#spring training for baseball starts this week so I’ve been thinking about this guy so much & here we are lol

[kedsandtubesocks]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write more MLB Professional Joel !!! It was such a good read and it makes me want more

You're one of the very few who write really fun AU's for him, and it has me absolutely addicted

Dear anon thanks so much I appreciate you!! And since you asked so nicely… let’s enjoy some more baseball Joel yeah?

—

Game Changer - Spring Training

MLB pitcher!Joel Miller x F!Reader

warnings: 18+ only dbf!Joel, allusions to smut, secret relationship things, brief moments of panic

word count: 1.2k

Arizona’s desert holds a surprising charm to it. You’re even more amused that the city’s name fits it so well.

Surprise, Arizona is where the Texas Rangers would be staying for spring training.

You managed to get ahead of all the work you can, moved a few things around schedule wise, then came up with an easy lie for your parents when they asked curious as to why you were heading to Arizona for a four day weekend.

Because the reason why you’re here walks out from the clubhouse to warm up looking handsome as ever in his training camp uniform.

“Joel! Joel!” The crowd erupts in cheers seeing him, and a wide smile breaks over your face.

You’re thankful fans are able to watch from the fencing around the field. It’s heartwarming and endearing seeing how many people are here to watch the team train. Now you suppose you’re one of those devoted baseball fans now, or mainly, just a Joel fan.

He’s in top form today. Seeing his body crouch up in the windup then fling the ball with such force never ceases to impress you, keep you in awe of the man you adore so much.

It boggles your mind a bit realizing a new season is starting. Because, in theory, you’re coming up on a year of being with Joel.

One of the outfielder’s, Joel’s closest friend on the team, spots you and happily waves making you grin. A lot of the team recognizes you now. They know you’re with Joel, and you’ve even tagged along to a few team dinners now.

Even Ellie and Sarah know about you and him.

Of course the last to not know, the ones still kept in the dark, are your parents… specifically your dad.

Your mom, with her scary sixth sense, has noticed something is up. Accidentally you’ve let it slip you’re seeing someone casually. But that’s the extent of it.

Because you wouldn’t call traveling across states to be with Joel casual. Especially when he paid for your flight ticket, even booked your hotel room to make sure you were comfortable and close to the ranch.

One day, you’ll be brave and tell them. Then hope your dad doesn’t try to kill you or Joel. But now’s not the time to think about that.

The weather is beautiful today. You soak in the sun and soft breeze, enjoying watching Joel Miller be the outlaw cowboy pitcher he is. His curveball is getting better.

There’s a new rookie reliever pitcher the Rangers drafted. Joel immediately has stepped into fatherly parental mode showing different ways to grip the ball. The kid hangs off his every word and follows Joel around like a puppy. It’s rather cute.

Cheers come off to the side of the fence. You glance over to see someone with a phone telling everyone to wave, urging them to chant ‘Let’s Go Rangers!’

Ignoring it, you return to watching Joel.

Eventually lunch break arrives. Joel sends you a text urging you to go relax at the hotel.

Might be a long day at practice baby go enjoy the room

You’ve been wanting to get some reading done, and lounging on the gorgeous hotel room balcony does seem tempting.

Appreciating that Joel understands, you head back to the hotel.

You’re also thankful housekeeping came by to fix the beds. Your face feels like it’s on fire just thinking of the mess you and Joel left the room in this morning.

It’s been a month since you last physically saw him. The way you and him fucked felt raw, tasting of something primal, like you were trying to consume each other for the lost time.

Now seeing a few of Joel’s things here makes your heart melt. His jacket slung on the chair, his toothbrush thrown against yours, his iPad charging on the table.

He’s still mainly staying at the hotel with the team, but you’re grateful he’s snuck away to stay here for a few nights already.

Curling up with your book on the hotel balcony with the lovely Arizona weather creates a dreamy afternoon you happily sink into.

Then your phone chimes off. A text from your mom.

It’s a picture from Instagram.

Specifically the Texas Ranger’s Instagram.

And you’re in the background clear as day, easy to spot.

So…what are you doing at spring training?

Your heart drops. Terror floods into you an unseating wave that draws you under.

Everything becomes muffled and heightened all at once.

Immediately a lie conjures itself up so fast as you text back.

Yeah, Alex had work to do and thought I’d swing by to check out the team and say hi to Joel

Alex, your best friend, thankfully told you to use her as a lie.

Your mom doesn’t reply back for a while, and your stare in pure dreaded silence waiting to see any sign of life.

The chime comes, and your hands shake checking your phone.

Ok have fun

The reply is simple, diffuses the situation. Yet it doesn’t stop the fear pumping through you.

Joel’s contact brings your phone to life, and you don’t know if that’s better or worse.

“Hi, honey.” He greets casual and exhausted. “Done for the day, so I’m headin’ back. Y’wanna start talkin’ dinner?”

“I think my parents know about us.” You blurt.

“Wait, what?” His voice trips over itself.

He urges you to take a breath and tell him everything.

So you do. You tell him about the Instagram photo, the text…

He sighs weary, deeply tired, and you feel guilty now for rushing him with this.

“I’m sorry.” You quickly scramble out.

You’re sorry for being here, sorry for maybe accidentally revealing yourself to your parents, for getting so worked up over this -

Joel says your name, calm and steady.

The door clicks with the room key. Before you realize it, your favorite pitcher walks through the door.

Immediately you rush towards him. In a few steps he’s gathering you in his warm arms, and nothing else matters.

In this carved out space, it’s just him and you holding each other tight.

“I don’t think ya need to worry, honey.” He reassures, rubbing your back softly. “If they knew, ‘specially if your dad knew, no doubt they’d be fuckin’ calling me already.”

That’s true.

A part of you is reassured, yet…

Being in his arms, you realize this is where you want your future.

And something deep inside now aches to have your parents find out. You want to stop hiding Joel, want to stop hiding this. You aren’t ashamed of him. If anything, you’re unbelievably proud of him and want to keep him in your life for as long as you can.

A dangerous thought flutters in your mind. Maybe you should call your mom back and tell her the truth.

“When you get nervous for a game,” you suddenly ask Joel. “How do you get over it?”

A soft hum, a rumble of a deep thought radiates from his warm chest, and it's strangely soothing.

“Guess once I get on the mound, it all just melts away. Get reminded of why I do this, why it’s all worth it. Nerves and all.” He mutters.

You pull away from Joel’s embrace for a moment to glance at him. He’s still sweaty from practice and smells vaguely of sunlight and the field’s dust. But he’s beautiful, and you want him to be yours in every way.

He matters in so many ways it feels like your world now is molded to him; you can’t think of a day without him.

You place a soft kiss on his lips and realize how he’s worth the nerves and all.

Maybe even more than that.

So you think… it might be time for you to go up to bat for your pitcher.

[gabekidd]

I was tagged by @softlikesilkchiffon to give three random facts about myself. Thank you, Summer! 💕

I. In 2013 I was a finalist for the MLB Fan Cave, representing the Washington Nationals. The best way I can think to describe the Fan Cave would be like The Real World for baseball fans, except it was on social media instead of TV (here’s the Wikipedia article about it). To enter, you had to submit a video application, and mine was a spoof of A Christmas Carol where I was visited by the ghosts of D.C. baseball past, present, and future. MLB chose the semi-finalists from the video applicants, and then the finalists were decided via public vote. I'm pretty sure the only reason I made it to the finals was because my friend's cousin spent an actual entire day voting for me when he found out it was unlimited votes 😂. I didn't make it into the actual Fan Cave, but I got to go to Spring Training in Arizona with all the other finalists and basically party for a week while filming things with pro baseball players. Fast-forward to today and I haven't watched baseball since 2019 because Sling doesn't carry the channel that broadcasts the Nats games 🙃

II. I've mentioned this before and it's not exactly random given the content of my blog, but it's always one of my go-to icebreaker facts and, ngl, I like telling people this. In 2011, I trained for six months at a dinky little pro wrestling school in Western Maryland. My thought process at the time was basically, I still don’t have a job over a year after graduating college, so I might as well try to become a pro wrestler. (In hindsight that’s horrible logic, but I was also 22.) The school was over an hour’s drive away from where I lived, and I didn’t have my own car at the time, so I borrowed my dad’s twice a week until I started catching a ride with another one of the students who lived relatively close to me. At first, they gave me the name “Katie May” and paired me up with this big hoss dude as a babyface manager, but I turned on him pretty quick and started managing the dude I carpooled with―and I had nuclear fucking heat after I turned heel. There were girls who went to the exhibition shows at the school who shoot hated me because I was the only female trainee and I guess they were jealous of the attention I was getting from the wrestlers? Because apparently psycho fangirls exist even for no-name indie dudes. 

Anyway, I could write ten more paragraphs about those six months, but to make a long story short I quit after I realized the school was a joke and one of the trainers showed photos of mine that I had sent to him in confidence to the entire locker room. That being said, I don’t regret the experience at all and I have to say I was pretty good. Sometimes I think about how different my life might be right now if I hadn’t quit. But not too much because then the “what ifs” make me sad.

III. I have one tattoo and am hoping to get more soon. But the next one I get is actually going to be a cover-up/re-do of the one that I have 🙃. It’s the coordinates to my college, and it’s messy and blown-out because the guy who did it had only been tattooing for three months at the time. Unfortunately, I didn’t know that until long after I’d left the shop. I’m planning to get the coordinates covered up with either a moth or butterfly and then have the coordinates redone... but I am a little worried that my best friend will be lowkey upset if I do get it covered up, because she has the exact same tattoo. But it’s my body and in a place I can see it every day (the inside of my forearm) so yeah. It’s happening. 

Tagging: @comeasyoudar @knifepervert @m00sebaby @sldghmmr @hotyeehawman!

[obsidiancreates]

Can you do a part 2 to the Henrik and Jameson neglect story? Maybe with him finding the guy who threatened him or telling one of his brothers whats going on?

(You know what? I don’t write the Septics od watch Jack anymore but fuck it, I’m feelin’ funky tonight and may as well give the boys another try. Plus, I just re-read it and the story made me sad, so let’s fix that.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

three weeks.

It’s been... three weeks.

Not a word spoken to JJ, not a glance thrown his way.

Schneep had received more photos. Pictures taken through windows. Whoever this stalker is, they must be taking tips from Anti. It seems like they’re always watching.

“What did I do?” JJ signs, day after day.

Schneep doesn’t reply.

“What did I do?” JJ says with his slides.

Schneep pretends he doesn’t see it.

Marvin has taken over any and all of JJ’s medical care. Schneep didn’t ask him to. After that first incident... Marvin took it into his own hands.

... Schneep’s never felt so low in his life.

And the pictures are gleeful. Shots of him crying in his room (he’s since left the curtains shut at all times), shots of him ignoring a bleeding and sometimes sobbing JJ, shots of him just... just...

...

Jackie knocks on his door.

“Henrik?”

Schneep quickly wipes his eyes. If Jackie is using his first name, that means a very serious talk is about to take place. He needs to pretend as best he can.

“Yes?”

Jackie enters the room.

“Henrik, what the hell is going on with you and JJ?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’ve been ignoring him for weeks. You’re acting like he doesn’t fuckin’ exist.”

Schneep shrugs.

“Don’t srug it off, what’s wrong with you?! He’s a wreck! He thinks he did something wrong, and he’s blaming himself!”

Schneep feels tears spring into his eyes. “I have nothing to say.”

Jackie is incredulous. “Nothing to say? Fucking nothing to say?! What’s going on with you?!”

“I need to get back to work.”

“No, you need to-”

“I! Need! To! Work!”

Jackie stares.

“... Is it Anti?” he asks quietly.

Schneep scoffs. “I am not doing the glitching, am I?”

Jackie doesn’t look convinced. “Something’s not right with you.”

“Yes, it is you interrupting me. Shoo! Shoo!”

Schneep stands up, pushing, pushing!, Jackie out of the room.

He slams the door shut.

Jackie takes a moment to process what just happened.

... Because what the fuck just happened?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

JJ cradles his photo album as he sits on his bed.

What happened? He and Schneep were close. Why did it all just... vanish?

He wipes his eyes, and shakes his head. He needs fresh air. Maybe that will help. Right? Maybe a nice breath of fresh air will give him some clarity, some clue as to what he did wrong...

He goes over to his window, opens it wide as possible, and leans out.

The bushes below rustle frantically.

“Jumping junipers!”

JJ startles away from the window, and then looks out again.

The bushes are still.

... Perhaps it was some kind of wild animal?

He leans out further, trying to get a better look-

...

Is that...

His eyes widen.

He rushes out of his room, bumping into an angry and perplexed Jackie. 

“I think there was someone watching me from the bushes!”

“Was it Anti?” Jackie immediately jumps to.

“I don’t think so! But I think their clothes ripped, I swear I’ve seen a piece of fabric in the bushes just after receiving a terrible fright!”

“Show me!”

JJ leads Jackie outside, and points out the bush.

Jackie crawls under, and...

Yes, there it is. A bit of bright-red fabric. Sock material, it looks like.

He scowls. “JJ, you’re sleeping in Marvin’s room tonight.”

JJ nods, and quickly head back into the house, no longer feeling safe.

Jackie gets out from under the bush.

He hates when he has to do lookouts over their house. It’s been months, no sign of Anti, and he’d started to hope those days of fear and vigilance could truly be put behind him.

Apparently not.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie crouches at the top of a tree, eyes on the house. 

He’s been like this for hours. He’ll be like this for hours more. It’s well into the night, and though his eyes ache, he’s trained himself to be able to keep watch for a full twenty-four hours if need be.

Every little shape, every shadow, ever sound, it’s all potential danger to his family. It keeps the blood pumping, keeps his heart racing. 

