perfect- but catchable.

Simon stuck it.

Held it there.

Cherry noticed.

“…okay,” she muttered.

They kept going.

Not smooth. Not linear…but something was shifting.

Across the field, Harry was having his own battle.

“Haphazard” wasn’t a nickname people gave lightly.

Harry stepped into his delivery like he wasn’t sure which version of it he was going to use.

Simon moved over between reps.

“Show me the release,” he said.

Harry did.

It drifted halfway through.

“There,” Simon said, pointing. “That’s where you lose it.”

Harry frowned.

“I’m not-”

“You are,” Simon cut in, not harsh, just direct. “You guide it when you don’t trust it.”

Harry hesitated.

“…so what.”

“Stop guiding it.”

“That’s not helpful.”

Simon shrugged slightly.

“Then keep missing.”

Harry stared at him for a second.

Then took the ball again.

Next pitch- he let it go.

Didn’t guide it.

Didn’t fix it.

Just threw it.

It missed.

…but not by as much.

Simon nodded once.

“Again.”

On the other side, Bill was the opposite problem.

Too fast.

Everything rushed the moment something didn’t go right.

Simon crouched again.

“Take a breath before you start,” he said.

Bill waved him off.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Simon said.

Bill smirked.

“Watch.”

He threw.

Missed badly.

Simon didn’t say anything.

Just looked at him.

Bill exhaled.

“…alright.”

Next pitch- slower start.

Still quick.

…but controlled enough.

Simon caught it clean.

“That’s closer,” he said.

Bill nodded.

Did it again.

…and again.

Not perfect.

…but trending.

That was the pattern.

Nothing clicked all at once.

Everything moved a fraction at a time.

A little less panic.

A little more repeatability.

A little more trust.

…and Simon-

he adjusted constantly.

Stance shifting.

Targets changing.

Reading not just the pitch, but the pitcher.

He wasn’t taming them.

He was learning how to exist with them.

…and slowly-

they started meeting him there.

By the end of the session, Simon pulled his mask off and ran a hand through his hair.

He was tired.

Not from one thing.

From everything.

…but he wasn’t chasing every pitch anymore.

Not reacting on instinct alone.

He could see it coming.

Most of the time.

That was enough.

For now.

“Hey.”

He looked up.

Paige stood a few feet away, glove tucked under her arm, watching him with a different kind of look than before.

Not neutral.

Not skeptical.

“You did something,” she said.

Simon shrugged slightly.

“Still a lot to fix.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but it’s not… chaos now.”

He let out a small breath.

“…less chaos.”

Paige nodded.

She shifted her stance, casually adjusting her uniform as she stood there, more focused on the conversation than anything else.

“Cherry wasn’t even hitting the same zip code last week,” she added.

“Still isn’t,” Simon said.

“…but you can catch it now.”

“Most of it.”

“That’s new.”

Simon didn’t respond right away.

Just looked back toward the mound, where Cherry was still throwing, still missing- but not as wildly.

“They’ve got stuff,” he said. “They just don’t trust it.”

Paige followed his gaze.

“…and you make them?”

Simon shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I just stop them from overthinking it.”

She considered that.

Then nodded once.

“Not bad,” she said.

Simon glanced back at her.

“…thanks.”

She adjusted her glove, then started to head back out toward the field.

“Don’t get comfortable,” she added over her shoulder.

Simon almost smiled.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

He picked up his mask again.

Turned back toward the mound.

“Cherry,” he called out. “One more.”

She grinned.

“Try and catch it.”

Simon dropped back into his stance.

“…throw it right and I won’t have to try.”

Scene 15

The field was already awake in a low, uneven way. Not loud, not full—just active enough to feel like a game was about to happen whether anyone showed up for it or not. The bleachers along the first-base line were metal and half-filled, the kind that echoed every shift of weight. A couple of kids leaned over the rail, a few older guys sat with arms folded like they’d seen better versions of this and decided this one would do.

Simon adjusted his mask in his hands and walked out toward the mound.

“Bill.”

“Zippy” Bill Coulter stood there already moving, ball in hand, not quite still even when he stopped. He looked over.

“Yeah.”

Simon nodded toward the plate. “Let’s get a few in.”

Bill stepped onto the rubber, took a breath- and immediately rushed the motion. The pitch popped high and wide, the catcher’s glove barely getting near it.

Bill let out a frustrated exhale. “Clock’s gonna eat me alive if I don’t speed this up.”

Simon walked a few steps closer.

“You’re speeding it up already,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

Bill shook his head. “No, I’m telling you- once it starts, I’m not gonna have time to reset.”

“You will,” Simon said. “You just don’t think you will.”

Bill looked at him, unconvinced.

Simon pointed toward the plate.

“Take it once,” he said. “Don’t throw. Just go through it.”

Bill hesitated, then nodded.

He stepped back on, started his motion- then stopped halfway through.

Looked up.

“…that feels worse.”

“Because you’re thinking about it,” Simon said. “Start it again. Slower. Don’t rush to beat the clock. Use it.”

Bill rolled his shoulders.

Tried again.

This time, he held just a fraction longer before committing.

Released.

The pitch still ran- but it stayed within reach.

Simon caught it clean.

Held it there.

Bill noticed.

“…okay.”

“Again.”

They went through a few more. Not perfect, but less frantic. The rhythm didn’t disappear, but it stopped fighting itself.

“That’s your window,” Simon said. “Clock’s not your enemy. You rushing is.”

Bill nodded, quieter now.

“…alright.”

Simon stepped back, letting him continue.

Across the field, Paige Palacios was already in motion.

She moved well. Clean reads, quick reactions. Nothing wasted.

…but Simon noticed it almost immediately.

The way she reset her stance between reps. The slight shift of weight. The hand that lingered just a second longer on her left thigh before she moved again.

Inner thigh.

She stretched it once, quick, like she didn’t want anyone to see it. Then went right back into drills.

Another ball came off the bat- hard, low.

She charged it, got in front- and it kicked up.

Caught her high on the left thigh.

A sharp, hollow sound.

Paige flinched. Not dramatic. Just enough.

She sucked in a breath, straightened, grabbed the ball, and fired it back in like nothing had happened.

“Again,” someone called.

She nodded.

Reset.

Moved.

…but it was there now.

Simon saw it.

Didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

The field settled into its rhythm again. Warmups, throws, short bursts of noise that never quite built into anything bigger.

Up in the bleachers, Cathy Stonestreet, the Cuyahoga Crooks manager, sat a few rows up, arms crossed, posture straight, eyes moving more than her head.

She had come for Paige to evaluate the Crooks Academy prospect for the first team.

That much was clear in the way she watched the outfield first. The routes. The reads. The recovery after contact.

Paige checked boxes.

Movement. Instinct. Effort.

Then the hitch.

Small.

…but repeatable.

Cathy’s eyes narrowed slightly.

She shifted her attention for a moment.

Back to the mound.

Bill was throwing again.

Not clean. Not polished.

…but different from before.

There was a pause now. A beat before the motion. Something deliberate.

Behind the plate, Simon had dropped into a crouch.

He wasn’t reacting late anymore.

He was set early.

Targets quiet. Movements smaller.

He took one that ran hard and low, shifted just enough, and brought it into the pocket without stabbing at it.

Held it.

Bill looked in.

Simon gave a small nod.

“Again.”

Cathy watched that.

Then another.

Harry stepped in for his turn.

Same chaos, different shape.

Simon adjusted without saying much.

Target moved. Timing changed.

Harry’s miss was smaller this time.

Then smaller again.

No speech. No show.

Just corrections.

Cathy leaned back slightly.

Her attention didn’t leave the plate now.

Out in the field, Paige finished another rep and jogged in, rolling her leg once as she slowed. Subtle. Controlled.

She’d felt that one.

…but she stayed in.

Cathy noted it.

Filed it.

Then looked back at Simon.

The crowd shifted on the metal bleachers. A hollow clang echoed across the field as someone stood up and stretched.

The scoreboard flickered once, then steadied.

On the mound, Bill set again.

This time, he didn’t rush.

Simon dropped into his stance.

Still.

Ready.

Watching everything at once.

Cathy didn’t come here for him.

…but she wasn’t ignoring him anymore.

Scene 16

The game didn’t build into itself. It just started.

The first pitch was late. Not in time- on the feel of it. Like everything was a half-step off from the beginning.

The Rock & Roll Hall of Famers came out swinging.

First batter worked the count full. Simon set low, gave Bill a target just off the edge.

Bill hit it.

Pop.

Simon stuck it.

Held it.

Waited.

No call.

He glanced up.

Ball.

Bill stepped off immediately.

“…that’s a strike.”

Simon didn’t answer that. Just tossed it back.

“Next one,” he said.

Bill nodded, but the rhythm was already gone.

Next pitch missed. Then another.

Walk.

The second batter didn’t wait around. First pitch- lined into the gap. Runner moving before the ball landed.

Runners on first and third.

No outs.

The noise from the small crowd picked up- not loud, just sharper.

Bill paced once behind the mound, then got back on.

Simon crouched again.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

Bill nodded.

Didn’t do it.

He rushed the next one.

Up. Over the plate.

Cracked.

Hard.

A clean single through the infield.

Run scored.

1–0.

The next batter stepped in like he knew what was coming.

Bill didn’t want to fall behind.

So he didn’t.

Fastball.

Middle.

The bat met it square.

The sound cut through everything.

The ball took off toward left-center.

Paige was already moving.

First step clean.

Second step faster.

She tracked it over her shoulder, closing the angle, adjusting just enough-

Then reached.

Caught it.

Momentum carried her another step.

…and the ball slammed into her glove right over her inner thigh.

Hard enough that it didn’t just stop.

It transferred.

She dropped to a knee.

Not dramatic. Just immediate.

Head dipped, one hand pressing instinctively to her leg.

A sharp inhale she didn’t try to hide.

The runner tagged and moved.

Second run scored.

2–0.

“Time,” someone called from the infield, but Paige was already pushing herself back up.

She stood.

Took a step.

Another.

Tested it.

Still there.

She threw the ball back in like nothing had happened.

Simon watched it all.

Clocked exactly where it hit.

Didn’t say anything.

He turned and jogged to the mound.

Bill was staring out at nothing in particular.

“They’re all over it,” Bill muttered. “I’m missing spots, I’m-”

“Stop,” Simon said.

Bill looked at him.

“You’re trying to fix three pitches at once,” Simon went on. “You don’t need to.”

“They just-”

“They hit what you gave them,” Simon said. “So don’t give it to them.”

Bill exhaled, frustrated.

“They’re sitting on it now.”

“Then don’t be predictable,” Simon said. “You don’t need perfect. You need one pitch at a time.”

Bill shook his head slightly.

“I blew the count, I-”

“You lost one call,” Simon cut in. “Then you lost yourself. That’s the part you control.”

Bill looked at him.

Simon held it there.

“Next pitch,” he said. “Nothing else.”

A beat.

Bill nodded.

“…next pitch.”

Simon gave a small nod back and turned, jogging to the plate.

He dropped into his stance again.

Still.

Set.

Bill came set.

This time, he paused.

Not long.

Just enough.

Delivered.

The ball ran, but down.

Simon received it clean.

Strike.

The next batter chopped one weakly toward the infield.

Infield single.

Still trouble.

Simon reset.

“Same thing,” he called out.

Bill nodded.

Next pitch- softer start.

Better finish.

Ground ball.

Shortstop fielded it clean.

Flip to second.

On to first.

Double play.

Clean.

Inning over.

The small crowd gave a scattered reaction, more relief than excitement.

Simon stood, pulled his mask off for a second, and looked out toward left-center.

Paige was still out there.

Standing.

…but not the same as before.

He saw the shift in her weight.

The way she didn’t quite settle fully on that leg.

She’d gotten through it.

For now.

Simon adjusted his mask and jogged off the field.

Work wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Scene 17

Paige stepped in to lead off the inning like nothing had happened. No limp, no hesitation- just a quick adjustment of her stance and a look out at the field like she owned the space.

Simon watched from the on-deck circle.

He saw it anyway.

The way she set her left foot a fraction shorter. The way she didn’t quite sink into it the same way.

He didn’t say anything.

Claire Thomas stood on the mound. She had played parts of five seasons in the Premier League before she got pregnant and how she was a Hall of Famer looking to work her way back. She was determined, rolling the ball between her fingers, eyes locked but not settled. There was something there- something real- but it didn’t always show up when she needed it.

First pitch.

Float.

Late wobble.

Paige swung over it.

Second pitch.

Too straight.

Too hittable.

Paige chopped it into the dirt.

The ball bounced high, awkward, spinning just enough to throw off the shortstop’s timing.

Paige was already moving.

Out of the box fast.

First step clean.

Second step forced.

She pushed through it anyway.

The throw came in.

Close.

Paige hit the bag hard.

Safe.

Infield hit.

She didn’t celebrate.

Didn’t look at the dugout.

Just stood there, hands on her knees for half a second- then straightened like it hadn’t cost her anything.

Simon saw the moment.

The breath.

The burn.

She was already in it.

Claire stepped off the mound, staring at nothing for a second before resetting. The knuckleball was in her hand now. You could tell by the way she held it- careful, deliberate, like she didn’t fully trust it.

Carla Torres stepped in.

Simon waited.

Paige took her lead.

Bigger than she needed.

She saw something.

Claire came set.

Delivered.

The ball floated, didn’t break the same way twice, and Torres checked her swing just enough to let it pass.

Ball.

Paige didn’t hesitate.

She broke for second.

Hard.

The throw was late.

She slid in clean.

Safe.

…but the moment she came up, it hit her again.

That deep, spreading burn in the inner thigh.

Worse now.

She didn’t show it.

Not fully.

Just a quick shift of weight.

A reset.

Then she took her lead again.

Bigger this time.

Daring it.

Simon narrowed his eyes slightly.

Claire noticed.

Stepped off.

Fired to second.

Paige dove back.

Outstretched.

Leg extended farther than it should’ve been.

She got back.

Safe.

…but she stayed down for a fraction longer than she wanted.

Then pushed up.

Reset again.

Took the lead.

Same size.

Same intent.

Simon exhaled slowly.

“…alright.”

Torres dug in.

Claire came set again.

This one came in straight.

Too straight.

Torres swung.

Got over it.

Ground ball.

Hard.

Shortstop side.

Gigi Winters fielded it clean.

Looked up.

Saw Paige.

Made the decision immediately.

Third.

The throw came in hot.

Chest-high.

Vincent Truman stepped across the bag.

Reached.

Swiped.

Paige slid.

Left leg extended.

Right leg trailing.

She was safe.

…but Vincent’s glove came through hard- and caught her square across the same spot.

Full force.

No give.

Just impact.

Paige’s body reacted before anything else.

She jolted.

Then froze.

Then the pain hit.

All at once.

She didn’t try to hide it this time.

She couldn’t.

She rolled slightly onto her side, hands going straight to her thigh, breath gone, then replaced by a sharp, uncontrolled sound that cut through the field.

“Safe!” the ump called, almost as an afterthought.

It didn’t matter.

Paige didn’t get up.

She tried.

Nothing.

The muscle didn’t respond.

Pain flooded back in waves.

She slammed her hand into the dirt once.

Then again.

“-ah-!”

It came out raw.

Unfiltered.

She clenched her eyes shut, then opened them again, tears already there.

Didn’t fight them.

Couldn’t.

Players from both sides stepped back.

Space opened around her.

Simon was already moving.

He dropped his bat without looking.

Got there first.

“Hey- hey, don’t move,” he said, kneeling beside her.

She grabbed his arm without thinking.

“It-” she tried to say something, but it broke halfway through.

“I know,” Simon said. “I know.”

He didn’t touch the leg.

Didn’t try to move it.

Just stayed there, steady.

“Don’t stretch it,” he added. “Just breathe.”

She tried.

It came in sharp bursts.

Hands still gripping the dirt.

Another wave hit.

She let out a cry she couldn’t stop, shoulders shaking with it.

From the dugout, a couple teammates ran out.

“Get help,” Simon said without looking up.

Someone already was.

Paige squeezed her eyes shut again, jaw clenched, trying to get control back.

It wasn’t coming.

Simon stayed with her.

“Just stay there,” he said. “We’ve got you.”

They helped her up carefully.

One arm over a shoulder.

Then another.

She couldn’t put weight on it.

Not without the pain spiking again.

So they lifted.

Carried her.

Step by step off the field.

The crowd had gone quiet.

Even the metal bleachers didn’t echo.

Up in the stands, Cathy Stonestreet watched without moving.

Arms crossed.

Eyes fixed.

She shook her head once.

Not dramatic.

Just decisive- “Paige isn’t tough enough,” she muttered.

Her focus shifted.

Not to the dugout where Paige was being taken.

…but back to the field.

To Simon.

He was already turning back toward the plate.

Helmet in hand.

Face set.

Ready to go back to work.

Cathy leaned back slightly in her seat.

She didn’t get what she came for.

…but she wasn’t leaving.

Scene 18

Simon stepped into the box without rushing it. The field still carried a bit of the last play- the quiet, the shift, the way people looked at each other before resetting. He tapped the plate once, set his feet, and looked out at Claire Thomas.

Behind him, the catcher crouched.

“Rough inning,” she said lightly. “You guys falling apart already?”

Simon didn’t turn.

“Working on it,” he said.

“Yeah?” she replied. “You don’t look like you’re working on much.”

He settled his hands.

“You’d be surprised.”

A small pause. Then-

“I’m Laura,” she added, tone changing just enough to be noticed. “In case you wanted to know who you’re striking out against.”

Simon almost smiled.

“Simon,” he said. “In case you wanted to know who you’re not.”

She let out a soft laugh.

“Confident.”

“Prepared.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

Claire came set.

First pitch.

Knuckle.

It floated, dipped late.

Simon watched it all the way in.

Ball.

Laura shifted slightly behind him.

“You catch?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Explains the attitude.”

Simon reset his grip.

“Explains the patience.”

Second pitch.

Fastball.

Too straight.

Simon didn’t swing.

Ball.

Laura leaned in just a little.

“You don’t look tired,” she said. “Most guys are dragging by now.”

“Not most guys.”

“Mm.”

Claire stepped off.

Reset.

Simon glanced briefly toward the dugout.

Paige was there.

Up on the railing.

One hand gripping it.

The other resting lightly against her thigh.

She wasn’t putting weight on it.

Not really.

…but she was upright.

Watching.

Simon looked back to the mound.

Claire delivered.

Knuckle again.

This one didn’t dance enough.

Simon started his swing- checked it just enough.

Foul tip.

Strike.

Laura smirked.

“Almost.”

“Almost isn’t anything,” Simon said.

“Depends who you ask.”

He didn’t answer that.

He didn’t need to.

Claire came set again.

Simon narrowed his focus.

The release.

The spin- or lack of it.

The way the ball came out just a fraction different when she didn’t trust it.

There.

That one.

She let it go.

Too clean.

Too predictable.

Simon stepped.

Swung.

Connected.

The sound cut through everything.

No doubt.

The ball jumped off the bat and carried straight over left field.

No arc of hope.

No question.

Just gone.

Simon didn’t move right away.

Didn’t need to.

He watched it clear.

Then dropped the bat.

Laura stood up behind him, turning to follow the flight.

“…yeah,” she muttered under her breath.

Simon took a step out of the box.

Then another.

He glanced back just enough.

“Told you,” he said.

Laura shook her head, half annoyed, half impressed.

“Yeah, yeah. Go.”

Simon didn’t hurry.

Didn’t jog slow enough to show off.

Just steady.

First base.

Turn.

Second.

As he rounded, he glanced again toward the dugout.

Paige was still there.

Still holding the railing.

Watching him.

Not moving much.

Not celebrating wildly.

Just… present.

Simon gave the smallest nod.

Then kept going.

Up in the stands, Cathy Stonestreet didn’t look at Paige anymore.

Not really.

She’d seen enough of that.

What she saw now was a player back on her feet after needing to be carried off.

In her mind, that meant something.

Not something good.

Her attention stayed on the field.

On Simon.

On the way he’d handled the at-bat.

The patience.

The read.

The swing.

She leaned back slightly.

Her evaluation shifting without her needing to write anything down.

Paige’s report was settling into something less favorable.

Questions about durability.

About composure.

About how she handled adversity.

Simon’s-

that was going the other direction entirely.

Plate awareness.

Composure.

Control.

She watched him round third.

No wasted movement.

No excess.

Just execution.

Simon touched home.

Didn’t celebrate.

Didn’t look for it.

Just turned back toward the dugout.

Like it was part of the job.

Because to him-

it was.

…and Cathy stayed right where she was.

Scene 19

Simon didn’t linger after he crossed the plate, but he didn’t disappear either. He stepped into the dugout just long enough for it to come to him- the hands, the quick taps on the helmet, a couple of hugs from guys who were still riding the swing of it.

“About time,” someone said.

Simon gave a small nod. “Keep it going.”

He didn’t sit.

Didn’t even lean.

He turned back toward the field before the noise in the dugout had fully settled.

The next batter was already down in the count. Simon watched from the steps, eyes on Claire Thomas.

The knuckle was drifting more now. Not just unpredictable- untrusted. When she didn’t feel it, she guided it. When she guided it, it flattened.

The batter chased.

Strike three.

Simon exhaled once.

Then stepped down the line toward the on-deck circle.

Opus Lark was there, rolling his shoulders, bat loose in his hands.

Simon got close enough to speak without raising his voice.

“She’s not committing to it,” he said. “Knuckle’s floating when she doubts it. If it comes out clean, don’t chase it. If it doesn’t- sit on it.”

Opus glanced at him.

“That simple?”

“Simple,” Simon said. “Not easy.”