And then he sees it.

It’s dark out, so it’s little more than a shadow. But it’s not an animal, he can tell that much. Animals don’t wear baseball caps.

He quietly slips through the trees, getting closer.

The shadow moves quickly. Practiced. Jackie’s blood runs cold, and his temper flares.

How long has this person been stalking them? And why?

He keeps following, ready to drop-

... They’re... going right past JJ’s room, now.

He thought they’d take more pictures than that. That was, what, two? They’d set up a dummy JJ in there, it looks like JJ is asleep in his bed, so why...

...

They’ve got an envelope...

...

Schneep’s room?

He watches them take out some kind of flat... something, and slowly, carefully, wedge Schneep’s window open just enough that they can slip the envelope through.

Jackie’s heart drops.

He climbs out of the tree, and grabs the person by the back of their shirt, yanking them away from the window as harshly as he can.

They yelp.

Schneep’s light comes on.

“Who the fuck are you?!” Jackie barks.

Schneep opens his window, and his eyes go wide.

“Answer me!” Jackie demands.

Marvin’s light goes on as well, and JJ’s head pops out of the window. His hands fly up to his mouth, and he rushes to Schneep’s room. Marvin and Chase follwo right behind.

“Let go of me!” the person says. “I’m fucking armed!”

“With what? This?” Marvin holds up a gun. 

The person’s face falls with fear.

“Thought so.”

“Chase, what’s in the envelope?” Jackie says, not taking his eyes off of the stalker.

Chase rips it open, and his eyes widen in horror. JJ takes a step back. Schneep is near tears.

Photos. Photos of Schneep sobbing, of JJ sobbing, JJ begging Schneep to speak to him...

“Is this why?” JJ signs, hands trembling.

Jackie is livid. “Why?” he growls.

The person looks at him, and realizes there’s no way out of this.

“Your hack of a brother killed mine,” the person says, spitting as they speak. “My brother trusted this idiot to save his life, and he died! So-”

“So if you couldn’t talk to your brother, Schneep couldn’t talk to his?” Chase  interrupts, digging through Schneep’s desk. He waves a little piece of paper, angry words scribbled in it’s lines. “Good evidence collecting, bro.”

“What kind of sick, twisted logic is that?” Marvin says, snarling. 

“It’s justice!” the person snaps.

“No, it isn’t,” Jackie says coldly. “But you’re sure as fuck going to find that out soon.”

“What does that-”

“Marv, knock him out.”

Blue and green magic shoots into the person’s skull, and they’re out like a light.

“You-” Jackie says, pointing at Schneep, “-should have fuckin’ told us what was going on.”

“I could not risk,” Schneep says, wiping his eyes. “Not JJ. He is out so often, and I could not warn him what to watch out for without knowing who this was...”

JJ cuts Schneep off by wrapping him in a hug.

“You thought you were protecting me, and I can hold no ill will against you for that. I’m just glad to know it wasn’t animosity, or something I-”

“You are my brother,” Schneep says, hugging JJ back tightly, “I would never wish to hurt you or let you be hurt! I am sorry, for all of these last weeks.”

“I accept.”

 The hug lasts a long time. 

They’re both just glad to have each other back.

[let-it-raines]

Okay, now I know you're accepting prompts for the CMIYC verse, expect a whole lot of them coming from me 😂I'd LOVE to see Emma finding out she's pregnant, and her telling Killian, and just their whole journey through her pregnancy!

This isn’t going to cover everything you asked for @dorisquinn but I’ve got 2/3. You can send me all of the prompts you want. Honestly, seeing your enthusiasm as well as the enthusiasm of others to still want parts of this universe makes me so happy! You guys should see the timeline I just mapped out to make sure everything stays cohesive because I’ve got some more extras to write for you guys 🙈

found on ao3 | here |

-/-

March 2022.

“These boxes are never going to get unpacked.”

“We could have hired someone, you know.”

“I’m not even working full-time right now. There’s no need for us to have hired someone when all I’m doing is sitting at home.”

“You go to meetings…on occasion.”

“I have a meeting tomorrow. Stop making that look on your face, twenty-nine.”

“There’s not a look on my face, besides a handsome one.”

Emma huffs and falls back against the wall, sinking down onto the ground and pulling her knees to her chest. They should have moved as soon as last season ended. It would have given them more time to unpack the ridiculous amount of stuff they somehow accumulated over the past three years, but there was a problem with the closing and then the plumbing, and they officially signed for this place two weeks into spring training. Killian had to fly back from Florida for the paperwork, spent one night in the house with her where all they had was their bed set up, and then he went straight back to the hell that is Florida humidity.

At least they’re not there for months at a time in the summer. Everyone would die. It’s bad enough when they’re in Tampa for a few days at a time.

(Then again, humidity in New York in the summer is no joke.)

She could have flown down and stayed with him, already has for a few days here and there, but they need to get settled before the season starts and things get insane. Things are really never not insane, but there are definitely periods where there is a little more peace.

Off-season is undoubtedly her favorite season.

She loves baseball and the game and working almost every day, but having Killian home for months at a time and being able to sleep in their own bed instead of a hotel bed is so much better than anything else.

Emma definitely wants the off-season back.

And this house to be unpacked.

One of those things is more likely to happen than the other, and it’s not the house getting unpacked.

“I miss you,” Emma whispers into the phone.

“I miss you, love. You know you can fly down anytime, right? There’s nothing keeping you there. It’s been less than a week, but I miss you terribly.”

She flips the camera around to all of the boxes. “I don’t want to be living in chaos. I want, like, some kind of organization. I told myself that when I left my room key with you that I would not be flying back to Florida. I have to get this place functional.”“I know we’ve been married for nearly a year, love, but I don’t think you should be turning into me quite this quickly with all of that talk of organization.”“Technically, as far as everyone else knows, we’re only nine months into this whole marriage thing, so that’s not quite a year.”

“Specifics.”“Ruby was over here yesterday helping me unpack and found the pictures from the clerk’s office. I’m pretty sure she figured us out.”“I think David has known for awhile now.”“Why do you think that?”

“Just a hunch.”Emma groans and scoots further down on the floor. “If David knew, he would have said something.”“Aye, you’re likely right.” Killian smiles, his face slightly pixilated. “Come see me this weekend, Swan. I know you said no more flights, but maybe just the one more. I’ll take you to dinner. Wine and dine you and all that.”“I think there’s a third part of that proposition.”

Killian gasps and holds his hand to his chest. “Dirty.”

“You know it, twenty-nine.”

“I think you mean sixty-nine.”

“Oh my God.”

Killian chuckles and pushes his hair back. It’s too long again. He hasn’t gotten it cut in months, and as handsome as he looks, she’s desperately waiting for him to get it cut. Suggesting it hasn’t really worked out well for her, but if he likes it long, he likes it long. It’s not like she’d appreciate it if he told her to shave her legs or something like that.

“I’ve got to go to workouts, but I’ll call you again tonight, yeah?”

“I look forward to it. I love you.”“And I you, my love.”

The video lingers for a moment, and then it disconnects, only the memory of Killian’s smile there.

She misses him like crazy. It’s ridiculous and stupid and kind of annoying. Maybe she should go down and see him this weekend. It’s not like she has this weekend. Spring training is almost over, and she could wait it out. She really could. That’s what she’s told herself she’ll do, but should she if she doesn’t have to? Maybe if she gets enough boxes unpacked.

Hell, maybe she should just cave and hire people to do it for her, but she put up such a dumb fight when Killian suggested it that she doesn’t want to admit to failure now. Not that he’d ever truly judge her for it.

Okay. He’d judge her a little bit.

Her phone buzzes in her hand.

Elsa: You planning on letting me in?

Shit. The doorbell didn’t sound, and Emma didn’t hear a knock at the door. Quickly, she stands from the ground and kicks a box to the side before hurrying down two sets of stairs to get to the front door. She loves having more space than the apartment, but she doesn’t love all of the stairs. At least, right now. Soon she’ll hopefully kick ass at being able to walk up and down them quickly.

Hopefully her ass will look fantastic because of it too.

Damn Manhattan and its lack of space.

“Hey,” Emma greets after unlocking the front door. “Did you ring the doorbell?”

“I did.”

“Well shit.” Emma leans forward and wraps her arms around Elsa. “I guess our doorbell is broken too. Do you know anything about electrical work?”

“I know how to hook up our cable, but that’s about it.”

“Then what good are you to me?”

“I bring you donuts.”

“Bless you.”

“I know.” Elsa steps inside, closing the door behind her, and immediately walks toward the kitchen where she puts down the bag of donuts she’s carrying and then immediately starts looking around the room. “Have you unpacked any of the kitchen?”

“A few things. Mostly things I use. It’s all Killian’s, and he hasn’t really been here to tell me where to put anything. I don’t know his system as well as I should.”

“Do you have silverware out? Plates and bowls?”

“I have a few things but not all of it.”

Elsa sighs and pulls her shorts up and then adjusts her t-shirt. She took the day off to help Emma unpack, and, really, she should be lounging around watching TV or something. “I don’t mean to go all mom on you, but grab a donut. We’re about to unpack your kitchen. Then we move to your bedroom and your closet so you can at least function. Everything else will come later.”

“As long as I get a donut, this all sounds good to me.”

“You can have another if you finish this room.”

“I’m good with a bribe.”

“Incentive. It makes it sound less dirty.”

Emma laughs. “Deal.”

Elsa is some kind of unpacking machine. It’s actually ridiculous. She knows exactly how to store everything in their cabinets and the pantry, and while Emma is sure Killian will rearrange it all when he realizes it’s not to his specifications, after three hours, they have all of the kitchen boxes emptied. It’s practically a miracle, and Emma didn’t even need an extra donut to make her do the work.

(An extra donut is sounding really good right now, though. Elsa got the good kind.)

All she really needed was Elsa. If they had Anna here, though, Emma imagines the entire house would be finished by now. Well, if Anna wasn’t eight months pregnant. Mary Margaret would probably be the better choice, but she’s got a class full of third-graders to attend to. Ruby, however, would bring everything to a halt because she’d get distracted by the things she was unpacking.

They move upstairs and back to the bedroom after they’re finished in kitchen, and Elsa sticks to the bedroom while Emma works in the closet. She’s got some of her clothes up, mostly her workout stuff, and even though their stuff is boxed in a way that should make it easy to hang up several things at once, Emma keeps getting distracted trying to organize it in a way that’s not something she’s going to sustain.

Seriously. Who is organized enough to keep things sorted by color?

Killian. Killian is. He organizes his freaking t-shirts by how old they are.

The weirdo.

Emma finally decides to just do it by type of clothing, and after she’s gotten all of her dresses on the racks, she decides that she needs some kind of break. She did not sleep last night, and no amount of coffee could wake her up.

Has she even had coffee today?

Or maybe she’s simply bored by having to unpack. That’s a lot of the same thing over and over again, and all Emma really wants to be doing is watching Netflix.

Slowly, she slides back down to the ground and pulls out her phone again, answering her texts and then clicking on Instagram to move away the notifications. It’s all stuff Killian has tagged her in, and she quickly moves through the videos and memes before clicking on his page. It’s been mostly baseball lately, pictures of him, Will, and Robin, but if she scrolls a little further back, there are pictures of Liam and Elsa or Addy and Lucy. And then there are pictures of her. She mostly uses social media for work, but she does like to get on and see what Killian has posted. It’s usually something she’s never seen, and there are at least ten pictures on here that she had no idea were taken.

There’s one in particular that she likes the most. It’s from last November. They were in Portland for Thanksgiving sitting on the swing in Ruth’s backyard, and Killian snapped a photo of her drinking coffee, the sun glinting off of her skin in just the right way so that she looked tanner than she actually was.

My love forever, the caption reads.

That day had been…hard. It had been fucking awful, actually, but Killian had wrapped his arms around her and held her until it wasn’t so awful.

That’s what he does. He makes awful days feel that little bit better simply by being there.

She likes that, likes that she has that forever now.

My love forever.

She has had that love for awhile with David and Ruth, with her friends too, and while she doesn’t like to put some relationships over others, Killian does get the slightest elevation.

It’s good to have all that love. It’s healthy, and if someone asked her twenty years ago if she’d ever have any of this, she would have laughed in their face.

She can’t stop staring at the photo and all of the memories behind it. She had been so sure that morning, and it wasn’t…she wasn’t.

“Hey, Emma, do you have – woah, what’s wrong?”

“What?” Emma sniffles, wiping below her eyes. “What makes you think something is wrong?”

“You’re sitting on the floor sniffling and wiping your eyes. Those are pretty big clues.”

Emma scoffs. “I’m fine.”“You’re a liar.”“Els, I’m fine.”

“I believe you about as much as I believe Killian when he says that.” Elsa walks over to her to and slides down onto the floor next to her, kicking away a shoe and grabbing onto Emma’s forearm. “You want to talk about whatever it is? You know you don’t have to, but I’m a good listener. I couldn’t be married to Liam if I wasn’t.”

“Liam does talk a lot.”

“I think it’s a Jones family trait.”

“I think I might be pregnant.”

She might have that trait too for the way she just blurted that out.

Elsa gasps, and Emma braces herself for it just like she braces herself for it every time this conversation comes up. She’s the one who brought it up this time, but it was kind of inevitable when this is honestly all she’s been thinking about for two days now.

For a little more than two days if she’s totally honest.

“I didn’t…I’m not,” Emma stutters, trying to continue talking before she shuts herself up, “I never thought I would be someone who wanted a baby. I thought I was going to be alone for so much of my life, so when Killian and I decided to try and kept having these negative tests, I don’t know. I, well, it sucks, and it’s been really damn hard. It hasn’t even been a long time, and we’re still so young. I probably shouldn’t even complain because I know it’s harder for other people. It’s just that a part of me feels like I’ve gotten so much good in my life I was never supposed to get. What if this is the thing I don’t get? What if I have this feeling in my gut now because it’s some kind of sign that I should give up before my hopes get too high?”