Opus smirked. “Got it.”

He stepped in.

First pitch.

Knuckle.

Too straight.

Opus let it go.

Ball.

Claire stepped off, trying to reset.

Second pitch.

Better shape.

Opus fouled it back.

One and one.

Simon watched from the rail.

Claire came set again.

You could see it- the hesitation.

The lack of trust.

She threw it anyway.

The ball came out clean.

Too clean.

Opus didn’t miss it.

The crack came fast.

The ball jumped.

Left field again.

Gone.

No doubt.

The dugout erupted.

Opus didn’t hold anything back.

He rounded first pumping his fist, shouting something that didn’t need to be heard to be understood.

Second base- same energy.

Third- he was almost laughing.

Simon watched it, expression steady.

“…alright,” he muttered.

Opus crossed home and exploded into the moment, yelling, turning back toward the field- and Laura Vandross was right there.

She stepped in.

Didn’t wait.

Shoved him.

Hard.

Opus stumbled a half step, then came right back.

“What-” he started, then shoved her back.

That was it.

Everything snapped.

Both dugouts emptied.

Players sprinting in, voices rising all at once, the noise turning from scattered to chaotic in seconds.

Simon moved immediately.

Not toward the center.

Around it.

“Hey- HEY- break it up!” he called, grabbing one of his own guys by the shoulder and pulling him back.

It didn’t matter.

Opus was already in it.

A Hall of Famer player stepped up- Opus swung.

Connected.

The crowd reacted instantly.

The metal bleachers rattled as people stood.

Noise surged.

Laura tried to get back in- someone else blocked her, then got shoved aside.

Bodies collided.

Pushing, grabbing, shouting.

The umpires were in the middle of it, arms out, voices drowned, trying to impose something that wasn’t there.

“Back up!” one of them yelled.

No one listened.

Simon stepped between two players, forced space with his hands.

“Not worth it,” he said, firm, direct. “Back up.”

One of them hesitated.

That was enough.

Simon pulled him out of it.

Then turned.

Found Opus again.

“Enough!” Simon barked.

Opus didn’t hear him the first time.

Simon grabbed him.

Hard.

“ENOUGH.”

That cut through.

Opus blinked, breath heavy, adrenaline still high.

Simon held his gaze.

“Game’s not over,” he said.

A beat.

Opus exhaled sharply.

“…yeah.”

Simon let go.

Turned again, helping peel players apart, pushing bodies back, creating lanes where there weren’t any.

It took time.

Too long.

…but eventually the chaos burned itself out.

Players drifted back.

Voices lowered.

The umpires regrouped, trying to reassert something resembling control.

The crowd buzzed, alive in a way it hadn’t been before.

Up in the bleachers, Cathy Stonestreet didn’t sit back.

She leaned forward.

Watching everything.

The home runs.

The reactions.

The fight.

Opus landing punches.

The crowd behind him.

…and Simon- not swinging.

Not shouting.

Managing.

Controlling.

Ending it.

Her eyes stayed on him.

Paige sat in the dugout, leg stretched out, not moving, not part of any of it.

Cathy didn’t look her way.

Not anymore.

Her evaluation was already shifting.

Paige- questions.

Opus- volatile, but effective.

Simon- something else entirely.

She settled back into her seat, attention locked on the field again.

The game had changed.

…and she wasn’t leaving.

Scene 20

Opus came into the dugout still carrying it with him.

Adrenaline. Noise. The echo of the crowd that hadn’t really been a crowd but felt like one anyway. He was talking before he even sat down, replaying it, laughing, slapping hands that were still reaching for him.

“Did you see that?” he said, half to himself, half to anyone who’d listen. “She hung it- I told you- she hung it-”

Simon let it run for a few seconds.

Then-

“Clémence.”

Opus stopped.

Not immediately.

…but enough.

He turned.

Slow.

“…don’t call me that.”

Simon didn’t move.

“Vladimir didn’t swing at that second pitch,” he said.

Opus blinked.

“What?”

“Guerrero,” Simon said. “He lets that go. Soto too. Pujols definitely does.”

Opus stared at him now.

The noise in the dugout faded just a little around them.

“You know them?” Opus asked.

Simon shrugged slightly.

“I know how they hit.”

Opus shifted, still riding the high but now pulled into something else.

“They play for fun,” he said. “They don’t think like that every pitch.”

Simon shook his head.

“They do,” he said. “You just don’t see it.”

Opus frowned.

“That swing you took?” Simon continued. “That’s the one you were supposed to take. You got it because she missed. Not because you were right.”

Opus’ expression tightened.

“I hit it out,” he said.

“Yeah,” Simon said, “and if she throws that same pitch two inches lower, you roll it over.”

Opus didn’t answer that.

Simon held it there.

“You’ve got everything,” he said. “Bat speed. Timing. You see it early.”

Opus’ jaw set slightly.

“So what’s the problem.”

Simon nodded once.

“You don’t control it.”

Opus scoffed.

“I just hit a home run.”

“…and started a fight,” Simon said.

A beat.

Opus looked away for a second, then back.

“They started it.”

“You fed it.”

Opus didn’t like that.

“You want me to just… what? Stand there?” he said. “Smile? Be quiet?”

“No,” Simon said.

Then, after a beat-

“I want you to choose.”

Opus frowned.

Simon leaned slightly closer, not aggressive, just focused.

“Your guys- Guerrero, Soto, Pujols- they play with energy,” he said. “They have fun. They celebrate.”

Opus nodded, quick.

“Exactly.”

Simon shook his head slightly.

“They don’t lose control of it.”

Opus hesitated.

“That’s the difference,” Simon said. “They decide when it comes out. They don’t let the moment decide for them. They decide what the moment gets. Not the other way around.”

Opus looked at him, searching for something to push back with.

“They don’t think like that,” he said again, weaker this time.

“They do,” Simon said. “You just don’t see it because they make it look easy.”

A longer pause now.

The dugout noise came back in around them- laughter, chatter, someone replaying the swing again- but it felt a little farther away.

Simon straightened slightly.

“You want to be like them?” he asked.

Opus nodded.

“Then don’t just copy the fun part,” Simon said. “Copy the control.”

Opus didn’t answer right away.

He looked out toward the field.

Then back at Simon.

“…and I still get to have fun.”

Simon almost smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “You just get to keep it.”

Opus let that sit.

Didn’t fully accept it.

Didn’t reject it either.

Just… held onto it.

Simon nodded once and stepped away.

Left him with it.

Opus stayed where he was for a second longer.

Then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes back on the field.

Quieter now.

…but not less alive.

Scene 21

As the game settled into its middle innings, Simon stopped thinking of himself as just the catcher.

He was still calling pitches, still reading swings, still managing Bill between innings- but it didn’t stop there. He found himself talking more. Pointing things out. Adjusting positioning. Quiet reminders that shouldn’t have been necessary at this level but were.

“Shade a step left,” he called out once between pitches. “He’s late on everything.”

The outfielder didn’t question it. Just moved.

Next pitch- fly ball.

Right to him.

Simon didn’t react.

Just reset.

It kept happening like that.

Small corrections. Small gains.

No one objected.

That told him more than if they had.

Between innings, he leaned against the dugout rail, watching everything at once. Not just the game. The team.

…and it started to sort itself out.

There were a few- like him.

Players who took every rep seriously, even here. Even in this place. They didn’t need to be told to adjust, didn’t need reminders. They just… played the game the right way.

Then there were the ones who stood out for different reasons.

Paige.

Opus.

Both clearly better than this level.

You could see it in how they moved, how they reacted, how they saw the game.

…but also- how they didn’t always control it.

Paige pushing through things she probably shouldn’t.

Opus riding every moment like it was the only one that mattered.

Talent wasn’t the issue.

Direction was.

Simon watched them both with the same thought sitting underneath it.

They could be more than this.

If they chose to be.

On the mound, Bill finished another inning, not clean but controlled enough to get through it.

Simon met him halfway.

“Better,” he said.

Bill nodded, breathing hard.

“Still feel like I’m losing it every other pitch.”

“You’re not,” Simon said. “You’re just noticing it now.”

Bill gave a tired half-laugh.

“…yeah.”

Behind them, Cherry was talking too loud about something that didn’t matter, laughing it off like she always did. Harry sat a few feet away, staring at his glove like he was trying to solve something that wouldn’t stay still long enough.

They were all in the same place.

Just not for the same reasons.

Simon could see it now.

There was a group that could be solid. Not stars. Maybe not even high-level players.

But competent.

If they got out of their own way.

Bill. Cherry. Harry.

Players with real arms, real ability- held back by habits, by doubt, by inconsistency they hadn’t learned how to manage.

…and then there was the rest.

The part of the dugout that didn’t really lock in.

The conversations that drifted away from the game even while it was happening. The laughter that didn’t match the situation. The players who showed up, played just well enough, and didn’t seem interested in anything beyond that.

A drinking team.

That happened to play baseball.

Some of them were older. You could see it. Feel it. They’d had their run, whatever it had been, and this was what was left.

Simon didn’t judge that.

Not really.

…but the younger ones- that bothered him more.

They still had something.

Time.

A chance.

…and they were letting it sit there.

Simon leaned forward on the rail, eyes back on the field.

“…yeah.”

It wasn’t ideal.

Not even close.

This wasn’t the level he pictured himself at.

This wasn’t the structure he expected.

This wasn’t the team he would’ve chosen.

…but it was the team he had.

…and for now-

that meant something.

He exhaled once, slow.

Then stood up straighter, mask already in hand as the inning turned.

If he was here- then he was here.

…and he wasn’t going to waste it.

Scene 22

Simon stepped in again to a different feel.

Not louder. Not bigger.

Just… tighter.

He rolled his shoulders once and looked out at the new pitcher.

Jin Rui didn’t pace. Didn’t fidget. She stood on the mound like she’d already decided what the next few minutes were going to look like.

Calm.

Efficient.

Simon noticed it immediately.

“…alright.”

Behind him, Laura set up without the earlier chatter.

No small talk this time.

Just business.

First pitch.

Fastball.

Not overpowering.

…but placed.

Inside edge.

Simon took it.

Strike.

He nodded once.

Second pitch.

Something off-speed.

Same arm speed.

Dropped late.

Simon checked his swing.

Ball.

Jin stepped off once.

Not rushed.

Not slow.

Just controlled.

Third pitch.

Fastball again.

Outer half.

Simon swung.

Fouled it back.

One and two.

He reset.

Focused harder now.

This wasn’t the same as before.

No gifts.

No panic.

Everything had intent.

Fourth pitch.

Off-speed again.

He read it late.

Just got a piece.

Foul.

He stepped out.

Exhaled.

Back in.

Fifth pitch.

Fastball.

Inside again.

He was ready.

Just missed it.

Foul.

He tightened his grip.

Sixth.

Knuckle of movement.

Not a true knuckleball- just enough to drift.

He held off.

Ball.

Two and two.

The count stretched.

The at-bat stretched with it.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Each one close.

Each one forcing him to adjust.

He wasn’t overmatched.

…but he wasn’t ahead either.

Tenth pitch.

Jin came set.

Delivered.

Fastball.

Outer edge.

Not perfect.

…but perfect enough.

Simon swung.

Missed.

Strike three.

The sound of it stuck longer than it should have.

He stood there for half a second.

Then stepped out.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t say anything.

Just walked.

Bat still in his hand.

Jaw tight.

Back in the dugout, he set the bat down harder than he meant to.

“…darn it.”

No one said anything to him.

Didn’t need to.

He sat.

Leaned forward.

Ran it back in his head.

Every pitch.

Every miss.

There were two he should’ve had.

At least.

Maybe three.

At this level- that wasn’t supposed to happen.

He stared out at the field, unfocused.

I should be hitting everything here.

The thought sat heavy.

Then the next one came right after it.

What if I can’t?

That one hit harder.

Not the strikeout.

That.

The idea that this- this level- might be where he topped out.

That this was as far as it went.

His jaw tightened again.

He didn’t like that thought.

Didn’t want it anywhere near him.

“…no.”

…but it didn’t leave.

It just sat there.

Quiet.

Persistent.

A shadow he couldn’t shake in the moment.

He leaned back, staring out at Jin as she worked the next hitter.

Controlled.

Efficient.

Smart.

Not flashy.

…but effective.

“…yeah,” he muttered.

He could hit her.

He knew that.

Give him more at-bats- he’d adjust.

He always did.

…but that didn’t matter right now.

Right now- he didn’t.

Footsteps approached.

Cherry dropped onto the bench beside him, still a little loose from her last inning.

“Rough one,” she said.

Simon didn’t look at her.

“Missed two I should’ve crushed.”

Cherry nodded.

“Yeah. You did.”

No sugarcoating.

He appreciated that.

“…shouldn’t be happening here,” Simon said.

Cherry leaned back, looking out at the field.

“Nothing’s supposed to happen anywhere,” she said.

He glanced at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

She shrugged slightly.

“I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be pitching here,” she said. “You think anyone does?”

Simon didn’t answer.

Cherry continued.

“Bridge Guardians wasn’t the dream,” she said. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”

She tapped her glove lightly against her leg.

“…but it’s where I am,” she added, “and I’m good with it.”

Simon frowned slightly.

“That’s not me.”

“I know,” she said.

A beat.

“Your ceiling’s higher.”

Simon didn’t respond.

Cherry glanced at him.

“That doesn’t change because of one at-bat,” she said.

He looked away again.

“…doesn’t feel like that.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Because you hate missing.”

He let out a short breath.

“…yeah.”

Cherry nodded.

“Here’s the thing,” she said. “You make it to the Premier League- great. You don’t- also fine.”

Simon turned back to her.

“That’s not fine.”

“It is,” she said. “You just don’t believe it yet.”

He shook his head.

“That’s the whole point.”

Cherry didn’t argue.

She just let it sit for a second.

Then-

“You told Bill something earlier,” she said.

Simon blinked.

“What.”

“One pitch at a time,” she said. “Don’t let it compound.”

He exhaled slowly.

“…yeah.”

Cherry nudged his shoulder lightly.

“Same thing.”

Simon didn’t answer.

…but he didn’t reject it either.

Cherry stood up, stretching her arm once.

“You still get to play,” she said. “That’s the part you control.”

She started to walk off, then added-

“Try not to mess that up by thinking too much.”

Simon let out a quiet breath.

Then leaned forward again, eyes back on the field.

The thought was still there.

The doubt.

The frustration.

…but it wasn’t as loud now.

“…one pitch,” he muttered to himself.

…and stayed there.

Watching.

Waiting for the next one.

Scene 23

The game didn’t end cleanly. It just… ran out of innings.

Fourteen to ten.

Balls hit everywhere. Pitchers running out of answers. Fielders making plays one moment and losing them the next. It was loud, uneven, exhausting baseball.

Simon finished it the same way he’d played it.

Working.

Adjusting.

Competing.

Six hits in seven trips. Two balls out. One that never had a chance of staying in, the other a sprint turned into something more. A double driven through a gap that didn’t exist until he made it.

Even against Jin, he found something.

Not easy.

Not clean.

…but something.

He’d had to earn that one.

That mattered.

After the final out, there wasn’t much ceremony.

A few handshakes. A few short exchanges.

Then people started drifting.

Gear bags picked up. Conversations breaking off halfway through. Players already halfway out of the moment before they’d even left the field.

Simon didn’t linger.

He pulled his gear off slowly, methodically, eyes still out on the field even as it emptied.

Fourteen to ten.

Loss.

…but not the kind that stuck the same way.

“…yeah,” he muttered.

He knew what he’d done.

He also knew what he hadn’t.

That sat with him longer.

Up in the bleachers, Cathy Stonestreet stood.

She didn’t clap. Didn’t stretch. Didn’t look for anyone.

She’d seen what she needed to see.

More than she expected to.

She turned and walked out without heading toward the field.

No conversations.

No introductions.

No point.

One game didn’t decide anything.

She knew that better than anyone.

Outside, she didn’t stop moving.

Phone already in hand.

She made the call before she reached the rideshare port.

They picked up quickly.

“Yeah,” she said. “I just watched them.”

A pause on the other end.

She nodded slightly, even though they couldn’t see it.

“Look- it’s one game,” she said. “I’m not making a decision off one game.”

Another pause.

Then-

“…but-”

She exhaled once.

“I’m telling you, the catcher- Simon Ellison- he’s not supposed to be here.”

She started walking again.

Pacing now.

“He’s ahead of it. Everything. Pitch calling, adjustments, the way he reads hitters- he’s managing that game better than the coaches are.”

A beat.

“I know,” she added. “It’s one game.”

She didn’t slow down.

“…but that doesn’t just show up. Not like that.”

Another voice came through the phone.

She listened.

Shook her head.

“No. I’m not saying bring him in tomorrow,” she said. “I’m saying you don’t ignore that.”

She turned slightly, leaning against her car now.

“He went six-for-seven,” she continued, “and the one out he made? Ten-pitch at-bat against Rui. Didn’t get cheated. He eventually figured her out.”

She paused.

Listened.

“…yeah,” she said. “That’s what I’m saying.”

A longer pause this time.

Then-

“There’s another one,” she added. “Opus Lark.”

She almost smiled.

“Yeah, I know the name.”

A small breath out.

“He’s raw. Undisciplined…but the energy? The way he plays? He flipped that game for a stretch.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“If you can get him to focus, he’s useful. More than useful.”

A pause.

She nodded.

“I’d want a look at him.”

Another voice cut in.

Different tone.

Different question.

Cathy’s expression shifted slightly.

“…yeah,” she said. “Palacios.”

Short.

Flat.

She listened.

Then exhaled.

“It’s one game,” she said again.

Another pause.

She leaned on a railing for a second and then pushed off and started walking again.

“She’s got tools,” she added, almost as an obligation.

Another question.

She didn’t answer it directly.

“The catcher,” she said instead, circling back. “I’m telling you, he’s driving everything out there.”

Silence on the other end.

Then-

“I know what you asked,” Cathy said, tone tightening just slightly. “I’m telling you what I saw.”

Another beat.

“She got hit,” Cathy added. “Couple times. Didn’t finish.”

That was it.

No context.

No detail.

Just the outcome.

They said something else.

She cut across it.

“Ellison’s the one you need to track,” she said, “and Lark- if he doesn’t get in his own way.”

She stopped walking.

Looked back toward the field, now mostly empty.

“I’ll keep watching,” she said.

A pause.

Then-

“Yeah.”

She ended the call and lowered the phone slowly, her attention already moving on. The curbside lane just beyond the lot was active- permitted traffic only- and a rideshare eased in as if it had been timed to her. She didn’t hurry, but she didn’t wait either. One more glance back toward the field, now mostly empty, then she stepped forward, opened the rear door, and slid inside.

Her mind was already sorting what mattered and what didn’t.

Paige- questions she wasn’t interested in answering yet.

Opus- volatile, but worth another look.

Simon-

That wasn’t shifting.

The door closed. The car pulled away cleanly, merging back into the controlled flow of the street.

Cathy didn’t look back.

Scene 24

Simon stood at the stop with his bag slung over one shoulder, the night settling into that familiar in-between where everything felt slower but not quieter. The schedule posted on the pole didn’t mean much. He checked it anyway. Habit.

He shifted his weight, glanced down the street, already bracing for it- the wait, the ride, the standing, the stops that took longer than they should. He rolled his shoulders once, trying to shake off the game without really letting it go.

“…yeah,” he muttered.

Headlights turned the corner.

Not a bus.

A larger van, marked with a YouTrip logo, pulled up along the curb and idled. The door slid open.

Cherry leaned out.

“There you are.”

Simon looked over.

“…figured you’d be halfway home by now.”

“Not tonight,” she said. “Team ordered a ride. We’re going downtown.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“For what.”

“Food,” she said, like that should’ve been obvious. “Post-game. You’re coming.”

Simon shook his head slightly.

“No.”

Cherry frowned.

“No?”

“I’ve got work in the morning,” he said. “Early.”

“So do half the people on that bus,” she shot back.

He nodded toward the street.

“…and I still have to get back after that,” he added. “Downtown’s not exactly on the way.”

Cherry leaned a little farther out.

“You’re already here,” she said. “One more ride doesn’t kill you.”

“It might,” Simon said dryly. “Depending on the bus.”

She smirked.

“Not a bus tonight.”

He didn’t move.

Cherry studied him for a second.

“Look,” she said, tone shifting just a bit, “the team likes you.”

Simon gave a small shrug.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “More than they usually like new guys.”

He didn’t respond to that.

Cherry kept going.

“They won’t say it,” she added, “but they’re already thinking it.”

“Thinking what.”

“That you’re not gonna be here long.”

Simon’s expression didn’t change.

Cherry didn’t push it harder than that.

“You keep playing like that,” she said, “Crooks are gonna notice.”

He glanced down the street again, then back at her.

“Maybe,” he said.

Cherry nodded.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

A beat.

“Which means,” she continued, “you should probably not skip the part where you actually get to be here.”

Simon frowned slightly.

“This is part of it.”

“Standing at a bus stop?” she said.

“Getting home,” he replied.

Cherry shook her head.

“No,” she said. “This-” she gestured back toward the van, where voices and laughter were already spilling out “-this is part of it.”

Simon didn’t answer.

Cherry leaned back slightly, but kept her eyes on him.

“You think guys in the Premier League are doing this?” she asked.

He didn’t.

“Going out together after games, cramming into rides, talking about nothing that matters?” she went on. “Half of them don’t even know each other like that.”

Simon shifted his stance.

“They’ve got other things,” he said.

“Yeah,” Cherry said. “They do.”

She let that sit for a second.

“Which is why you don’t get this part anymore.”

Silence stretched just a little.