“Oh, darling,” Elsa sighs as she wraps her arm around Emma’s back and pulls her toward her, rubbing her hand up and down her arm, “you can’t think like that. The world doesn’t give you a certain amount of good and then just stop. You can have more good than you think you deserve. I do. And that feeling of helplessness when it comes to getting pregnant and it not working as fast as you want? I’ve had that too. It’s what happened with Lucy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe Addison was going to be it for us, and we were like you two. We hadn’t been trying for a long time, but it could still feel hopeless when Addison was so easy. Getting pregnant is hard, and unless you talk to others like this, there’s no way you’d know. All you’d see is the happy announcements and the smiles.”

Emma turns her head into Elsa’s shoulder. It’s a good thing she’s not wearing mascara because she’d totally ruin Elsa’s t-shirt.

“So I’m not some kind of freak show for sitting in my closet freaking out about this?”

“Emma, having a baby, or even the possibility of it, is the most terrifying thing in the world. If you weren’t having meltdowns, I’d be concerned about you.”

“This is so not in my wheelhouse,” Emma mumbles. “I talk for a living, talking about this is…different.”

“Baseballs and babies aren’t exactly in the same category.”

“They are on Family Day.”“Yeah, well, you know what I mean.”

Emma huffs and pulls away from Elsa, leaning her head back against the wall. “This closet is still such a mess. My shoes are everywhere.”

“Oh, I know. I think I’m going to need to borrow those wedges that are caught up underneath the pile of Killian’s jerseys.”

“They are yours to borrow.”

“Not to keep?”

“Nah, I like them too much for that.”

Elsa laughs and twists on the ground until she’s facing Emma, small smile on her face. “You’re going to be okay. You and Killian both. And if you ever need to talk, Liam and I are always here. Anna too.”

“Anna is eight months pregnant with twins. All she does is warn people against getting pregnant. I don’t think she’s ever going to have sex again.”

“Can you blame her?”

“Absolutely not.”

Elsa claps her hands together. “Okay, let’s conquer this closet, and then I’m taking you home with me for dinner so you’re not left in this house stalking your husband’s Instagram.”

“I was not doing that.”

“You totally were. I could see it on your screen when I walked in.”

“I’m taking away your shoe privileges.”

Elsa quickly gets up and runs over to the wedges, picking them up. “Nope. They’re mine now.”

-/-

She’s pregnant.

Or, at least, that’s what the three tests she took this morning said.

Emma had gone over to Liam and Elsa’s last night for dinner, and she’d forgotten about everything. She really had, and it had been nice not to think about it and to be able to know that her life was going to go on no matter what. She knew that. Logically, she did. Her life is not defined by what a pregnancy test says, but when it’s what you want…

When it’s what she and Killian want.

And they might get now.

Oh shit. She is not ready to give birth.

That’s not even happening right now, or in the near future, but it’s going to happen. Emma’s pretty sure it’s some kind of torture device designed to make being a woman even more difficult, but she’s got to stop thinking of that right now.

What she’s got to start thinking about is the fact that she’s in New York while Killian is in Florida.

Florida.

Shit. She’s got to book a flight to Florida.

She said she wasn’t going to do it, but that was before she knew for sure.

That was before.

Where the hell is her neck pillow?

Emma gets off the rim of the tub and walks into the bedroom, grabbing her laptop off the charger and stretching out on the bed while trying to find the next flight. There are a few this afternoon, but she’s got meetings she can’t cancel. There’s one she might be able to make around seven, though, and she quickly enters her information and books a one-way ticket.

She’s never been so excited to go to Florida.

-/-

“Can I get an extra key to room 835?”

“And your name is?”

“Emma Jones.”

The receptionist starts typing on her keyboard, looking up at Emma and then looking back at her computer, her brows furrowed. “I’m sorry. There’s not an Emma Jones in that room.”

“I know. It’s my husband’s room. It’s under his name. Killian Jones. It should be under the block of rooms for the Yankees.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a key to that room. It’s our policy, especially when it comes to our VIP guests in our suites. It’s for their safety.”

Emma has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. She’s exhausted. It’s been a long ass day, she sat next to someone who snored the entire flight down here, and all she wants to do is see Killian. Why the hell did she leave her key with Killian last week?

Oh, yeah, because she wasn’t supposed to come back.

“If I was some kind of stalker, how would I know his room number?”

“You would be surprised what people know.”

She sighs and pulls out her phone, clicking on Ariel’s name.

“Emma?”

“Ariel, can you get me an extra key to Killian’s room?”

“Are you here?” Ariel squeals before quieting. “Wait.” There’s a mumble and then the sound of a chair squeaking before Ariel’s voice comes back into focus. “Sorry. We’re out at dinner, and I had to move away from the table. This is a surprise, right?”

“Mhm.”

“That is literally the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You need to hear more things.”

“Oh, hush. I’ll call the front desk. We’ve got to be back soon anyways because I have to relieve the babysitter for Morgan, so it won’t be too long.”

“That sounds perfect. I’ll probably see you tomorrow, okay?”

“I can’t wait, and I promise that my lips are sealed.”

They hang up, and the front desk’s phone immediately rings. The receptionist nods and smiles and is completely and totally nice to Ariel, typing in a few things on her computer as she avoids eye contact with Emma. Then the conversation is over and Emma is being handed a card.

“This works for both the elevator and the room. Have a nice night, Mrs. Jones.”

“Thanks,” Emma says, forcing a smile. She knows the woman was just doing her job, but it doesn’t keep her from being annoyed. She’s not about to be pissy with her though. “Have a good night.”

Grabbing her luggage, she maneuvers out of the lobby and to the elevator. She knows this hotel better than any other hotel in the country from how much she’s stayed here, and she easily makes her way up to Killian’s room, sliding the card in the door and sighing in relief that the clerk actually gave her a key that worked. She was worried that she wouldn’t.

Killian’s suite is clean, and Emma knows it’s not just because of housekeeping. The man is so damn particular about everything, and even though all she wants to do is curl up in bed and go to sleep, she opens up her suitcase and starts putting her few clothes away, making sure not to mess with any of Killian’s stuff. It’s what he would end up doing later anyways, and if she does it now, it’ll be one less thing he’ll have to focus on.

How the hell is she supposed to tell him that she’s pregnant?

That’s something she should have focused on for the flight down here, but all she could think about was how much she wanted to murder the man who was snoring next to her.

She’s going to be great at the whole getting no sleep thing.

Did she really want this? Did they? Are they crazy? What drives someone to want to have a baby? Yeah, they’re cute, but then they grow up and yell at you for telling them not to eat straight sugar for dinner. And she didn’t have parents. Well, she has Ruth, but she didn’t have Ruth for fifteen years. Killian’s mom died, and his dad is a piece of shit. What do either of them know about babies and being parents?

What do either of them know about kids in general?

Well, they do have nieces and nephews and friends with kids. Hell, their friends have had so many kids. It’s like in the past two years all anyone has done is pop a kid out and –

The door to the suite beeps, and Emma doesn’t even realize she’s been pacing for a long time until Killian’s standing right in front of her blinking with his mouth wide open.

“Hi,” Emma squeaks out.

It’s official. She is not herself today.

“Fucking hell,” Killian mumbles.

“Well, that’s always the greeting a girl – ”

Killian strides forward and cups her cheeks before pulling her to him with his mouth, sucking on her bottom lip before he starts moving and can’t seem to stop. It’s been less than a week. That’s all. It hasn’t even been that long since they’ve been apart. They make it a point to never go more than nine days, but she’s missed him more than she ever has.

Melodramatic and all that.

“What,” he starts, still kissing her, “are,” he continues as his lips move to her jaw, “you,” he sighs against her cheek, “doing,” he whispers against her eyelid, “here?” he finishes as his lips find hers once more while their foreheads rest against each other.

“I really missed Scarlet.”

Killian tilts his head back and barks out a laugh as his hands move from her cheeks to her biceps, squeezing them. Her stomach is absolutely swirling.

“God, I love you. You’re – ” He shakes his head, and his eyes crinkle. He’s gotten darker during training, and there’s the slightest tan line from where he’ll wear his hat backwards during pitching drills outside.

“I’m what?”

“Well, if I were to list all of the things you are, I imagine we’d be standing here forever.”

Emma scoffs and pushes at his chest before moving closer once more so she can wrap her arms around his neck. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“Charming? I believe I was born this way.”

It’s Emma’s turn to shake her head at him. She presses up on her toes and lingers until her breath is ghosting over his mouth. “I love you, twenty-nine.”

“Good. I love you, Swan.”

She finally kisses him then, and Killian slowly backs her up to the bed until she’s falling down on top of it. All thoughts leave her mind as his lips and his hands move over her, and they truly disappear when his mouth is between her thighs and all she can think is how damn good that feels. It almost always does, like some kind of magic that’s bottled between the two of them, and even when it’s not good, Emma knows that there’s no one she’d rather get lockjaw or really unfortunate cramps with.

And weirdly, as Killian swivels his hips and hits just the right rhythm, she knows that no matter how much she’s freaking out about everything, the two of them have got this.

“Did you know the front-desk clerk thought I was a stalker?” Emma asks later. They haven’t changed back into any clothes, and Emma can’t seem to stop twirling Killian’s chest hair around her fingers while his hand dances across her back, tracing familiar words there.

“Really now?”

“Mhm. I tried to get a room key, and she refused to give me one.”

“Ah, well, I have been having an influx of stalkers lately. It must be my devilishly good looks.”

“You’re never lacking in confidence, are you? Even when it comes to joking about something that’s not funny.”

“You would know more than anyone how that isn’t true.”

Emma leans down to kiss his chest before resting her chin there. The air conditioner clicks on, and a cold rush of air runs over Emma’s bare skin. Killian tugs the comforter up over a little more of her back, and they sit in silence as Emma starts counting how fast her heart is beating. If she doesn’t tell him tonight, she won’t sleep. It’ll eat at her until the morning, and with how exhausted she is from not sleeping two nights in a row, she really can’t afford another night without sleep.

She also hasn’t had coffee in days. That has sucked.

“Killian, I – ”

She stops when his finger traces her name into her back. “What is it, love?”

“Nothing,” Emma begins, even if she knows it’s everything. “It’s just…Killian, I’m pregnant.”

For the rest of her life she’ll remember that Killian stopped blinking for a few seconds too long. She’ll remember that his eyes are slightly red-rimmed from his own lack of sleep, and she’ll remember the way that slowly but surely his lips curl from a small smile to one of the brightest she’s ever seen from him.

“Are you? For real? I’m not imagining this conversation?”

Emma inhales and nods. “I think so. I wouldn’t be far along. Like, at all, so anything could happen. But my period is late, and I took, like, three tests this morning that were positive. Peeing on a stick never feels normal.”

Killian chuckles as his free hand comes around to tuck her hair behind her ear. He’s so gentle like that, and she doesn’t know what she did to deserve him. He can be hot-headed and impatient and ready to act on his anger instead of thinking it through, but at his core, Killian Jones is a good man.

“Aye, I imagine not.”

He leans down to glide his lips over hers, and even if Emma had imagined what it would be like to tell Killian they better start reading all of those books so they have some clue what they’re doing, she knows none of it would be better than this.

Calm and content and like they were always supposed to end up here.

“I love you, Swan,” Killian whispers as his hand shifts from her back to her stomach. “I don’t – thank you for being by my side for all of this.”“Always, twenty-nine. Always.”

-/-

-/-

Tag list: @bluewildcatfanatic​ @killianswannn @dorisquinn​ @onepunintendid​ @authorarsinoe​ @stunningswan​ @eala-captian @galaxyzxstark @xellewoods @mariakov81 @ultraluckycatnd @royalswan @shey-starsfury​ @superchocovian​ @sals86 @iam2307 @ashley-knightingale @karenfrommisthaven @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @notoriouscs @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog​ @cs-forlife @andiirivera @jonirobinson64 @qualitycoffeethings​ @carpedzem​ @tornadoamy​ ​

[ufonaut]

prompt; Jordan recruiting Sportsmaster for the ISA, maybe by popping up/helping Larry out on the tail-end of a mission he found out about? Bonus: Larry flirts more and more aggressively with an initially oblivious Jordan maybe culminating in ~something sexyyy~??

very very early isa flashback

---

In-between Gotham’s gargoyles and a darkened sky, Green Lantern strikes an intimidating figure. The green fire that surrounds him throws bizarre, flickering shadows and smells strongly of ozone, near-suffocating in an immediate vicinity. Bathed in this otherworldly light, Jordan understands why he’s never stepped this close before. Green Lantern’s just a man, he thinks and finds it very difficult to accept it.

For one thing, no one’s that big. The Lantern is blond -- exceedingly so, not unlike Jordan himself -- and even in flight, gives off the distinct impression of towering over both friends and foes. Jordan’s read about Green Lantern in his father’s meticulous files long before he’d ever thought to follow in his footsteps, it all pales in comparison to the truth. It’s hard to look away and yet, Jordan does precisely that the minute a baseball explodes squarely in Lantern’s face; three more follow in quick succession, all impeccably aimed. This, right here, is what he came for. Membership drives aren’t exactly easy when you’re trying to revive the Injustice Society of America. Lawrence ‘Crusher’ Crock, aka Sportsmaster, is the man Jordan’s looking for.

The mugshots and the sparse details Jordan has already gone over a dozen times do very little to capture the manic glee in Sportsmaster’s laugh or the electric blue of his eyes framed by a blood-stained hockey mask. The sight, quite frankly, leaves Jordan breathless. The detour to Gotham, the aimless nights spent looking for any traces of Green Lantern and his most infamous adversary, it’s all been worth it in the end.

All at once, the dream seems within reach, no longer the late-night ramblings addressed to a Henry preoccupied by textbooks. Jordan, at this first glance, finds Sportsmaster capable of the impossible.

It’s in the eyes.

Green Lantern goes down with a thud, knocked over by a well-placed bat. Vaguely recalling a case the local newspapers had dubbed Made of Wood as a reference to the hero’s weakness, Jordan springs into action. He abandons his vantage point in favour of the field, not often frequented before tonight, and lets himself freeze, sinks into the familiarity of ice spreading and cracking along his skin, uses it to steady his nerves. It’s then, at last, Jordan shoots a wave of cold from his fingertips and traps Green Lantern in a block of ice, extinguishing his fire in the process. It’s startlingly easy. Jordan’s trained himself not to expect easy, he gets lost in the sudden cheer Sportsmaster gives all the same.

“Alright, Icy! Alright!” Sportsmaster laughs, worryingly close. Right behind Jordan, as fate would have it. Underneath the smell of sweat, there’s a metallic tang of blood, very nearly tangible. It’s not unpleasant -- concerning in itself.

Jordan smiles, barely drives down the exhilaration rising in his chest. Company in this form is rare, compliments even rarer. Both he and Henry tend towards the quick and silent, they’re yet to master the art of monologues as Sportsmaster supposedly has. He’d be a welcome addition to their little team, these first stirrings of an ISA renaissance, and Jordan’s about to turn and say that much when the very same baseball bat that had brought down Green Lantern is unceremoniously shoved between his shoulder blades. He, too, ends up down on his knees.

“Now, Frosty, I’d love to know why you’re stealin’ my target,” Sportsmaster says and if there’s any amusement left, it’s certainly turned mocking. “Me an’ Green Latrine here? We’ve got history and it sure as hell ain’t amateur hour, pal. You better start talking.”

Two things happen simultaneously, neither of which Jordan is particularly fond of. The first, and more regrettable one, is the abrupt shock of warmth in his gut at the realisation that a slight miscalculation might’ve intervened -- he’s in over his head, it does little to explain the way his breathing picks up, chilly and visible in the night air. The second, equally acute matter is that the moment Jordan’s flow of cold had stopped, Green Lantern’s started melting through the ice. Too easy, indeed. It’s unsurprising, especially when it comes to a man who spends very little time not actively on fire.

“I was trying to help,” Jordan manages, quiet. He keeps perfectly still, afraid he’s compromised an already unstable pitch. Distantly, he registers the heat emanating off Sportsmaster, the way the ground’s frozen underneath his own legs. “I’m-- I’m putting together a team. I’m Icicle and so far, it’s just me and Brainwave but we’ve got a plan to change the--”

Project: New America, a name that’s only come into existence in the past week, is momentarily cast aside when Sportsmaster smashes the wooden bat over Green Lantern’s head before he’s got a chance to finalise his escape and appears to thoroughly knock him out. Jordan cringes at the sound and discovers that, somewhere along the line, he’s put his hands up. He lowers them in embarrassment.

“Look what you made me do! Don’tcha know I like to play with my prey, Icy?” Sportsmaster shakes his head and kicks at Green Lantern’s unconscious form. “Where’s the fun in this?”

“The Injustice Society of America would be fun,” Jordan says, picking himself up, though he can’t honestly attest to how true that is. Henry enjoys Scrabble, sometimes. It’s not everyone’s definition of fun. “Look, we could really use a guy like you on the team. We want to change the world.”

“What, you’re fightin’ for injustice?”

“No, against.” To Jordan, it’s obvious. “The JSA has made no difference in the world because they’re afraid of real change, real power. I’ve got a plan.”

Sportsmaster tilts his head, though Jordan would bet good money on a grin underneath the mask. He does laugh, whole body shaking with it like he really means it, like it’s real and surely no less unhinged than before. Ultimately, he thrown an arm around Jordan’s shoulders, pulls him in close and tight. “Hah, that’s the first time I’ve heard that one. No, really, it is! You doin’ anything tonight, bud?”

To his credit, Jordan glances at Green Lantern. “No?”

“Great! I know I am,” Sportsmaster says and winks. “And hey, friends call me Crusher.”

And there it is. Mission accomplished.

Jordan hopes.

[nessywinchester]

Crashed Into You

Sam Winchester x Reader

Warnings: none.

Word Count: 1,765

Note from Nessy: Feedback is appreciated. I’m new at this. Thanks!

The warm sunlight felt like heaven against your skin. It was the first warm day of spring, and that gave the perfect excuse to bring Baz out to the park. He had been itching to run around off leash and fetch his favorite tennis ball for months now, but it had just been too damn cold. It had even snowed two weeks before. Now that it was finally sunny, it was time to take advantage of it.

You drove out to the largest park in the city hoping that it wouldn’t be too crowded. The moment you opened your car door, Baz launched onto the dew-dampened grass and straight for the open space. Several groups of children scurried around the various playgrounds the encompassed the large park. It was like the place came to life again.

“Baz!” you shouted as you chased after him. “Baz, get back here!” But, your rambunctious Golden Retriever galloped further away, leaving you struggling for air in his wake. You picked up your speed, ignoring your aching legs as Baz approached a concrete path filled with joggers. Oh, crap. He was going to end up colliding with someone.

And, the moment you finished your thought, that is exactly what happened. You cringed as you watched Baz smash straight into the knees of a tall jogger, sending him plummeting to the concrete below.

“Baz! Oh, shit. I’m so sorry!” you squealed as you approached the scene. After Baz had knocked over the man, he had spun back around to attack his poor victim with slobbery kisses. Typical Baz.

Baz barked and climbed all over the man, who was… laughing? He was laughing. That collision much have hurt like hell, and he was laughing. Well, at least he wasn’t screaming.

You knelt down beside the man and gripped Baz’s collar, finally wrangling him off the poor guy. “I’m so sorry, sir. He’s still a giant puppy. He’ll only eleven months old and has absolutely no manners.” You grit your teeth as you waited for the man to answer. He turned towards you, his caramel hazel gaze instantly knocking the breath out of you. Wow.

He chuckled. “Please, don’t be sorry. I think this is the best jogging accident I’ve ever had.” The man reached out and patted your crazy mutt’s head. Baz slowly calmed down, but his tail was still flailing back and forth. “He’s adorable.”

“Thanks. He’s still in training. He hasn’t been able to get it energy out because of the weather. Today is his first time at the park for a while now.” You chuckled, latching Baz’s leash back onto his collar. “I won’t keep you.” You turned away, trying your hardest not to stare at his gorgeous cinnamon auburn locks that fell over his chiseled face. This guy was really handsome, and super tall. Just your type.

No, Y/N. Your dog just ran him over. You can’t think like that.

“Don’t worry about it.” The man lifted himself back onto his feet, wiping his mildly scraped knees. “I wanted to properly introduce myself to this handsome fellow, if that’s alright with you?”

“Uh,” you stuttered, surprised by the man’s easy-going demeanor. “Sure. As you can tell, he’s friendly. He’s just a big oaf.” The man smiled and he leaned down and offered a hand for Baz to sniff.

“What’s his name?”

“Baz. Short for Basilton. He’s named after a book character,” you rambled on. The man nodded, shooting his gaze over to you for a moment, then back to the overly excited dog.

“Well, Baz, my name is Sam. It’s a pleasure running into you,” he giggled. Then, he turned to you, straightening. Man, he really was tall. And tan. And toned. No.You can’t think like that about total strangers.

You reached into your small tote bag and grabbed one of Baz’s tennis balls. The moment he caught a glimpse of it, he turned to you, nearly jumping out of his fur.

“Ready buddy?” you asked you best friend. He barked, ready to launch after the toy. You shook it for a second, then threw it as far as you could towards the grass. “Go get it!”

Baz galloped after the ball, dodging several kids as they chased each other. Then, you turned back to Sam.

“It was nice to meet you Sam. I’m sorry my dog ran you over,” you laughed.

“Don’t be sorry. I needed to take a break.” He shook his water bottle. “I always forget to pace myself.” He smiled, forcing you to smile along with him. There was something comforting about Sam’s presence. He was soft, warm, and incredibly handsome.

Baz sprinted back towards you, his tennis ball gripped firmly in his jaw. He trotted over to you, then turned to Sam, before dropping the ball at his feet. You stared at your dog for a moment before laughing.

“Looks like I’ve made a new friend,” Sam teased. “I’ll throw it, but I’m no baseball player. It won’t go as far as your owner, here.” Sam turned to you. “I never caught your name.” You raised an eyebrow as your cheeks flushed.

“Uh, Y/N. I’m Y/N.” You stared at the man who smiled, then threw the ball towards the same area you had.

“Pleasure to meet you, Y/N. And Baz.” He rolled his shoulders. “Do you mind if I join you and Baz? If not, it’s fine. I don’t want to intrude on your quality time.” You giggled.

“Quality time? I live with that bozo. This is just a good way to get that crazy puppy energy out so he’ll sleep for a day or two.” You laughed as Baz dropped his ball at your feet, then stomped in anticipation.

“He sounds like a handful,” Sam noted as he followed you towards the grassy area. Baz was right on his heels, bouncing all over the place.

“Yeah, he can be. But, he’s getting better as he’s getting older. Once he gets a little mellower, I’m planning to have him trained to be a therapy dog part-time. You know, one that visits kids and sick people in hospitals? Usually you start training them as puppies, but he had too much energy for the program.” You smiled as your boy jogged back. “I think in about six months, he’ll be ready. He’s smart.”

“He seems like it.” Sam accepted the ball from Baz, who wagged his tail like he was playing with an old friend. “I bet he’ll be great.”

“So, what do you do Sam?” you inquired in an awkward attempt to make small talk. He hesitated, making you step back half a step.

“I, uh, work with my brother. We, uh, work in the family business.”

“What business?” You raised an eyebrow. He pursed his lips.

“Investigation, of sorts.” He shifted awkwardly, then threw the ball again.

“Like a private eye?” You didn’t understand why he was being to elusive. Was he an undercover cop? Or a government man?

Was he a hunter?

No. What were the odds of a handsome man you just happenedto run into being a hunter? Although, you had heard of a few brother duos out there. Unfortunately, hunters were becoming fewer and farther between these days.

“Something like that, he answered. Our dad taught us everything we know.” He turned towards you, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “What about you, Y/N? Do you work with animals?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m kind of in a family business to. My mom trained me to take on what she did before she decided to retire. Although, no hunter really retires—” You snapped your mouth shut at your words.Shit, shit, shit.You did notjust say hunter. Maybe he wouldn’t know what you were saying. Maybe you could say that you were a hunting guide. In Kansas? No, that wouldn’t fly.

Shit.

“Hunter?” His eyes were saucers as he stared down at you. Baz sat just in front of your feet, patiently waiting for you to throw the ball. But, you couldn’t move. Did he know what you meant?

“Uh, yeah—”

“So, you must have known Bobby.” He folded his arms. He seemed more relaxed about the new information than you were about sharing it. Then, you snapped your gaze towards him. What did he just say?

“Wait, Bobby Singer? Uh, yeah. He got my mom out of a few pickles in the past, and vice versa.” You stared up at this man in shock. Then, a grin curled over your lips. “Private investigator, huh?”

“You caught me.” He shrugged, then gently eased the tennis ball out of your hands. “I didn’t know there were other hunters in Lebanon.”

You nodded. “I moved here a few years ago from Grand Island, Nebraska. My mom moved out here to be closer to a hunter friend, and we just stayed in the area.”

Sam nodded, throwing the ball again. Baz seemed to be getting tired, which disappointed you. You wanted to ask Sam more questions now. Did he know your hunter friends? How long had he been hunting? He didn’t look like a hunter. He looked like a damn fitness model.

“Hey, how about we grab some coffee?” Sam blurted out as he stared down at your exhausted pooch. “Somewhere outside, where Baz can hang out with us.” Your stomach flipped. Was Sam, the gorgeous fitness model hunter asking you out to coffee? No. He was probably just wanting to get to know a fellow hunter.

“Uh, yeah. That sounds good.” You hooked up Baz’s leash to his collar, then turned towards the path. “As long as you’re not some sort of monster. Baz has taken down a few in his day. Oh, and he has quite the nose for sulfur.”

Sam laughed. “Nope, I’m just Sam Winchester.”

“Winchester?” you asked. You knew that name. Your mom had mentioned it a few times. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Most hunters have.”

“Cocky,” you joked. He shook his head frantically.

“No! I just mean that, well, my dad was really involved. My brother and I kind of are too. We have a lot of connections.” Sam raked his fingers through his hair.

“Well, I’d like to know how many connections we have in common, Mr. Winchester.” You chucked, patting Baz’s head. “It’s crazy that we ran into each other. I’m kind of glad we did.”

“You mean, that your dog ran into me?” You rolled your eyes and smiled.

“Yes, Sam. That’s what I mean.” He licked his lips and grinned.

“Yeah, I’m really glad he did too.”

[sian22redux]

Field of Dreams

Here we go!  No 2 in the fics I owe @nomadicpixel and @theycallmebecca.  Nomad asked for Steve and a relationship that is new and my brain said how about a little enemies to lovers everyone?  Not to worry it all works out in spectacularly happy fashion--but before that Y/N has a PR disaster to sort out and really, he’s a hard guy to forget, even if he is a little stubborn about Brooklyn. ^_^   

Part 1 of 2.  And obviously the tweets I’ve made and embedded here are not real, do not belong to any real account.  

---------

“Y/N have you seen this?”