“You’re close,” she added, quieter now. “Closer than anyone here.”

Simon looked at her.

“So don’t rush past the only version of this you’re gonna get.”

That landed.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just stood there, the bus he’d been waiting for nowhere in sight.

The van idling.

The noise from inside it still going.

He thought about the ride back.

The long way home.

The early shift.

Then about the game.

The dugout.

The way it felt when it worked.

“…one night,” he said.

Cherry’s grin came back instantly.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Simon nodded once.

“…alright.”

He stepped off the curb and walked toward the van.

Cherry slid the door open wider.

“Told you,” she said.

Simon climbed in, pulling the door shut behind him as the noise swallowed him up.

For once- he didn’t mind it.

Scene 25

Dinner didn’t end when the plates cleared.

It just shifted.

Someone mentioned a place. Someone else already had it booked. The YouTrip rerouted, the city thinned out into older streets, and they pulled up in front of a stone-faced building that leaned into the whole idea without apologizing for it.

Inside, it felt like a different time that had learned how to entertain itself.

Wood beams. Iron fixtures. Long tables pushed to the side to make space for rows of games- some actual recreations, some modern machines dressed up to look the part. A balance between earnest and ridiculous that somehow worked.

Simon took it in.

“…alright,” he said.

Cherry grinned. “Told you.”

He tried everything.

A table game with weighted discs that refused to go where he wanted. A ring toss that looked simple until it wasn’t. A sword-and-shield reaction game that lit up faster than he could process.

He didn’t win much.

He didn’t mind.

He laughed more than he expected to.

At one point, Opus whooped from across the room after beating someone at something that didn’t matter and made it matter anyway. Someone else heckled him. He heckled back. The energy stayed just under control this time.

Simon noticed that.

Later, he found himself at one of the longer tables, a drink in front of him he’d barely touched, watching Cherry finish up a game she was clearly better at than she let on.

She sank the last piece cleanly, gave a small nod to herself, then turned back.

“Not bad,” she said.

“You hustled me,” Simon replied.

“Little bit.”

He shook his head, smiling slightly.

They sat for a moment, the noise of the room filling the space without needing them to.

Simon glanced at her.

“You’ve been doing this a while,” he said.

Cherry shrugged.

“Long enough.”

“You ever try to move up?” he asked.

She let out a small breath through her nose.

“Fourth’s as high as I got,” she said. “Columbian League. Had a couple looks, nothing stuck.”

Simon frowned slightly.

“You’re good enough.”

Cherry shook her head.

“I’m good enough here,” she said. “That’s different.”

He leaned back a little.

“…you’re okay with that.”

She nodded.

“Yeah.”

Simon studied her for a second.

“How.”

Cherry tilted her head slightly.

“How what.”

“How you don’t-” he searched for the word, then settled on it “-want more.”

She smiled a little at that.

“I did,” she said. “I do, sometimes.”

A beat.

“I didn’t grow up dreaming about the Fourth Division,” she added. “Nobody does.”

Simon didn’t answer.

Cherry leaned back in her chair, looking out over the room.

“I’ve got three kids,” she said. “Two dogs. A parakeet that won’t shut up. Husband works in healthcare logistics- keeps everything moving that nobody thinks about.”

Simon listened.

“I’m his secretary,” she added. “I play here. I played in high school. University. Kept going.”

She looked back at him.

“That’s not nothing.”

Simon nodded once.

“No.”

Cherry tapped the table lightly.

“You know what matters more than any of that?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

She did.

“Joy.”

Simon frowned slightly.

“Playing,” she clarified. “Being out there. Doing it.”

She gestured vaguely toward the games around them, then back toward the field in his direction.

“If it’s not fun, then what are you doing it for,” she said.

Simon leaned forward a little.

“Winning,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s part of it.”

“Getting better.”

“Also part of it.”

“Moving up.”

Cherry nodded.

“Sure.”

She let it sit for a second.

“None of that means anything if you don’t enjoy it,” she said.

Simon didn’t answer right away.

He thought about the strikeout.

The frustration.

The way it had stuck to him.

Cherry watched him think.

“I’m not telling you not to go for it,” she added. “You should.”

He looked up.

“You should want the Premier League,” she said. “You should be pissed if you don’t get there.”

Simon exhaled slightly.

“…yeah.”

“That’s valid,” she said. “All of it.”

She leaned forward now.

“…but if that’s the only reason you’re playing,” she continued, “you’re gonna hate this game eventually.”

Simon held her gaze.

“You’ve got to love it,” she said. “Or the rest of it doesn’t matter.”

A longer pause settled between them.

The noise of the room carried on around them- Opus laughing too loud at something, someone arguing over a rule that didn’t matter, the clatter of wood and metal and voices.

Simon looked out at it.

Then back at Cherry.

“…and you’re good with where you are,” he said.

Cherry smiled.

“I get to play,” she said.

That was it.

No justification.

No regret.

Just that.

Simon nodded slowly.

He didn’t fully feel it.

Not yet.

…but he understood it.

At least enough to hold onto it.

“…yeah,” he said.

Cherry leaned back again, satisfied.

“Now,” she added, pointing toward another game across the room, “you wanna lose at something else?”

Simon let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh.

“…probably.”

…and he stood up.

Scene 26

The YouTrip bus eased to a stop near Mercado Street, its engine humming low as the door slid open. A few players spilled out ahead of them, still talking, still laughing, already breaking off in different directions toward their own corners of the city.

Simon stepped down onto the pavement, bag over his shoulder.

Cherry followed without saying anything.

He noticed.

“…you’re not heading back yet?”

She shook her head slightly.

“Not in a rush.”

He gave a small nod.

“Yeah.”

They walked the short stretch together, the canal off to the side catching bits of light, the Half Built Bridge looming in the distance like it always did—unfinished, unapologetic.

Simon unlocked the door and pushed it open.

“Here it is,” he said.

Cherry stepped inside and paused for a second, taking it in- not with curiosity, but recognition.

Stone walls. Angles that didn’t quite line up. A ceiling that dipped just enough to remind you this place wasn’t meant for any of this.

“…yours is smaller,” she said.

Simon blinked.

“That’s the first thing you go with?”

She smirked.

“I’m serious. Same kind of layout. Just tighter.”

He looked around again, then back at her.

“You’ve got one too?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Family unit. Three rooms. Feels like five if you count all the weird corners.”

He let out a quiet breath that almost turned into a laugh.

“Yeah. That sounds right.”

Cherry stepped further in, tapping lightly against the wall.

“Same problems?”

Simon didn’t hesitate.

“Nothing’s straight. Nothing fits where it’s supposed to. You think you’ve got something level and then the whole room tells you you’re wrong.”

Cherry laughed.

“My husband tried to mount a shelf. Took him three hours. Still leans.”

“Exactly.”

They shared that for a second.

Not discovery.

Just confirmation.

Simon dropped his bag near the wall.

“This is why people here get annoyed when you call it ‘cool,’” he said. “It looks like a fantasy until you actually have to live in it.”

Cherry nodded.

“Yeah. It’s not a castle,” she said. “It’s a workaround.”

Simon pointed at her.

“That’s exactly it.”

She moved around the space slowly now, not judging- just observing.

His gear sat where it naturally fell. Glove worn in. Bat leaned without ceremony. Nothing staged. Nothing decorative.

“You’ve been doing this a while,” she said.

“Yeah,” Simon replied. “Most of my life.”

She glanced back at him.

“Where.”

“Superior.”

That made her pause.

“The Covenant.”

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

Cherry’s expression shifted slightly.

“…that’s not exactly a place you expect to hear that from.”

Simon shrugged.

“It was normal to me.”

He leaned against the counter, arms folding loosely.

“Played everything growing up. Baseball mostly.”

Cherry nodded.

“Your dad?”

“Yeah. Tristan,” Simon said. “He was big on it. Taught me everything he could.”

A small breath out.

“I passed him pretty quick.”

Cherry smiled faintly.

“I’m guessing he didn’t mind.”

“No,” Simon said. “He loved it.”

That sat there for a moment.

Not heavy.

Just present.

“…and your sister?” Cherry asked.

Simon’s expression softened a fraction.

“Isolde,” he said. “Pitcher.”

Cherry tilted her head.

“Yeah?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. That’s why I caught.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Really.”

Simon shrugged slightly.

“Just… felt right. Being her battery mate.”

Cherry let that land.

There was something in that- something simple that wasn’t simple at all.

She shifted her weight.

“Wait,” she said, “how were you even playing there?”

Simon looked at her.

“Doesn’t Superior ban sports?”

He shook his head.

“They ban what sports turn into,” he said. “Money. Influence. People with followings bigger than institutions.”

Cherry folded her arms loosely.

“So what- you just… stayed under the radar?”

“Not exactly,” Simon said. “They allow amateur athletics. School teams. Development programs. As long as it stays contained.”

“Contained,” she repeated.

“Yeah. You can play,” he said. “You just can’t become anything that changes the balance of power.”

Cherry nodded slowly.

“…and then what.”

Simon exhaled.

“That’s the problem.”

He pushed off the counter slightly, pacing once without really thinking about it.

“You graduate,” he said, “and unless you get out…”

He didn’t finish right away.

Cherry didn’t push him.

“There’s nowhere to go,” he said finally. “No leagues. No system. No next step.”

A beat.

“If I didn’t stop playing… if Isolde didn’t get that scholarship to FUCC…”

He trailed off again.

Cherry watched him closely now.

“We’d just be stuck,” he said. “Like everyone else. Sitting on something we can’t use.”

The room went quiet around that.

The uneven walls. The low ceiling. The way the space held sound just a little differently.

Simon rubbed the back of his neck.

“…so yeah,” he added, lighter, but not really lighter, “castle living’s still easier than that.”

Cherry huffed a quiet laugh, but her eyes stayed on him.

Not teasing.

Not deflecting.

Just understanding a little more than she had before.

…and she didn’t move to leave.

Cherry didn’t push the silence.

She leaned back against the uneven stone, arms loosely crossed, giving him space the way someone does when they know something heavier is about to surface.

Simon stared at nothing for a moment.

Then-

“My dad,” he said.

Cherry glanced at him, but didn’t interrupt.

“That’s the first time I’ve said that to someone who isn’t family,” he added, almost to himself.

Cherry gave a small nod.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” Simon said.

Not sharp.

Just certain.

She settled in again.

“Alright.”

Simon exhaled slowly.

“I knew it could happen,” he said. “Everyone did.”

A beat.

“He was Tactical Ops for Peace. That’s not a desk job. That’s not something you pretend is safe.”

Cherry listened.

“We talked about it,” he continued. “Not all the time, but enough. It was always there. This… understanding that one day he might not come back.”

He rubbed his hands together once, like he was trying to ground himself.

“…and I thought I’d be ready,” he said. “Or at least… as ready as you can be.”

He let out a short breath.

“I wasn’t.”

The room stayed quiet around that.