Your harried Media VP, Stephanie, uncharacteristically dressed in a rumpled suit and no make-up, barges into your office, trailed by your harried looking PA.  It’s 7 am, mid-morning in LA, and you are jet-lagged; bleary eyed and something that passes for awake after two precious weeks at your New York research labs.  They were heaven, but now it’s back to routine, back to the long days that keep Fleur in Bloomberg’s list of Ones to Watch.

“What is it?” you ask, setting your latte down and rising to your feet just as the pair screech to a halt just before your desk.

From the look of things ‘routine’ will not be today’s best adjective.  Steph, a night-owl through and through, is never here this early.  Her face is flushed and her eyes red as she waves a piece of paper covered with a screen print in your direction.   “It’s a mess is what it is.  And how you should respond I have no idea.”      

No idea?

 Steph can finagle her way out of PR jams that reduce grown men to tears.  “Respond to what?”  With a sense of doom you take the paper from her outstretched hand and quickly scan the contents.  

‘Not shoot O’Malley twice?  What the ever-loving hell?!  

Steve Rogers—THE Steve Rogers—finally gets a twitter account and the first tweet he sends six months later trashes the Dodgers baseball team?!

Your Dodgers.  

“Why is he @CapRogers?” you ask, more than a little stunned as Steph looks on.

Her face is pale and her fingers shake.  No coffee yet this morning.  Mary, your brilliantly practical PA, settles on priorities and quickly hands her a steaming cup.  “Captain America was already taken.”

Of course.  It’s his first ever tweet and the one he’s pinned and everyone has already followed him.  No way any soul on Planet Earth has missed this missile. You scan a few of the 50,000 comments. They range from the politely encouraging <welcome Cap!> to the crassly supportive <F*ckin A!> to the downright militant <Get your own team pal>  

Oh god.  What a perfectly shitty time for this.  Fleur’s new board are well pleased that its initial public offering has gone viral but are still a little wary. Six months of thirty-six hour days and you are secure beyond your wildest dreams: number 25 on Forbes’s Top Thirty under Thirty; lauded in all the trade reports for your business acumen; working hard to turn your chemistry degree to more ground-breaking organic lines.  

It’s been tough but satisfying.  

Buying the Los Angeles Dodgers has been your one gift to yourself.  

It has not been without its bumps. A women in Major League Baseball’s old boys club has ruffled feathers amongst the owners and grey-haired stodgy boardrooms around the world.  You’ve heard it all.  The back-biting and the snide sideswipes.  The outright misogyny.  The threatened egos.  What does she think she’s doing?  What does she know about baseball?  Who does she think she is?

Oddly, the one group that hasn’t groused about the change has been the Dodger’s staff.  You’ve kept their pennant chasing front house crew.  Let the manager and coaching staff stay undisturbed.  Got to know the players and their families.  You love them.  And they are beginning to cautiously love you back. The team is your baby and while your instinct is to not let anyone give them stick, some battles aren’t worth taking on.  Especially from a national icon.

“We didn’t move them, perhaps we don’t need to be too direct,” you point out, hopefully passing the paper back.

“No way,” Steph shakes her auburn head.  “You are Fleur and Fleur is you.  It’s too critical a time.  Besides, if you don’t publically speak out the team might take it as a slight and the True Blue sure will.   He’s too visible a figure.  You’ll have to respond and support LA, show that you are in their corner.”

You groan.  She has a point.  TrueBlue are the diehard LA fans--a colourful and vocal lot—southern California through and through, and they are proud to have a woman owner.  You owe it to them.  

Well then.  You smooth your skirt and sit back down again, flip up your Macbook lid, hurriedly type a few pithy lines.  Steph comes around the back of your desk and scans them over your shoulder, bites her lip while reading.  “You sure it’s what you want, the pointed ref…?” but you nod firmly.  She said direct and this is that.

“Ok…”

There’s a satisfying whoosh as it flies out into the Twittersphere.

Two weeks and a lifetime in business later you pause to smooth down your red evening dress, set your shoulders back and stride forward into the barrage of cameras as you reach to shake the President’s outstretched hand.

It is her inaugural formal State Dinner.  Like the rest of your homeland you are pleased and proud she chose Justin Trudeau of Canada to be the first.  He is confident and always on point, a neighbour with an aligned agenda and you incline your head, almost as thrilled to meet him as her.  The handshake is brief. He jokingly asks in French if you will have the Canadien’s hockey game up on your phone as it isn’t even Spring Training yet (he has read his briefing book), and you laugh, saying that Los Angeles is your home now.  The Kings are King.

The resulting laughing group photos are snapped and Steph, you’re certain, will be wildly pleased.  

After half an hour of polite chat with several CEO’s you know, a quiet gong sounds and you, like the other luminaries, search for your seating card along the white expanse of silver and china-decked dinner table.  

Mme. Y/N Y/N is written in gold on elegant white card. Right next to a name that makes your stomach plummet through the floor.

Captain S. Rogers

Of course the White House has invited prominent expat Canadians.  Of course it has invited Americans Justin would like to meet.  

Oh god.  

You reach for your water glass just as the gold lattice chair pulls out.

“Miss Y/N.”  

A pair of inhumanely blue eyes wait for some acknowledgement and you nod, just a fraction, wondering how in the world you will navigate this.  Was it a joke by the President’s Chief of Staff?  Some kind of not so subtle message?  Or, more worrying, a comment that your pointed retort was not officially appreciated?

“Captain.”

The medal-garnished superhuman in a dress Army uniform takes off his cap and sits down.  Blushes faintly.  Runs a hand through perfectly trimmed blond hair and awkwardly clears his throat, making a blandly positive comment about the weather and décor.

The flowers?  Really? Who thought this was a good idea?

You do your best:  asking after the Avengers’ latest escapade, the health of Agent Hawkeye who is known to have been banged up, the adjustment of his friend.  You are CEO of a multinational beauty empire, formal events with strangers go with the turf, and so you are relieved to note the pleased surprise in Captain Rogers’ eyes.  Not everyone supports James Barnes’ parole.  You’d have thought that that will break the ice but as soon as the appetizer plates are whisked away he turns to his left and engages Canada’s Junior Minister for Defense in a discussion about NATO that lasts until dessert.  

What the?          

Beside you, the US Consel for Montreal looks suitably embarrassed, but there is nothing either of you can do. You pound back a few flutes of champagne and another quite good Whiskey Sour as the speeches arrive with coffee and dessert.  By the time the music starts up and the room applauds Justin’s smooth waltz with the President you are ready to make an escape, get something out of this mildly disastrous night by pigeonholing the head of Lauder for a little competitors chat, when a fresh-faced aide with Maple Leaf pin taps your silk-clad shoulder.

“Madame..”

“-oiselle,” you correct automatically.  

“Le Premier-Ministre serait honoré d'avoir une danse. »  

Of course you will.  You rise and follow the young man onto the dance floor, accept Justin’s outstretched hand and proceed spend a delightful ten minutes flirting with one of the handsomer and more chatty leaders in the world.  Thank heaven. As the cameras click you banter back and forth, relieved you took so much time on your wardrobe.  A sleek but stylish chignon. Marcasite studs. Louboutin heels and fall of red silk slashed to just above your knee.  You look good.  Tomorrow’s morning tweet of you both will likely get thousands of views you think, when a low voice comes off from your left.    

“May I cut in?”

“Of course, Captain.” Justin bows and drops your hand and you are swept up into the arms of the last person you thought would dance.

“Captain Rogers?”  My word his chest is broad. You take a deep breath and dare to look up into those eyes.  They look a little pained but hopeful. “Are you---?”

“Apologizing. Yes.” He quickly nods his head.  “Look, I’m new at this.  Never tried the social media thing before and I kinda..forgot..about the bigger repercussions.”

“Evidently.”  You take a breath, watching his brow furrow and quickly thinking of what to say.  “You are of course entitled to your opinion but blanket statements of where things belong are unfair to the players today. As their owner I have a duty to support them.”

“I know.  Look I didn’t mean to be hard on those guys.”  

The blue eyes droop.  He looks abashed and a little like a puppy taking an expected scolding and so you relent, search for something positive to say. “They’ll recover.  If LA is good at anything is it definitely bouncing back, Captain.“  

“Call me Steve.”

“Steve.”  He’s nodding, looking a little more confident. As he leads you (surprisingly smoothly for one so big) around the floor you start to relax a little. Chat about dancing as a lost art.  Admire the cut of his uniform and the straight line of his jaw.  He is, if anything, more handsome up close and personal, although there is just the faintest twinge of anxiety still in his face.  A Man of Out of Time.  Yes..and still adjusting to the world he’s landed in.     

Maybe you could be generous and try an olive branch.

“Brooklyn are still as famous today as they were then,” you say, squeezing the hand that holds onto yours.  The other at your waist is warm.  “The first team to break the colour barrier.  Nine World Series titles.  Cy Young pitchers and All Star MVPS.  You can be proud of all that they did. ”    

A sunshine smile warms his handsome face.  “I am! Of course I am.  Jeez, they were so much a part of our life Buck and I scrimped and saved every penny we could just to get into the nose-bleed seats.  75 cents was lunch for a week. If we couldn’t find it, we listened on the radio. Everyone did.  Young and old, rich and poor.  They played their games on Sundays so that working stiffs like me could go.  It was the only day we had off: a ticket and beer money was a treat.”

You’re seriously starting to enjoy yourself, listening to him reminisce.  This is a veritable soliloquay.  “Ebbet’s might have been shaped like a bandbox but it was a right-handed slugger’s dream.  McPhail was a genius.  Ladies’ Days for ten cents.  Half price if the temps’ got too high.  I miss it so. Hot wood slats and popcorn and warm beer.”

“The best.”  You grew up with baseball too.  The crazy cement white elephant that was The Big O where the Expos played.  Gary Carter and Bill "The Spaceman" Lee.  Hot, steamy summer nights near Montreal’s broad lazy river.  

But you’ve made the switch—LA are your boys now.  

“Dodger stadium is baseball’s beautiful showplace now,” you explain.  “We have tried to honour Brooklyn’s spirit—playing to win always and keeping the park accessible. There is even a pop-up museum to them.”

He stills and you fall just slightly behind the beat.  “A pop-up museum?”

“Yes.  It has old jerseys and ticket stubs and photos of the team.  It will run until the fall.”  

Steve looks far from impressed.  “That’s all? Nothing permanent? No one’s set up a display to stay?”

You stiffen a little in his big hands, beginning to be a little frustrated. “We do own the trademark. There are statues to Jackie Robinson and "P. W." Reese where the Brooklyn Cyclones play today.”

He snorts derisively.  “Heck that’s mnor league.  And Coney Island. Doesn’t count.  Ebbets Field and Flatbush were their heart and that’s all gone. They’re an ugly old apartment complex now.”        

A frustrated silence falls.  Some how you’ve fallen into it again and you can feel your ire rising.  He isn’t the only fan who’s had a team be traded.  Business is business. A team has to have support at the gate or it isn’t sustainable.  Some, like Brooklyn, move to greener pastures.  And some are forced to fold. 

You stop on the edge of the dance floor and pull back, looking him squarely in the face.  There’s a muscle jumping in his cheek and annoyance deepens the french flavour in your accent.  American icon or no, you’ve had enough with his pity party.   

“I miss the Expos just as much as you do Brooklyn.  My team was traded, too.   But I do try to be more balanced about reality.  I don’t go round trashing the Nats or complaining that Washington has no memorial for them.  At least your Dodgers kept their name!”

Steve blinks and a press camera clicks.  

You both drop hands when the music ends and retreat--him to the bar, and you to ladies room.  

Insufferable. Stubborn. (Gorgeous) Man.  

You try to put the experience behind you, get on with work and cheering on your team, but of course the world conspires to interfere.  

LA clinches their pennant run but the photo of you and Captain America looking daggers at each other tops the front page of every newspaper the next day.

[pbwsports]

How the coronavirus is forever changing the way MLB connects to fans

IT BEGAN WITH the hype video that was supposed to introduce the 2020 Los Angeles Dodgers on Opening Day. Organist Dieter Ruehle followed by playing the national anthem and "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" from his home piano. Third baseman Justin Turner, closer Kenley Jansen and manager Dave Roberts shared updates on their suddenly monotonous lives. Comedian George Lopez cracked jokes at the Houston Astros' expense and country musician Brad Paisley wore a Dodgers sweatshirt that described the team as "2017 World Series Champs."

Along the way, the Dodgers' first live Zoom event provided its fair share of predictable glitches -- ringing cellphones, awkward silences and buffering videos, one of which distorted an uplifting message from Vin Scully. Joe Davis, the Dodgers' play-by-play voice pressed into virtual hosting duty, cringed through some of the technical difficulties. He thought social media would be as unforgiving as usual. He was wrong.

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"The people appreciated whatever we were able to do, even if the video was skipping a little bit, or there were audio issues, or somebody dropped out at some point," Davis said. "The general sense was that it was like, 'So what?' There was an appreciation, it seems like, from the fans that there was something baseball-related to be able to cling onto and distract them for a night."

The Dodgers initially planned to host 1,000 fans at their first "Zoom Party" on April 27. They ultimately opened it up to 11,000 people. Over the next couple of weeks, the guest list increased to 12,000 and then 15,000, proving two key points about this unimaginable period: Teams are trying anything and everything to fill a massive void amid the coronavirus pandemic, and their fans are here for it -- a dynamic that could change the fan-engagement experience forever.

There have been re-airings of old postseason games, broadcaster calls of home movies, training tips from coaches, bedtime stories from players and bracket-style tournaments for items such as jerseys and bobbleheads, all in an effort to create content in a time when baseball's main content pipeline -- live games -- is shut off.