“You can’t be,” he went on. “You can know it’s possible. You can even accept it…but when it actually happens-”

He stopped.

Shook his head once.

“It’s not the same thing.”

Cherry didn’t move.

Didn’t soften it.

Just stayed there with him.

“I don’t even know exactly what happened,” Simon said after a moment. “Not fully.”

He leaned back against the counter again, but it wasn’t relaxed.

“His partner- Elian Reyes,” he said. “Family friend. He was there. He saw it happen…he’s told us pieces. Bits of the operation. What went wrong.”

A small pause.

“…but never the whole thing.”

Cherry tilted her head slightly.

“Why not.”

Simon gave a faint, humorless shrug.

“Either he can’t,” he said. “Or he won’t.”

He looked down for a second.

“I’ve filled in the gaps myself,” he added. “Social media. People posting from the scene. Clips, threads, half-stories.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t even know what I believe from that.”

Cherry’s expression tightened slightly.

“…what was it.”

Simon let out a breath.

“A slo-pitch league,” he said.

Cherry blinked.

“…what.”

“In Cochenour,” Simon said. “Near Red Lake.”

He glanced at her, like he knew how it sounded.

“Superior tried to shut it down. Rogue league. Unauthorized. That kind of thing.”

Cherry stared at him.

“…that’s what they sent Tactical Ops for?”

“They sent Moral Guardians first,” Simon said. “It escalated.”

He shifted slightly.

“Winnipeg Free Movement stepped in,” he added. “On the players’ side.”

Cherry let out a quiet breath.

“…of course they did.”

“They overwhelmed the Guardians,” Simon said. “Then Peace got called in as backup.”

He paused.

“Didn’t matter.”

Cherry didn’t say anything.

“They overwhelmed everyone,” Simon finished.

The words sat heavy.

“Elian says he was the only one who made it out,” Simon added. “Had to agree to a ceasefire on terms Superior never would’ve accepted.”

A beat.

“Only reason he’s alive.”

Cherry’s jaw tightened slightly.

Simon looked away again.

“…that’s what my dad died in,” he said.

No anger in the tone.

Just fact.

Just weight.

The room held it.

For a while.

Simon spoke again before it could settle too long.

“It broke everything,” he said.

Cherry didn’t ask what he meant.

He answered anyway.

“I was supposed to follow him,” Simon said. “Into Peace.”

He gave a small, distant shake of his head.

“That was the plan. Couldn’t go pro in Superior, so that was… the path.”

He looked down.

“That died with him.”

A pause.

“I tried to keep playing,” he added. “Thought maybe I could just… keep going.”

He let out a breath.

“Couldn’t.”

Cherry watched him carefully now.

“Isolde did,” Simon said. “My sister.”

A faint hint of something there.

“Think she got mad,” he said, “and just… put it into her pitching.”

He nodded once.

“Worked for her.”

Another pause.

“We moved after,” he said. “Me and my mom. El Requeson.”

Cherry nodded slowly.

“Her dad owns La Rubí,” Simon added. “Wanted to pass it down.”

He glanced up briefly.

“She didn’t want it,” he said, “but after… everything, she didn’t feel like she had a choice.”

Cherry didn’t interrupt.

“I worked there for a while,” Simon said. “Helped out. Did what I could.”

He shrugged.

“It was never… anything for me.”

A beat.

“I don’t even know if it is for her,” he added. “Every time I ask, I get a different answer.”

Cherry gave a quiet, understanding nod.

Simon leaned back slightly, looking up at the uneven ceiling.

“Elian left too,” he said. “After.”

Cherry glanced at him.

“Left what.”

“The Guardians,” Simon said. “Joined Peace fully.”

He let out a quiet breath.

“Said my dad was the last straw.”

Another piece set into place.

Simon stared ahead again.

“I was Catholic too,” he added after a moment.

Cherry didn’t react.

Just listened.

“Couldn’t go back,” he said. “Not after that.”

He shook his head slightly.

“Isolde never really cared,” he added. “She did it because Superior made her.”

A faint exhale.

“She left, she was done.”

Cherry shifted her weight slightly.

“…and your mom?”

Simon hesitated.

“She stayed,” he said. “Technically.”

A small pause.

“…but… not the same.”

The room quieted again.

Not empty.

Just full of everything that had been said.

Simon ran a hand through his hair once, like he was trying to come back to the present.

“…yeah,” he muttered.

…and didn’t move.

Simon stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, but something in him had shifted now that he’d started talking. It wasn’t lighter, exactly- but it was moving.

“I didn’t even have a plan,” he said. “Not really.”

Cherry watched him, quiet.

“I just… knew Stacy was here,” he continued. “My mom’s sister. That was enough.”

A small pause.

“I knew Elian was here too,” he added, then shrugged slightly. “Haven’t talked to him since Tristan.”

Cherry didn’t press that.

Simon looked off toward the door for a second.

“I think I just wanted out,” he said. “Out of El Requeson. Out of that whole… holding pattern.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again.

“Make something on my own. Anywhere that wasn’t already decided for me.”

Cherry nodded once.

“That makes sense.”

Simon let out a breath.

“…and then I remembered,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly.

“Baseball.”

A beat.

“I was good at it,” he said. “At least… I was.”

He gave a small, self-aware half-smile.

“…and I liked it. Before everything.”

Cherry didn’t interrupt.

“So I figured… alright,” he went on. “Try again.”

He shrugged.

“See how far it goes.”

A pause.

“I’m not gonna pretend I’m not scared,” he added. “I don’t know what I am right now. I’m rusty. I’ve been out of it. Everyone else kept going.”

He looked at her.

“…but I also knew I couldn’t just stay there,” he said. “On my mom’s couch. Working at La Rubí like I’m waiting for something to happen.”

Cherry’s expression softened slightly.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

Simon nodded.

“So I came here,” he said, “and I just… went for it.”

He almost laughed at himself.

“I walked to the Crooks Academy,” he said.

Cherry’s eyebrows went up.

“…you didn’t.”

“I did.”

She stared at him for half a second.

Then it hit her.

She laughed.

Not a polite laugh- full, unfiltered.

“No way.”

Simon cracked a smile.

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I told them I wanted a tryout.”

Cherry laughed harder, shaking her head.

“Simon-”

“I know,” he said, laughing a little now too. “I know.”

“How’d that go.”

He shrugged.

“Exactly how you think it went.”

That sent her again.

“Of course it did.”

“Yeah.”

Cherry wiped at her eye briefly, still smiling.

“That’s… bold.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She looked at him again, still amused.

“What did you do after that.”

Simon exhaled.

“Got real,” he said. “Fast.”

A beat.

“Stacy got me a warehouse job.”

Cherry nodded.

“Of course she did.”

“She’s my boss,” he added.

Cherry smirked.

“That’s gotta be fun.”

“It’s… something.”

He shifted slightly.

“…and I found the Guardians,” he said. “Figured if I could play somewhere- anywhere- I could build from there.”

Cherry leaned back against the wall again.

“Parlay it into something bigger.”

“Yeah,” Simon said. “Crooks, ideally.”

A small pause.

“Or anywhere in the Premier League.”

He didn’t dress that up.

Didn’t pretend it was anything less than what it was.

Cherry watched him carefully.

“That’s the goal.”

Simon nodded.

“That’s the goal.”

Silence sat for a moment.

Not empty.

Just real.

Simon looked down, then back up again.

“…I don’t know if it’s gonna work,” he said.

Cherry didn’t answer right away.

“…but I know this,” he added. “He wouldn’t want me sitting around.”

Cherry didn’t need clarification on who “he” was.

Simon gave a small nod, like he was confirming it to himself.

“So I’m taking chances,” he said. “Even if I don’t know where they go.”

A beat.

“…and hoping it lands somewhere.”

Cherry pushed off the wall again, stepping a little closer.

Not closing the distance completely.

Just enough.

“That’s all anyone’s doing,” she said.

Simon looked at her.

She held it there.

“No one’s got it figured out,” she added. “Some people just hide it better.”

He let out a small breath.

“…yeah.”

Cherry studied him for another second.

Then, a faint smile.

“You walking into the Crooks Academy though?” she said. “That’s still insane.”

Simon smirked.

“Yeah.”

“You’d do it again?”

A beat.

“…yeah.”

She nodded.

“Good.”

…and stayed there with him.

Cherry didn’t say anything for a moment.

She just stepped forward.

Slow. Intentional.

Then wrapped her arms around him.

Simon froze for half a second- just long enough for the instinct to catch up- then he returned it. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just… there.

It wasn’t quick.

It wasn’t performative.

It was the kind of hug that didn’t ask for anything and didn’t try to fix anything. It just held.

Grounded.

Steady.

Simon exhaled into it without realizing he needed to.

Cherry rested her chin lightly against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He didn’t ask for what.

“For telling me,” she added.

A small pause.

“You don’t have to carry all that by yourself.”

Simon didn’t answer.

…but he didn’t pull away either.

Cherry gave a small squeeze.

“He’d be proud of you,” she said.

That landed.

Not heavy.

Not forced.

Just… placed.

“Taking chances like that?” she continued. “Walking into the Crooks’ Academy like that?”

A faint smile in her voice.

“That’s not nothing.”

Simon let out a quiet breath that almost broke.

“…yeah.”

Cherry leaned back just enough to look at him, but didn’t let go.

“You’ve got real talent,” she said. “You know that, right?”

Simon gave a small shrug.

“I think so.”

“I know so,” she said.

No hesitation.

“No qualifiers. No ‘maybe.’ You’re going to make the Premier League.”

Simon blinked slightly at that.

Cherry held it.

“I hope it’s with the Crooks,” she added. “Makes it easier for me.”

A beat.

“…but if it’s not…”

She shrugged lightly.

“I’ll still watch. I’ll still cheer.”

A small grin.

“Even if you end up with the Toronto Bluebirds.”

That got him.

A real laugh.

“…alright, now you’re pushing it.”

“Hey, I said I would,” she replied.

They stayed like that for another moment.

Then Cherry’s expression softened again.

“I wish I could fix it,” she said quietly. “Bring him back. Undo all of it.”

Simon shook his head.

“…I know.”

“…but I can’t,” she continued. “So the next best thing is making sure you don’t go through it alone.”

He nodded once.

“That helps.”

Cherry smiled faintly.

“Good.”

She pulled him into one more squeeze, tighter this time.

“…and if you want us to be part of your family,” she added, “me, my kids, the team…”

A small pause.

“We are. No questions.”

Simon didn’t hesitate.

“I’d like that.”

Cherry nodded.

“Good.”

Simon let out a small breath.

“…I’ll miss it,” he admitted. “If I leave.”

Cherry didn’t pull away yet.

“You will,” she said. “That’s part of it.”

Then she leaned back, just enough to press a quick, gentle kiss against his cheek.

Not romantic.

Not complicated.

Just… care.

She met his eyes again.

“You’re not alone,” she said.

Simon nodded.

“…yeah.”

Cherry stepped back finally, giving him space again.

…but not distance.

She turned toward the door, then paused with her hand on it.

“…and when you do make it,” she added, glancing back, “you’re still one of us.”

Simon smirked slightly.

“Bridge Guardian for life.”

“Exactly.”

He nodded.

“Then I’ll get you all a suite,” he said. “Bring the whole team out.”

Cherry’s eyes lit up just a little.

“Oh, we’re holding you to that.”

“I figured.”

She pointed at him.

“…and you better get those limited edition Raptor Nuggets. The ones with the specialty cheese.”

Simon laughed.

“I’ll try.”

“No,” she said, opening the door, “you’ll succeed.”

He shook his head, still smiling.

“…I’ll try.”

Cherry stepped out into the hall, then looked back one last time.

“Get some sleep,” she said. “You’ve got work in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

She gave him one last nod.

Then she was gone.

The door closed.

…and for the first time in a while-

the room didn’t feel quite as empty.

Scene 27

Cathy didn’t sit back.

She stood at the edge of the conference table like she was still on the rail, one hand braced, the other flipping through clips she didn’t really need to watch again.

“You’re overthinking it,” she said. “He’s not supposed to be there. Not at that level.”

On the screen, Simon lined a ball into the gap—clean, controlled, effortless. The overlay flashed his numbers.

.480/.550/.920.

It wasn’t just good.

It was wrong for that level.

Halloran leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the loop play again without reacting to the stat line.

“No one’s arguing the production,” he said.

Vance didn’t look away from the screen.

“Production’s not the question,” he added. “Translation is.”

Cathy turned toward him.

“He’s handling everything they throw at him,” she said.

“Not everything,” Vance replied.

He tapped the tablet and brought up a different sequence.

Jin Rui.

Ten-pitch at-bat.

Controlled. Measured. No panic.

Strike three.

Then another clip. Simon later in the game- working harder, fouling off, adjusting- but not dictating.

Vance let it run.

“She doesn’t beat herself,” he said. “No freebies. No panic. Just executes.”

Cathy folded her arms.

“…and he still got to her later.”

“Eventually,” Vance said. “After seeing her enough.”

He paused the video.

“At this level, that’s fine. At ours, that’s a problem.”

Halloran nodded slightly.

“Premier League arms don’t give you that runway,” he said. “You don’t get five looks to figure someone out. You get one. Maybe two.”

Cathy didn’t answer immediately.

Vance flipped to another clip.

Simon in the box again.

Different pitcher.

Chasing.

Not wildly- but just enough off the edge to expand the zone.

“He wants to make something happen every pitch,” Vance said. “That’s a strength until it isn’t.”

Halloran leaned forward slightly.

“Same thing behind the plate,” he added. “He’s trying to outthink the game every time. That’s fine when you’re right.”

A beat.

“…but when you’re wrong, you compound it.”

Cathy watched the clip again.

Didn’t disagree.

Just didn’t like the framing.

“He’s competing,” she said.

“No question,” Vance replied. “I like that about him.”

He swiped again.

A new clip.

Simon taking a lead.

Breaking.

Getting caught.

Not even particularly close.

The tag came down clean.

Vance paused it mid-slide.

“…and that,” he said.

Cathy exhaled through her nose.

“Alright,” she said. “He’s not a base stealer.”

“That’s not the point,” Halloran said.

He pointed at the screen.

“He decided he was going,” he continued. “Before the situation told him to.”

Cathy tilted her head slightly.

“Trying to force it.”

“Exactly.”

Silence settled for a second.

Not tense.

Just evaluative.

Halloran leaned back again.

“Here’s what I see,” he said. “Mechanically, he’s clean. Footwork, transfer, arm- he’s ahead of most of our internal guys already.”

Vance nodded.

“Receiving’s strong. Game awareness is there. He sees patterns.”

A small pause.

“He just doesn’t always trust them yet.”

Cathy uncrossed her arms slightly.

“He will.”

Vance looked at her.

“I think so too,” he said, “but right now, his brain’s playing at a different speed than his body.”

Halloran gave a small nod.

“That’s coachable.”

Cathy’s posture shifted just a fraction.

There it was.

Vance tapped the tablet again, bringing up a broader set of clips- Simon framing pitches, adjusting mid-count, settling down his own pitchers.

“Defensively, he’s already useful,” Vance said. “Offensively, the ceiling’s obvious.”

He glanced at Halloran.

“He’s a Premier League player.”

Halloran didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

“Just not finished.”

Cathy let out a quiet breath.

Not frustration.

Recognition.

“…fine,” she said. “He’s not finished.”

Halloran looked at her.

“…but he’s ours if we want him.”

That was the real question.

Vance set the tablet down.

“We can work with this,” he said. “Discipline. Approach. Decision-making under pressure.”

He nodded slightly.

“Those aren’t physical limitations.”

Halloran folded his hands together.

“Entry-level deal,” he said.

Cathy didn’t even try to hide the small shift in her stance.

Vance gave a short nod.

“Bring him in,” he said. “Get him into our system before someone else notices.”

Halloran looked at Cathy.

“You’re comfortable delivering it?”

Cathy almost smiled.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Very.”

Halloran nodded once.

“Good.”

Vance added, almost as an afterthought-

“Make sure he understands what we just talked about.”

Cathy picked up her things.

“He will.”

She didn’t linger.

Didn’t need to.

Decision made.

As she headed for the door, Halloran spoke again.

“…and Cathy-”

She paused.

“Don’t oversell it.”

Cathy glanced back.

A faint, knowing look.

“I don’t have to,” she said.

Then she was gone.

Already thinking about how she was going to find him.

Scene 28

Simon set up behind the plate and dropped into his stance, glove out, eyes steady on the mound.

“Alright, Bill,” he called. “Same tempo. Don’t rush it.”

Zippy Bill nodded, took a breath, and delivered.

Pop.

Right into the pocket.

Simon held it there a beat, then tossed it back.

“Good. Again.”

Around him, the field felt different now.

Not cleaner.

Not perfect.

…but connected.

Cherry was working her own warmups off to the side, loose, confident, talking just enough to keep things light without losing focus. Harry was actually thinking through his mechanics instead of fighting them. Even Opus- who just a few weeks ago would’ve been bouncing off everything- was pacing himself, channeling it.

He still snapped at a bad rep.

Still muttered to himself.

…but he reset.

That was new.

Simon noticed it.

“…good,” he murmured.

Out in the outfield, Paige moved through drills, sharp as ever.

…and yeah- the compression shorts were there.

Bright.

Sparkled just enough to catch the light.

Simon shook his head slightly.

“Of course,” he muttered.

Paige caught a line drive clean and jogged it in, catching his glance.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” Simon replied. “Just… practical.”

She smirked.

“Comfort and style,” she said. “You said so.”

“I said protection.”

“Same thing.”

Simon let it go.

She was moving better.

That was what mattered.

Between reps, Simon stepped toward the sideline, pulling his mask off.

Cherry waved him over.

Her kids were there- clustered around her, buzzing with energy- and off to the side, a cage with a parakeet perched like it had a front-row seat to something important.

Simon walked over.

“You brought the whole operation,” he said.

Cherry grinned.

“Figured you’d need the support.”

One of the kids looked up at him.

“You’re the catcher,” they said.

“That’s me.”

“You hit two home runs last time.”

Simon glanced at Cherry.

“Word travels fast.”

Cherry shrugged.

“I might’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

The parakeet chirped sharply.

Simon looked at it.

“…does it do that a lot?”

“All the time,” Cherry said.

“Good,” he replied. “Keeps everyone honest.”

Cherry’s expression softened just a little as the moment settled.

“You good?” she asked quietly.

Simon nodded.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“…you?”

She gave him a look.

“I’m not the one about to have a day.”

He followed her gaze.

That’s when he saw them.

Cathy.

Standing just beyond the field.

…and beside her-

a suited figure, clipboard in hand, posture neutral, professional.

IBC Players’ Union.

Simon’s stomach tightened just slightly.

“…oh.”

Cherry exhaled slowly.

“Yeah.”

The energy around the field shifted, not all at once, but enough.

Word traveled.

Players slowed their warmups just enough to glance over.

Opus walked in from the outfield, squinting.

“…that looks official.”

“It is,” Simon said.

Cathy stepped forward, calm, direct, like she’d already decided how this was going to go.

“Simon,” she called.

He handed his mask off without thinking and walked toward her.

The union rep nodded as he approached.

“Simon Ellison?”

“Yeah.”

The rep extended a hand.

“IBC Players’ Union. I’m here to walk you through the terms.”

Simon shook it.

Firm.

Real.

Cathy didn’t waste time.

“We’ve seen enough,” she said. “This isn’t about one game anymore.”

Simon glanced between them.

The field behind him.

The team.

Cherry.

Everything he’d built here- fast, unexpected, real.

“…right now?” he asked.

Cathy tilted her head slightly.

“You want us to wait?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

That hesitation- everyone saw it.

Opus stepped up first.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re not actually thinking about saying no, right?”

Simon looked at him.

“I-”

Cherry stepped in.

Not forceful.

Just present.

“This is what you came for,” she said.

Simon exhaled.

“I know.”

Bill called out from behind.

“Then do it.”

Harry nodded.

“Yeah. Don’t overthink it.”

Paige crossed her arms.

“You can still visit,” she added, “and critique my gear.”

Simon almost smiled.

Cherry leaned in just a little.

“If you don’t sign it,” she said, “I will.”

That got a laugh.

Even from him.

“You’re not even a catcher,” he said.

“Details,” she replied.

The tension cracked just enough.

Simon looked back at the contract.

At the rep.

At Cathy.

Then over his shoulder.

The field.

The team.

The noise, the chaos, the weird, imperfect, real thing this had become.

“…yeah,” he said.

Simon took the pen.

He turned it once in his fingers, eyes already on the line where his name would go.

“Hold on,” the union rep said, lifting a hand.

Simon paused.

The rep gave him a small, professional nod.

“We need to go through the contract first,” he said. “All of it. Terms, obligations, clauses. Standard procedure.”

Simon blinked once.

“…right.”

“It’s not a ten-minute thing,” the rep added.

Simon let out a small breath, grounding himself again.

“Okay.”

A beat.

“Can I-” he glanced back toward the field “-say goodbye first?”

The rep followed his look, then nodded.

“Of course.”

Simon handed the pen back.

“Thanks.”

He turned.

…and walked back toward the field.

The team was already gathered, not formally, not in a line, just… there. Waiting in their own ways.

Simon went to Bill first.

Zippy Bill shifted his weight, trying not to make it bigger than it was.

Simon stepped up to him.

“Hey.”

Bill nodded.

“Hey.”

Simon held his gaze.

“Keep controlling your breathing,” he said. “You’ve got it now. Don’t lose it when things speed up.”

Bill gave a small nod.

“…yeah.”

“Trust the pause.”

Another nod.

“I will.”

Simon clapped his shoulder once and moved on.