Ryan Zimmerman interviewed Dr. Anthony Fauci, a diehard fan of the Washington Nationals. Miami Marlins catcher Francisco Cervelli taught viewers how to make focaccia. Kansas City Royals director of behavioral science Ryan Maid hosted "Mindfulness Mondays" to provide tips on living in the moment. The Cleveland Indians offered instructions for creating games out of items in one's sock drawer. And former Astros infielder Geoff Blum hosted a series called "Feel Good Stories For The Heart" in hopes of providing some much-needed positivity.

Major League Baseball and the MLB Players Association also teamed up to create an MLB The Show Players League, where big leaguers went head-to-head in video game matchups that were livestreamed on Twitch and broadcast on television during the virtual playoffs, culminating in a final showdown between Tampa Bay Rays ace Blake Snell and Chicago White Sox ace Lucas Giolito that aired on ESPN.

From making pancakes to playing baseball with Charley, follow @ClaytonKersh22 and his family in this episode of A Day in the Life with the Kershaws.

177 people are talking about this

"We want to give everybody sort of a relief from what's going on, and if we can help them and we can entertain them, we've succeeded," Dodgers chief marketing officer Lon Rosen said of his own team's strategy. "We're in a really difficult time right now. We all feel like we're gonna come out the other end and life will come back to some normalcy, but until then, we wanna make sure that we're connected to our fans and our fans are connected to us. And that's our mission."

In pursuit of that, the Dodgers arranged for their director of player performance, Brandon McDaniel, to guide fans through in-home workoutstwice a week. They handed a smartphone to Ellen Kershaw so that she could record her husband, Clayton, flipping pancakes and playing Pop-A-Shot. And they utilized Ross Stripling, their agreeable right-handed pitcher, for an interview series with some of his teammates. Davis himself has hosted his own cooking show and also started a podcast with his broadcast partner, Orel Hershiser. The response floored him.

"We've had multiple people tell us that it brought them to tears to hear us, multiple people tell us that it's the best part of their week when that comes out, and their favorite thing during the quarantine," Davis said of the podcast, called "Off Air." "Man, we're just trying to have a fun conversation. We started it realizing the void that everybody was feeling with no baseball, but I don't think we fully appreciated how big that void was."

MARCO GONZALES LEFT Arizona shortly after MLB effectively closed spring training complexes on March 15. He hopped in the car with his wife and their dog and drove 1,400 miles to his home near T-Mobile Park, returning to Seattle -- the country's first coronavirus epicenter -- for the first time in more than a month.

Gonzales, the left-hander announced as the Seattle Mariners' Opening Day starter less than a week earlier, was struck by how a bustling city could feel so desolate. Parks were empty, traffic was nonexistent, stores had shuttered, and the few people he saw, usually at the local supermarket, dressed as if they were "going into surgery." The anxiety was palpable, omnipresent, and it helped spur Gonzales into action. He donated blood, partnered with a local hunger-relief agency and stepped outside of his comfort zone to help entertain a populace desperate for levity.

The best of MLB social media

Here are just 10 of our favorite recent social media plays from around MLB.

Just for fun:

A's: Broadcaster calls home movies Cubs: "Parks and Rec" crossover Dodgers: Zoom parties Marlins: Cervelli makes focaccia Phillies: Story time with Bryce & Fanatic

Quarantine-inspired:

Astros: Feel Good Stories For The Heart Indians: Sock-drawer sports at home Nats: Zimmerman interviews Dr. Fauci Orioles: Phone Call Fridays Rockies: Out-of-context quarantine tips

The latter morphed into a weekly interview podcast called "Inside Corner," which Gonzales co-hosts alongside Mariners broadcaster Aaron Goldsmith through the team's YouTube channel. Catcher Tom Murphy and fellow starters Taijuan Walker and Justin Dunn have made up the first three guests. Murphy spoke from his dining room, which features a 400-pound black bear he snagged on a hunting trip. Dunn, now 6-foot-2, revealed he was shorter than his 4-foot-11 grandmother when he entered high school. Walker estimated owning 400 pairs of sneakers.

"I miss baseball, I miss that interaction with my teammates," Gonzales said. "And I think the goal of this, ultimately, is for fans to get to know us a little bit better away from the field, and to feel like they're a little more connected to us."

It's part of an ironic twist in all this -- a time that is keeping fans from baseball is also allowing them, in some respects, to feel more connected to those who play it. During the season, their time is precious. During the offseason, their time is sacred. But now athletes are stuck at home waiting this out, with unkempt hair and a dwindling supply of toilet paper, just like the rest of us. To pass the time, many have offered rare glimpses into their personal lives and have seemingly become more willing to reveal their true personalities. Gonzales has acted as a willing tour guide.

"The guys that I've dealt with, they want people to get to know them as people," Gonzales said. "Because a lot of times when we're on the field, we're in a mindset, we're in a mentality, that is rare to us as a person. We're in a competitive, testosterone-driven mindset, whereas right now, when we're stuck at home, and we have a chance to talk to each other, it's a lot different communication. And I think that people will hopefully see that."

Our video editor has been itching to make a hype video. Behold...

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Kevin Martinez has been overseeing the Mariners' marketing efforts for the past quarter-century. Four days after MLB suspended its season, Martinez led a meeting that served as a brainstorming session for how the team could pivot in its content strategy and fill an unprecedented void in a reeling city. Martinez saw it as "an opportunity to innovate and think differently."

It led to a hype video of home movies, a series of tutorials from Mariners coaches, an MLB The Show tournament pitting fans against players, and Gonzales' podcast.

"Seattle has been one of the most affected by this, and one of the first for sure," Gonzales said. "We're trying to get behind the notion that we'll be one of the first to overcome it and really show the rest of the country what it looks like. Right now, all we can do is try to fill everybody up with some optimism, put some good content out there, and try to just give people that hope that we're gonna get back to normal as soon as we can."

#NewSociallyDistantProfilePic

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BY NATURE OF their status in local communities, sports teams can often serve as information hubs for regions. The Boston Red Sox, for example, represent the baseball team for all six states in the New England region, making Twitter -- where the team has more than 6.1 million followers -- an ideal platform to distribute factually verified information regarding the pandemic. Kelsey Doherty, senior manager of digital media for the Red Sox, says the team has kept in touch with the Massachusetts Department of Public Health and the State House to stay up to date on the best official safety measures.

"It's a little nerve-wracking every time I put out any of that messaging, because especially early on, things were changing so rapidly about what was or wasn't good for you or how you're supposed to go about things," Doherty said. "We were linking a lot to the Mass Department of Public Health, but we're also trying to put the Red Sox spin on it. This weekend we put out, 'How far is 6 feet really?' And it's like, 'It's one Rafael Devers away.'"

The Red Sox are far from the only team to use its social media accounts to pitch in. Zimmerman's interview with Fauci, via the Nats' Facebook page, delved into plans for slowly and safely restarting the economy. The Colorado Rockies are one club that sponsored a mask-making project, reaching out online to distribute free team-branded masks to front-line workers. New York Yankeesfirst baseman Luke Voit connected with medical staff at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. The Baltimore Orioles have been holding Phone Call Fridays, when members of the team check in on fans and first responders.

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There have been other notable effects. With no games on the calendar for the near future, each team's social media account now represents the primary connection clubs have with fans on a daily basis. Typically at this point in the regular season, an internationally iconic team like the Yankees is focused on building hype around the club, selling individual game tickets and targeting tourists who might be coming into New York. Stephi Blank, senior manager of digital and social strategy for the Yankees, says the pandemic has flipped the team's social focus upside down.

"Especially when thinking about targeting individual game ticket buyers, tourism in New York City is something that is a massive industry, and talking with our colleagues at Broadway and others, you see that so much of the individual game, the individual ticket buyers, come from people who are outside of New York who don't live there," Blank said. "That had been a big focus of ours prior to this, but New York has been the epicenter, and we've been focusing a lot more on our local fans."

With no team to root for or games to play, teams are reframing their social media presence to think about fandom as a lifestyle.

"It's new territory," Doherty said. "I always joke that I am so grateful that I work in sports because our content can change day to day based on a win or a loss or who had a big night, and now suddenly I'm in this uncharted territory and everyone in sports is, where it's like suddenly we aren't dependent on that and we're dependent on our history, the lifestyle, the fan base and the culture around the team."

Luke Voit recently surprised frontline medical heroes from our partner @nyphospital to show his appreciation for their strength and hard work. @LLVIII40

241 people are talking about this

THE LACK OF day-to-day, game-centric content leaves more room to experiment. The Yankees have dabbled in more player personality-driven content, posting intentionally lo-fi workout videos from the likes of Giancarlo Stanton and Luis Severino, shot in vertical video on an iPhone. Yankees head of communications Jason Zillo says the lack of wins and losses allowed baseball's most traditional brand to let loose and have some fun.

"[Player-personality content] is not only a neat concept, but I think this has legs to live long beyond the pandemic," Zillo said. "The thing that constantly is a push and a pull during a baseball season is that games matter so much. And you have to temper 'fun' things up against the fact that every day, there's a game that you're trying to win at all costs. There has to be a measure of caution. If you've lost six of eight games, my first mindset isn't, 'Let's do something fun.' It's like, 'Let's kind of scale back and then when we've won six of eight, then maybe we can push more of the fun stuff.'"

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Baseball is unique among sports in its challenge of creating inclusive, compelling social media content. The schedule is arduous -- nearly every single day, often for about 10 hours, from the middle of February until at least the end of September -- and the culture can often feel repressive. Marketers have mostly found players to be less motivated to promote themselves, both because of the volume of their workload and the guaranteed nature of their contracts. Teams, in some respects, have taken a relatively conservative approach on their digital platforms.

But maybe that'll be different now.

"It has been a challenging time," Martinez, the Mariners' senior VP of marketing, said, "but it's been a time for innovation, and a great opportunity to create fans with our players in ways we haven't explored before."

While baseball has been slow to adapt to the new age of social media, the pandemic plopped a mirror in front of many teams. Many took that as an opportunity to try something new -- and have seen it bear fruit.

"You hear a lot of people from a lot of different walks of life saying, 'Use this time to get better at something,'" Zillo said. "I think baseball, as a whole, has, when it comes to looking under different rocks, now is really using social media and all of its tentacles to reach as many fans as possible."

Source - ESPN

[tinyfelthat]

Up to Bat: 1

Story page // My ask box

Author’s note: I can’t wait for you guys to read this! I’ve been working really hard on it for a while. Without further ado, here it is:

Chapter 1: Top of the First

Mia is running late. Today is her first day working at her dream job, and she’s running six minutes behind schedule. Six minutes isn’t a lot, but for Mia, it feels like six hours, because she’s wanted a job like this for as long as she can remember. She’s been a numbers geek since she learned to count. She fell in love with baseball as a kid, watching it on television and going to games with her dad, and she fell in love with statistics in college. Putting everything together seemed completely natural, and when she landed this job, she was, in a word, ecstatic.

Somehow, the traffic is light on her route to the stadium, and she makes it there nine minutes ahead of schedule. But she gets lost on her way to the statisticians’ office, and arrives there at 8:33am. She feels a pang of guilt for being three minutes late on her first day, but there’s nothing she can do at this point, so she shrugs it off as best she can. She’s supposed to be there thirty minutes before the official work day begins in order to be shown around the office and for some administrative stuff, anyway. The man who interviewed her for the position is waiting for her. He’s middle-aged, with thinning brown hair and a wide, friendly smile. She can’t remember his name, but she hopes that it won’t be an issue.

“Amelia Simon?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s me,” she replies.

“I don’t know if you remember my name from your interview. You seemed a little overwhelmed by the idea of working here. In any case, I’m Andrew Green, and I’m your new boss. Let me show you around the office.”

“Nice to meet you again, Mr. Green,” Mia smiles at him.

“Please call me Andrew. We’re all friends around here, Amelia.”

“Well, then, please call me Mia. It’s what I prefer.”

“I’ll remember that,” he pauses for a moment for dramatic effect, “Mia.”

Andrew first shows Mia her cubicle, then the break room, followed by the location of the bathrooms, and finally the conference room, where she’ll be for major meetings, including those with players. She fills out some paperwork at her new desk, and brings them to Andrew in his office.

“You seem eager to get started,” Andrew says. “I can already tell you’ll fit in quite well. You’re our newest, fresh out of graduate school. I can’t wait to see what you can do for our statistics team and for the players themselves.”

Mia grins. “I really can’t wait. It’s been my dream to work for a baseball team, any baseball team, for as long as I can remember, and you’re my hometown team. I’d hoped I’d be able to work for this team, but I wasn’t sure there’d be a position for me to take here. And I can be close to my family too! I can’t believe this is real.”

“Well, it is. Take a moment to soak it in, and then we’ll head to your first stat team meeting.”

Mia takes a deep breath in, and holds it. She releases it slowly. “I’m ready,” she tells Andrew.

They walk together to the meeting room, where the rest of the team’s statisticians have gathered.

“This is Mia Simon, everybody. She’s the newest member of our little operation here,” Andrew introduces her, and she waves awkwardly at them.

They go around the room, introducing themselves to Mia. She doesn’t remember any names because she’s nervous meeting so many new people at once, but she tells herself that it’ll be okay and that she’ll learn their names quickly enough.

“Today is a big day!” Andrew announces, once they’ve finished the introductions. “Pitchers and catchers report for their first official Spring Training workouts on Wednesday, and we have lots to do before they get there, because the rest of the team will be arriving on the following Monday.”

Mia puts her hand up, and Andrew points at her to speak. “Will we be meeting with the players during Spring Training at all?”