Harry was next, still holding his glove like he always did when he was thinking too much.

Simon stopped in front of him.

“Don’t overcorrect,” Simon said. “Your instincts are better than you think. Let them work.”

Harry looked at him, uncertain for a second, then nodded.

“…alright.”

Simon gave him a small, firm nod back and kept moving.

Paige stood with her arms crossed, already bracing herself for something she didn’t want to make dramatic.

Simon smiled slightly.

“Sparkle brighter than your shorts,” he said.

She rolled her eyes immediately.

“Of course you had to say that.”

He shrugged.

“It’s part of the brand now.”

She smirked despite herself.

“Just keep playing hard,” he added, softer. “You’re closer than you think.”

A beat.

“…and hey- maybe I’ll see you again sooner than you expect.”

She caught that.

“…Crooks?”

“Maybe.”

She gave a small nod.

“Then don’t forget me when you get there.”

“Not a chance.”

He moved on.

Sweeny Myers was leaning against the dugout rail, pigtails bouncing slightly as she shifted.

Simon pointed at her.

“Stay off that high pitch.”

She grinned immediately.

“Never fooled me once.”

“Don’t let it start now.”

She gave him a mock salute.

“Yes, coach.”

He shook his head, smiling, and kept going.

Harlan Jones stood near the back, big frame relaxed, bat resting against his shoulder.

Simon stepped up.

“Take the single.”

Harlan snorted.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it,” Simon said. “You don’t need to prove anything every swing.”

Harlan looked at him, then nodded.

“…alright.”

“Good.”

Simon moved through the rest of them.

One by one.

A word here. A reminder there. A handshake that turned into something firmer. A quick hug that lingered longer than expected.

No one got skipped.

No one got less.

It built.

Quietly.

Until there was only one left.

Cherry.

She hadn’t moved.

Just stood there, watching him come to her.

Simon slowed as he approached.

“…hey.”

Cherry shook her head slightly, like she didn’t trust herself to start talking yet.

He didn’t push it.

He just stepped in.

…and hugged her.

This time- it wasn’t steady.

It wasn’t just grounding.

It held everything that had been said.

…and everything that hadn’t.

Cherry held on tighter than before.

Simon did the same.

Neither rushed it.

Neither wanted to be the one to let go first.

“…you better call,” she said quietly.

“I will.”

“You better get that suite.”

He let out a small breath.

“I will.”

A pause.

“Raptor Nuggets,” she added.

He smiled into her shoulder.

“I’ll try.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Don’t try.”

He nodded.

“…okay.”

Another beat.

Then she let go.

Not because she wanted to.

…but because she had to.

Simon stepped back, taking them all in one more time.

The field.

The team.

Everything this had become.

“I’m not gone,” he said. “I’m a call away.”

They nodded.

Some more than others.

“…and I’ll make good on the suite,” he added.

A few smiles.

Then, with a playful edge-

“…and now none of you have to cheer for the Bluebirds.”

That got them.

Laughter broke through the moment.

Even Cathy let out a small one from where she stood.

Simon nodded once.

Satisfied.

Then turned.

Walked back toward the rep.

Toward the contract.

Toward whatever came next.

Scene 29

The Crooks facility was quieter than Simon expected.

Not silent- there were always sounds somewhere. Gloves popping in distant bullpen sessions, shoes squeaking against polished flooring, muted conversations echoing through hallways- but quieter in spirit. More focused.

More serious.

Simon walked through it carrying a small equipment bag that suddenly felt much lighter than it had a few weeks ago.

The walls carried history everywhere he looked. Framed jerseys. Team photos. Old championship banners hanging high enough to feel permanent.

Cuyahoga Crooks.

Not a dream anymore.

Not a fantasy.

His name had been entered into the system. His paperwork filed. His physical completed. His photo taken.

He was in.

Actually in.

“…wow,” he muttered.

Cathy walked a few steps ahead of him, hands in her coat pockets.

“You’ll get over it,” she said.

Simon smirked faintly.

“Probably.”

“Hopefully.”

They turned a corner and entered the clubhouse.

That hit harder.

Rows of lockers. Equipment laid out with intention. Staff moving around like this was just another workday.

Because to them- it was.

Simon slowed without realizing it.

Then stopped entirely.

There.

His locker.

Not massive. Not glamorous. Not one of the centerpieces.

Didn’t matter.

His nameplate sat there anyway.

SIMON ELLISON

A Crooks logo beneath it.

Real.

He stared at it longer than he meant to.

Cathy noticed.

“…take the moment,” she said.

Simon let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and stepped closer.

He touched the edge of the locker once, almost cautiously.

“Still feels weird,” he admitted.

“You signed a contract three hours ago,” Cathy replied. “Weird’s normal.”

Simon laughed quietly under his breath.

He opened the locker slowly.

Uniform pieces already hung inside.

Training gear.

Caps.

A place for his equipment.

A place for him.

“…damn.”

Cathy leaned lightly against the nearby locker row.

“Enjoy it now,” she said. “Because signing wasn’t the finish line.”

Simon glanced back at her.

“It’s the start.”

“Exactly.”

Her tone sharpened just slightly- not harsh, just honest.

“The real work starts now. Everyone here was the best player somewhere else too.”

Simon nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“…and some of them never got past that.”

That landed.

Simon looked back at the locker.

The name.

The logo.

Everything it represented.

“…yeah.”

He understood.

This wasn’t the end of the climb.

It was just a higher mountain.

Still- he couldn’t stop smiling a little.

He shook his head once.

“I still can’t believe this is real.”

Cathy crossed her arms.

“It’s real.”

Simon looked over at her.

“…feels like a dream.”

A beat.

“Honestly, someone should pinch me.”

Cathy stared at him for exactly one second.

Then walked over and pinched him square on the butt.

Simon jolted immediately.

“Hey-!”

Cathy stepped back like nothing happened.

“You said pinch you.”

Simon stared at her in complete surprise for half a second- then laughed.

A real laugh.

The kind that finally breaks through when tension leaves the body all at once.

Cathy smirked faintly.

“There,” she said. “Real enough?”

Simon shook his head, still smiling.

“…apparently.”

Cathy gave him one last look, somewhere between amused and approving.

Then-

“Welcome to the team, Twinkletoes.”

Simon laughed again despite himself.

…and standing there in front of his locker, still feeling the sting of the pinch and the weight of everything changing around him-

it finally settled in.

He was a Crook now.

Scene 30

The bell over the door chimed as Zasaramel stepped into La Rubí, ducking slightly out of habit even though he cleared the frame just fine. The room noticed him immediately.

Not just because of his size.

Because of the sweater.

Buffalo Beasts. Bold. Unapologetic. Right in the heart of Los Auras.

A few heads turned. A couple of conversations paused mid-sentence. Someone near the window let out a low whistle.

“…you’ve got guts,” one guy muttered, not quite loud enough to be a challenge.

Another voice, braver or just dumber, called out, “You lost, big man? This isn’t Beasts country.”

Zas turned his head slightly, taking it in.

Then smiled.

“Ah,” he said, voice calm and even, “but I am here, yes?”

That got a few laughs. Tension cracked just enough.

The brave ones stayed brave.

“Hailey make you wear that?” someone else called.

Zas nodded once.

“She gave it to me,” he said. “A gift.”

“…and you just wear it anywhere?”

Zas considered that for half a second.

“I am a loyal man.”

That earned him a few more chuckles. Even the ones who didn’t like it couldn’t quite argue with that.

No one pushed further.

Not really.

Zas walked to the counter like he always did, unbothered, steady, the kind of presence that made most people rethink how much they actually wanted to escalate anything.

Oscar Carbajal stood behind the counter, polishing a glass like he had been doing for the last twenty years.

He didn’t look up right away.

“…you’re going to get yourself in trouble one of these days,” Oscar said.

Zas sat.

“I am always in trouble,” he replied. “Especially with the wives.”

Oscar snorted softly.

Carina came out from the back, wiping her hands on a towel.

She saw him, saw the sweater, and just shook her head with a small smile.

“Zas.”

“Carina.”

She nodded toward the sweater.

“You’re brave.”

“I have been called worse.”

“What’ll it be?”

“The usual.”

She nodded and moved to prepare it.

Zas rested his forearms on the counter, looking around the diner. Same place. Same energy. Different undercurrent tonight.

When Carina returned with a drink, he spoke again.

“I saw the news,” he said. “Simon. He is now a baseball player.”

Carina paused, just slightly.

Then set the glass down in front of him.

“He signed a Premier League contract,” she said. “With the Crooks.”

Zas nodded.

“Yes.”

She didn’t gush.

Didn’t overplay it.

…but there was something there.

Zas noticed.

“You are proud,” he said.

Carina leaned against the counter, folding the towel once.

“I’m proud he made the team,” she said.

A beat.

“…but I want to see how it goes.”

Zas tilted his head slightly.

“You do not trust it?”

“I trust him,” she said. “That’s not the same thing.”

Zas considered that.

“…yes.”

Carina pushed off the counter.

“I’ll get your food.”

She moved away.

Zas sat there, quiet for a moment, taking in the space, the noise, the small things that made this place what it was.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced down at it.

Unknown number.

He answered anyway.

“Yes.”

A familiar voice came through.

“It took longer than it should have to find you.”

Zas smiled faintly.

“Norah.”

“Your information isn’t where it should be,” Norah Anam said. “My database needs updating.”

Zas leaned back slightly on the stool.

“This is not new information.”

A small pause.

“I see you’re in Los Auras,” she added, “and wearing a Beasts sweater.”

Zas glanced down at it.

“Yes.”

“Dangerous man.”

Zas smiled a little wider.

“You seem to have forgotten,” he said, “I do not fear danger.”

Norah didn’t respond to that directly except with a wry laugh.

She moved on.

“I’m calling about Revy.”

Zas’s expression shifted- subtle, but real.

“Yes.”

“She’s signed,” Norah said. “Academia Atlético. La Liga Caribeña.”

Zas nodded slowly.

“This is good.”

“It is,” Norah said, “but it comes with… complications.”

Zas didn’t interrupt.

“Some of the places she’ll be playing,” Norah continued, “aren’t exactly safe.”

Zas’s posture straightened just a fraction.

“I understand.”

“She wants training,” Norah said. “Self-defence. Situational awareness.”

A beat.

“I told her I know the best person for that.”

Zas didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

No conditions.

No questions.

Just acceptance.

Norah let out a small breath on the other end.

“Thank you.”

Zas nodded once.

“You are welcome.”

A brief pause.

“…and Zas?” she added.

“Yes.”

“I hope you don’t have to use your training to defend yourself from people who don’t like that sweater.”

Zas looked around the diner again.

A few people still glancing his way.

Still judging.

Still deciding.

He smiled.

“I am not worried.”

Norah let out something that might have been a quiet laugh.

“Good.”

The line clicked off.

Zas set the phone down just as Carina returned with his plate, sliding it in front of him.

He nodded once in thanks.

…and for a moment- everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.