“Only the senior members of our stat team will travel to Florida to meet with the team during preseason workouts. However, our junior statisticians -- and, yes, that includes you Mia! -- will remain here. You will be meeting with some of the players throughout the regular season, though, again, you will not be traveling with the team at all. You’ll each be looking at and analyzing the stats for several players who are on the roster, or some minor leaguers and non-roster players invited to Spring Training, or a combination of the two. That’ll be all of you, junior and senior statisticians.”

“Okay,” Mia nods her understanding. Another hand goes up, that of a young man who looks to be around her age.

“Yes, Niall?”

“Which cubicle did you give to Mia? The one next to mine?” Andrew nods. “Okay, good.” Niall seems pleased.

The meeting wraps up with instructions on what each statistician should be doing for the next week to prep for the preseason, and they are all given player assignments. Mia is assigned to look at the stats for a couple of non-roster minor leaguers who were invited to Major League Spring Training to compete for a spot on the team, along with Harry Styles, the face of the franchise and star slugger of the team. She thinks this must be wrong, and she goes to approach Andrew, but he is preoccupied with one of the senior statisticians, so she goes back to her cubicle and asks her new cubicle neighbor, Niall.

“It seems like Andrew gave me the wrong instructions,” she tells him, and passes over her papers.

“Nah,” Niall says. “Someone else is ‘actually’ assigned to him. This is just a test to see what you’re made of.”

“Really?” Mia says, relieved. “Thanks for the heads up. I was really worried. I mean, Harry Styles? He’s amazing and I couldn’t help him get better if I tried.”

Niall laughs. “That’s what you think, but even the best players benefit from our help. That’s why we have a job at all. By the way, I’m Niall Horan. I’m the second-newest member of the stat team. I asked if you were in the cubicle next to mine because I wanted to make sure you had somebody young to help navigate you through the first few days.”

“Thanks, Niall. I really appreciate that. I’m Mia Simon, but you already knew that.” She extends her hand, and they shake hands, an unspoken agreement to be friends.

***

One week later, on Mia’s second Monday at the job, she and Niall are sitting in the break room, chatting and finishing their lunches, when Andrew walks in.

“Ah, good. Just the two people I wanted to see,” he says, and clears his throat importantly. “Two of our senior statisticians are really sick. They both have strep throat and are very contagious, and they’ll be out for at least a week. In any case, I need two more people to fly to Florida tomorrow with the group to help explain some stuff to the players and coaches. I was hoping you two youngsters would like to come along to see what Spring Training is all about. In addition, I was hoping some young faces would help the players pay more attention to what we’re saying.”

There is a silence, while the two process what Andrew told them. Then, once it hits them, their mouths drop open. The two look at each other like little kids who were just told by their parents that they’re on their way to Walt Disney World.

“This has to be a mistake,” Mia says after her heart rate slows a little. “Why us?”

“Because you are the only two junior statisticians on the team who haven’t been through any part of the preseason or regular season yet. Niall was hired in October, right after the season ended, since we didn’t make the playoffs. And you were obviously just hired. We wanted to give you an opportunity to see what it would be like, if and when you become senior statisticians. Besides, you two are our best and brightest new additions anyway. I saw what you did with Styles’ stats, Mia. You’ll do great. Don’t worry too much.”

Andrew smiles encouragingly at them. “I’ll let you two go home when you’re done eating and pack. I’ll see you bright and early at the airport, all right? Eight o’clock sharp. We’ll be there for four days, including tomorrow, so keep that in mind.”

***

Back at her apartment, Mia is riddled with anxiety. She doesn’t know what to pack, because she’s never been on a trip quite like this one, so she calls Niall. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey! What’s up?”

“Hi Niall. I have no idea what to pack for this trip. Do I pack business casual? Or do I pack team apparel? Or do I just pack regular clothes? Help me!”

She knows she sounds a little crazy and desperate, but she doesn’t care. She’s too wrapped up in her own anxiety about meeting members of the team she’s been rooting for as long as she can remember.

“Whoa,” Niall says, a little taken aback. “Calm down a little. It’s just a business trip. I would say pack business casual and maybe put a jersey or two in there as well if you really want to. We’re meeting the team as statisticians, not as fans, you gotta remember that.”

“Right,” Mia grounds herself. “Of course. I’m so dumb. I’m just so excited that I let my emotions get ahead of my logical self. Okay.”

“You gonna be okay now?”

“Yeah, Niall. I think I’ll be fine. Thanks. Bye. See you tomorrow at the airport, eight o’clock sharp.” Mia smiles into the phone, despite her nerves.

“Bye Mia,” Niall says, and hangs up.

Mia tosses a couple of her favorite jerseys into her bag, including one that reads STYLES with a number 10 on the back. He has been her favorite player since he was called up to the majors a few years back. She’s a little overly anxious to meet him, she thinks. She tells herself to calm down. He’s just another person. They’re all just people. Why is this so intimidating?

***

Bright and early the following morning, or rather, dark and early at 6am, Mia rolls out of bed, exhausted, but with a big smile on her face. She’s going to fly down to Florida! She’s going to meet some of her favorite players! And best of all, she’s doing it in an official capacity as a statistician for the team,so they have to listen to her. Admittedly, this makes her a little more nervous, because she has no idea what she’s supposed to say, but she’s too excited to let it bother her.

After showering and getting dressed, she tries to eat a light breakfast, but she’s too nervous to eat. She only manages a few bites of food, so she grabs a banana and a couple of granola bars to take with her. She calls Niall on her way out the door, and gets his voicemail. When she arrives at the terminal at 7:40,  she’s greeted by Andrew and two other senior statisticians from the office, Daniel and James. Niall arrives at the gate five minutes before their boarding call, super out of breath, but with a wide smile on his face.

“My alarm didn’t go off,” he says by way of explanation for his sweaty, disheveled self. “In all the excitement yesterday, I must’ve set it for 6:30pm somehow. If it hadn’t been for Mia calling me when she was leaving her apartment, I don’t think I would’ve made it. I’m lucky I live relatively close to the airport.”

“Well, Niall,” Daniel clears his throat and smirks at him. “We’re, um, glad you’re here.” He glances at Mia, who narrows her eyes at him.

“Me too!” Niall agrees, oblivious to the clear venom in Daniel’s voice.

Luckily, their boarding number is called then, before Mia can say anything to Daniel that might damage her career. They are sitting in business class, which is a first for both Mia and Niall. They’re assigned seats are next to each other, which they appreciate. The looks that they’re getting from Daniel and James are unpleasant, to say the least. Mia is a bit uncomfortable when she realizes that she’s the only woman in their group, but then she remembers that it was supposed to be Andrew, James, Daniel, George, and Sue. There aren’t that many women in the office, she realizes, and somehow that calms her enough that she falls right into a deep sleep that carries her all the way to Florida.

***

“Wake up, Mia!” Niall whisper-shouts into her ear.

She sits bolt upright, obviously startled, and then slouches a bit and swats at him. “You scared me!”

“Sorry. I guess I had too much coffee. We’re about to land in Florida, by the way. That’s why I was waking you.”

“Oh, okay, cool.” Mia says, and turns to snuggle back into her comfy seat. But then his words register. “What?! We’re here?!” she squeals, and then, realizing that she’s in public, quiets herself. She’s still bouncing in her seat a little when the pilot announces the time, the weather, and that they’ve arrived.

Mia and Niall catch up with the rest of the group at baggage claim, as they’d rushed off the plane as soon as they could. The two friends get stuck behind a family of six who were blocking the end of the gangway to the plane by taking a selfie with the “Welcome to Orlando” sign. The family is clearly headed to Disney World, but Niall and Mia still think they have the better end of the stick. Once everyone has their luggage, the group gets into a set of two waiting cars. Daniel and James get into the first one, and Andrew insists on getting into the second with Mia and Niall to prepare them for their first full-team meeting.

When they get to the sports complex, the driver tells them that their bags will be brought to their hotel rooms and will be there when they arrive there in the evening. They all nod, and step out of the car. Mia is on autopilot and silent, taking everything in, when they arrive at the fancy boardroom where they’ll be having the meeting. Mia is the last of the group to enter, and when she does, she loses her breath for a moment out of shock. Her eyes sweep the room, looking at all the players, and she locks eyes with Harry Styles.

[let-it-raines]

Catch Me If You Can (10/?)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

A/N: Happy Day, you guys! I’m giving you a quick update here! I hope you enjoy!

Thank you to @resident-of-storybrooke for being a really awesome beta❤️

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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Tag list: @royalswan @shey-starsfury @sals86 @iam2307 @ashley-knightingale  @karenfrommisthaven @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @emmas-storybook @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @galaxyzxstark @qualitycoffeethings @thejollyroger-writer

-/-

Emma: Do you know if we’re getting food on this flight?

Killian:It’s seven thirty in the morning.

Emma: And your point? That’s breakfast time.

Emma: I usually stock up on snacks because I am a bottomless pit, but I didn’t have time to this morning. Do you have anything?

Killian: I have an apple. I can very clearly see that Rob has a box of Wheat Thins in his backpack though. You want me to smuggle some for you?

Emma: How would that even work?

Killian: Easy. I steal the box from Rob and then chunk it three rows up to you.

Emma: That won’t be obvious at all.

Killian: I’m very stealthy, love.

“It’s not even eight in the morning,” Robin groans, reaching for the lever on his seat to recline back in the very little space that they’re given. “Who in the world are you texting that much?”

“Liam,” he lies, heat rising to his cheeks. He has texted Liam this morning, but he’s most definitely not texting his brother right now. It’s a half-truth, really. “He’s trying to nail me down for some dinner plans once we get back home. I haven’t gotten to see them much lately, and he and Elsa always get antsy whenever that happens.”

“You’re pretty much their third child.”

“I feel like I’m their third child but also your second.”

“No,” Robin huffs, reaching down into his bag to grab his crackers, “that’s most definitely Will.”

“I can hear you,” Will mumbles from the seat in front of them as he stretches out and snuggles further into his pillow. Will could sleep on any plane at any time. It’s damn impressive. “And I’m not a child just because you all feel the need to baby me, Professor Jones.”

“So not a child but a baby then?” he teases.

Will sticks his middle finger up in between the seats, not even bothering to open his eyes as he murmurs, “fuck off.”

“I love you too, man.”

“Don’t worry,” Robin placates, a smirk on his face, “he’s only mean to you because he likes you.”

“That’s a load of bullshit.”

“For me, yeah, because I say things when I feel them.” Will pops his head in between the seats, his eyes widened but sleep heavy now. “But I think Emma is so pissy toward you because she does actually think you’re hot.”

Woah. Where did that even come from?

“Is that what she said?” he questions like he’s a fifteen-year-old boy worried about Chrissy Stephens liking him back and not like a grown man who knows that the woman he fancies is also interested in him.

What a world that he lives in that Emma Swan is interested in him.

That or she’s been very good at faking it for the last two weeks. God, he hopes that she hasn’t been faking it, but that seems like a hell of a lot of effort when they’ve talked nearly every day. Sometimes it’s just a few texts, a passing word in the hallway, an interview or a press conference question. Other times it’s a phone call late at night or Emma dropping by his place for an hour to eat dinner. He can tell that she’s still terrified by the whole thing, nervous energy practically radiating off of her when she first starts talking to him, but once they get into the groove of things, he believes that she feels comfortable.

Her wanting this and being willing to try is beyond his wildest dreams, and a part of him still thinks he’s going to be hit in the head with a baseball and wake up from whatever kind of concussion-induced dream that he’s under.

So much shit has gone down in his life, things from years past still haunting him, and he’s clinging to this good thing even if it’s far too early for any of that. He hasn’t done this relationship thing in a long time, and he’s still not entirely sure that’s what it is. They haven’t talked about it, and he imagines Emma is not going to be the person to bring it up first.

If ever.

They could be getting married, and she still might not want to discuss things.

Woah, woah, woah. That is thinking too far ahead for about a million different reasons. He is not going there.

Will’s eyes narrow at him, thick brows pushing together all the while Killian can practically feel Robin’s stare covering every inch of him. “Why do you care?”

He shrugs, his fingers fidgeting with the window shade to let some light in before immediately shutting that away. “I like to know what’s being said about me.”

“She’s sitting right up there. Why don’t you ask her, Professor Jones?”

“Because that sounds like a dumbass idea that will get me in all kinds of trouble.”

“It’s true,” Robin sighs. “You should not be talking to Emma Swan about anything other than baseball.”

His heart drops into his right calf at that. He didn’t know that was possible, but it is. Why would Robin think something like that?

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t want to piss her off anymore. She could flip the narrative on you so quickly that you’d get whiplash and all the sudden you’d be back to who you were four years ago.”

His defenses rise, words on the tip of his tongue at the ready to defend Emma. He doesn’t like that Robin thinks she would do that. They’ve all spent time around Emma. They know that even if she can be a little guarded, she’s got their best interests at heart. Even when they’ve screwed up, him especially, she’s never done anything to wrong them.

“That wouldn’t happen. She’s a professional. You know that. She’s not going to pull shit like that,” he says quietly, wondering how in the world he can change this conversation to something else so as not to show all of the metaphorical cards in his hands. “Can I have some of those crackers, Rob?”

Robin eyes him for a moment before handing him the box. Killian doesn’t even really want these, but he’s thankful for them as the conversation dies down and Will goes back to sleeping after under two minutes of trying and Robin keeps watching his movie, typing a long text to Carol for something having to do with Roland. He doesn’t want to pry, so he tries not to look, reluctantly eating the Wheat Thins before snapping a picture of them and sending it to Emma.

Killian: I can throw these across the plane if you’re ready to catch them.

Emma: Hit me with your best shot.

Emma: Not really.

Emma: Please don’t throw food on the plane. I saw that there are snacks in the back, and I’m going to pilfer them.

Before he knows it, he sees Emma’s blonde head rise up as she gets out of her seat and walks down the aisle past him. She doesn’t look at him, her eyes staring straight ahead, but that doesn’t keep him from looking as she sweetly asks a flight attendant for a packet of cookies. It looks like she’s learned since the last time they flew.

When she comes back toward him, he turns in his seat and goes back to flipping through the movies, pretending like he wasn’t just staring her down. Hopefully she didn’t notice that. She may like him, but everyone has their limits.

Emma: The red-headed flight attendant thinks you’re hot.

Killian: I’ve been reliably told that you think the same thing, and I care much more about that.

Emma: Who told you that?

Killian: You’re not the only one who can have sources.

Emma: At least mine are reliable.

Killian: So you don’t think I’m hot?

Emma: I didn’t say that.

Killian: I knew you thought I was sexy, Swan. You flatter a man.

Emma: Shut up and eat your Wheat Thins.

-/-

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

Small pinpricks of pain are spreading down his arm while his shoulder stings. Someone might as well be out here stabbing him with a knife. It would likely be less painful than this.

Not again.

Not tonight.

He’s been doing so well, his shoulder not bothering him, all of his physical therapy working to keep his muscles strengthening and his body in check, and then shit like this happens. There’s no way he can make it past the inning, and even if he wasn’t about to call it, he knows that Al is going to pull him off the mound in no less than three minutes with how many runs he’s giving up.

It’s…not good. They’re down 2-8 in the bottom of the fourth, and he might as well be dying out here under the Florida sunshine and the humidity that has his bones weighing twice their normal weight. Spring Training never prepares him for this when it’s this muggy outside.

He might as well be in a damn swamp. Tropicana field sounds so cheery, so pleasant, but he’s dying inside. Why the hell do teams agree to name their fields things like Tropicana and Minute Maid? How much exactly are they getting paid to suffer like that?

How much is he getting paid to suffer like this?

Taking a deep breath, he tries to focus on what’s in front of him. That’s all he can do when his body is failing him like this, and with a quick windup, he releases the ball from his grip and watches it fly right into Will’s glove.

Strike three. Byrd’s out.

Immediately, he jogs to the dugout, opening the small gate and going straight for the water cooler, gulping down a cup before pouring himself another one and covering his head to try to cool himself down. He’s so damn mad at himself for playing like this, for having a body that’s failing him when his body has always been his livelihood and the thing he maintained with precision and dedication, and all he wants is to punch every single member of the Rays even though none of them have ever actually wronged him.

Anger takes its way out in strange places.

“You’re done, Jones,” Al tells him, his voice clipped.

“Good.”

He tosses his cup to the ground in annoyance and turns to make his way to the bench, figuring he’ll suffer out here for a little while longer, only to see Emma standing with her bottom lip tugged between her teeth and her phone in her hand.

Right.

She’s sitting in the dugout with them tonight recording videos and doing fun little segments for her Instagram and Twitter, and he’s probably looked like an ass in all of them.

Because he is an ass.

“You okay?” she mouths.

He doesn’t respond with more than a shake of his head no before he’s turning away and heading toward the tunnels that will take him back to the locker room so he can get this damn shoulder massaged and have Archie yell at him once again for trying to keep all of this under wraps.

-/-

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Killian sighs into his phone as he runs the towel over his waist, drying his body as much as he can before knotting it over his hip. His brother doesn’t seem to understand that people are busy and life is busy and maybe he wants to shower for fifteen minutes simply so everyone will leave him alone.

It’s been three hours since he left the field after the game, and it’s still not enough time to let him simmer in his thoughts.

“Are you sure because you kept grimacing and – ”

“I know what happened, Liam. God, I…” He runs his hands through his damp hair, water droplets falling over his face and tracing the lines where the beginnings of a sunburn are forming. “My shoulder hurt today. You know it, and I know it. There’s no point in denying it. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore when I already got my ass handed to me by Archie and Al.”

“I’m worried about you,” Liam laments, the sound of his television in the background. The girls should be asleep by now, so it must be Elsa sitting quietly listening in to their conversation while she pretends that she isn’t. He doesn’t know why she does that when she and Liam don’t keep anything to themselves when it comes to him, their honorary third child. “You have been nothing but healthy you’re entire life, and then I convinced you to go sailing with me and – ”

“Please do not blame yourself for that accident anymore.”

“Why not? I’m the one who insisted we go on the weekend trip. I’m the one who – ”

“For fuck’s sake, Liam, it’s not your fault. The drunks who ran into us are the only people who have any kind of fault. We probably should have died that day, and we didn’t. I just got a fucked-up arm. I’ll take that over anything else. You don’t have to act like you’re my father taking responsibility for all of my actions.”

The moment he says the words, he regrets them.

How could he not?

Comparing Liam to their father is the absolute last thing that he wants to do. Liam, even with his faults and his judgmental ways, is nothing like Brennan. Brennan Jones never cared unless it benefitted himself, and Liam cares because it’s what good family does. It’s what people who love each other do.

His brother is the greatest man that he knows, and yet here he is taking all of his anger out on him because he can’t always play the sport that he loves like he used to.

“Our father never took any responsibility for our actions.”

“God,” he groans, running his hands through his hair again and yanking at the strands, “I don’t know why I said that. I just – ”

“You’re angry right now.” The way Liam says the words calmly, like they’re talking about the weather or a lunch up on the rooftop of his building, weirdly calms him down and makes his heart beat a little less erratically. “I would be angry too if the accident had kept me from doing something I love the way I had done it before. You got hurt, and I got a small scar on my knee. It’s not fair, and you can be angry. Just…don’t let that anger ruin your relationship with others.”

“I hate that you’re so wise sometimes.”

“It’s only some of the time,” Elsa pipes in, confirming his thought that she was in there simply listening in. “He’s an idiot most of the time, actually, and it drives me insane that the girls think he is the smartest man alive.”

“Hi, Els,” he laughs, opening the door to the bathroom to let some of the steam out and walking back into his hotel room. “You should really announce yourself before you start listening in on a conversation. I know you’re there.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you to think I’m too nosy.”

Killian barks out a laugh at that because there’s no other word he could describe Elsa as other than nosy at this moment. Compassionate and kind also come to mind, but right now she’s nosy.

Shuffling through the room, he sits down at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping down underneath his weight, and picks up the remote to turn the television if only because he wants some background noise, so he doesn’t get too lost in his own thoughts.

“You and my brother are a packaged deal, darling,” he sighs, “and Addy and Lucy. I know that you are all far too much into my business.”

“It’s only because we care, little brother.”

“Younger, you asshole.”

“Language,” Elsa scolds.

“I’m twenty-eight years old and sitting in a hotel room by myself. I think I can say the word asshole.”

“Sorry, force of habit.”

“You’re such a mom,” he groans, falling back against the mattress, his towel coming undone the slightest bit.

“I did not push those two children out of my vagina to go by any other name.”

“Oh my God, stop. I don’t like to think about how those two were created.”

“Killian, childbirth is natural.”

“I’m talking about the creating, not the delivering.”

Liam and Elsa both start coughing before their coughs turn into laughter, the two of them sputtering and bickering back and forth with each other, and he sits up on the bed and starts mindlessly flipping through the channels until he finds a Dodgers game. Why is he watching baseball when he’s trying to get away from it all?

Because it is his life.

“You know, little  brother,” Liam chokes out, emphasizing the little because he is, indeed, an asshole, “if you had a girlfriend, you would probably feel more comfortable talking about sex.”

“I am perfectly comfortable talking about sex. Just not yours.”

“I know but – ”

There’s a knock at the door, and he feels like he’s saved by the bell (or the knuckles) at the sound, not really wanting to have this conversation with Liam even if he goaded them into it and if it’s more pleasant than talking about his shoulder.

“Hey, guys,” he starts, already getting up and tying his towel a little tighter around his waist, “there’s someone at my door. I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Let us know if you need to talk,” Elsa sighs, quietly echoed by Liam. “We love you.”

“Love you guys too.”

He hangs up the phone and places it on his dresser before crossing the room and looking through the peephole to see who is knocking on his door.

It’s Emma.

She’s standing just outside his door in an oversized white sweater and a pair of leggings, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, and he can tell by the way that she’s unable to stand still that she’s anxious. Immediately, he twists all of the locks and swings open the door, catching it before it slams into the wall.

“Swan,” he smiles, already reaching forward and tugging her inside, looking from side to side in the hallway to make sure no one is around.

“Hey, so I – ”

He stops her before she can finish her sentence, closing the door behind them and quickly dipping his head down to slide his lips over hers, just the barest hint of a touch in greeting but enough to make all of his body begin to stand at attention.

“Hi,” he whispers when he pulls back.

Emma’s lashes flutter as she looks up at him, a little redness of her cheeks. “Hi. I’m guessing you don’t mind that I dropped by then.”

“Truthfully, I’m very upset about it.”

“You’re a liar,” she laughs, adjusting the bag that she’s holding. Wow, he didn’t even notice the bag. His mind is all over the place tonight. “You’re also not wearing any clothes. Why are you not wearing any clothes?”

A shiver runs down his spine as Emma’s eyes glance over him, very obviously cataloging his body in the same way that he’s done to hers in the past. The room is more heated, the steam from the bathroom permeating into the bedroom, and he knows that it would be so damn easy to step a little bit more into Emma’s space and capture her mouth with his as his hands explored her body the way that her eyes are exploring him. It would be so damn easy to forget about the difficulties of this day, to forget about the ache in his shoulder, and let his body do all of the talking that it couldn’t do today.

He could prove that his body still works, that he can still do good with it, that he can still bring himself pleasure, bring Emma pleasure.

…but he can’t do that. Not yet.

It’s not the right time when he’s riddled in self-doubt and frustration, and even if Emma was ready, he wants to do this right. He doesn’t want to use her and his affections for her to make him forget everything for a night.

They need more time to get to know each other.

When the hell was the last time he wanted to get to know a woman well before he slept with her?

Why would he even ask himself that question when he knows the answer?

“Well, darling,” he finally sighs, backing up from her to give himself room to breathe all the while he makes sure to flash her a grin, “I did this thing called showering, and I don’t often do it with clothes.” “That’s smart. It’d probably get a little messy like that.”

“Most definitely. What’s in the bag?”

“Oh,” she gasps, her shoulders shrugging up the slightest bit as her eyes light up, the darkness turning back to light green. “So, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous or whatever by coming here, but you didn’t seem to have the best day, and I figured I would bring you, like, a snack or whatever to help you out. Then I thought maybe I could stay for a bit, but if you want to tell me to fuck off, I can be back in my room in a minute.”

How in the world does he find everything she does so charming? He was in a piss-poor mood, still is, and even though he wasn’t exceptionally friendly to her when she was doing interviews in the locker room, she’s being more than kind to him.

“Love, the absolute last thing I would do is tell you to fuck off. I’m glad you decided to come see me even if I don’t know how you know my room number.”

She winks before turning around and placing the paper bag down. “You’re not the only one who knows how to charm people to get information.”

“Apparently not. What kind of spoils have you brought me?”

“Totally ignoring the fact that you said spoils,” she laughs, pulling out a bag of salt and vinegar chips and then several snack cakes. And then one banana which doesn’t seem to fit at all. “But I raided a vending machine and also the hotel front desk for the banana, and figured maybe we could pig out a bit since I know for a fact both of us are going running tomorrow.”

“Do you have strawberry short cakes in that pile?”

He steps closer to her, and she holds up a package of Pop-Tarts, strawberry flavored. “Is this close enough?”

“Only because we’re in a pinch.” Killian takes it out of her hand, and tosses it over to the bed before picking up his bag of clothes and sliding it into the bathroom. “I’m just going to put on some pants and then we’ll – ”

There’s another knock on his door, and this time he’s not saved by the bell. He doesn’t want this conversation to end. Emma stops what she’s doing, dropping the chips she’s holding back onto the desk, and she turns to look at him with wide eyes and parted lips, panic written across all of her features.

“What do we do?” she whispers, her voice probably echoing from here all the way back up to the east coast.

“I’m just going to ignore it,” he says quietly, stepping back over to the door to look to see who it is. “Oh shit.”

“What?” Emma whispers, stepping closer only for him to hold out his arm in front of her.

There’s another knock, this time really more of a pounding, and then Ariel’s voice comes through the wood. “I know you’re in your room, Killian. Open the door.”

Emma’s eyes widen even more, and if he wasn’t currently freaking out over what to do, he’d laugh at the comic relief over the whole thing. “Get in the bathroom, love.”

She nods her head, quickly picking up the food she brought in and scrambling into the bathroom, closing the door behind her at the same time that he opens his hotel door, his hand furiously scratching at his ear.

“What, A?”

“Well, that’s a way to greet me.” She immediately moves past him and into the room, never one for understanding personal space. “Why do you have a package of Pop-Tarts on your bed?”

“I got it from the vending machine,” he lies, closing his door behind her and walking back over to his bed. “I was hungry but didn’t feel like ordering anything in. Why are you here? Where’s Eric?”

Ariel rolls her eyes and stretches out onto his bed, picking up the remote and immediately changing the TV from the game he was watching. “Believe it or not, I am capable of being in a separate space than my husband.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

She simply waves him away. “Whatever. I just wanted to check on you. I know you get all moody after losses, and you didn’t come join everyone for dinner. Also, can you put some clothes on while we have this conversation? I love you, but I don’t need to see every bit of you.”

“You’re the one who came barging into my room,” he groans as his mind runs through about fifteen scenarios on how to get Ariel out of his room, “but fine. I’ll go change.”

Killian steps away from his bed and walks the few steps to the bathroom door, quietly opening it up and immediately shutting it behind him in case Ariel for some reason decided to move behind him.

This is by far the weirdest thing that has happened to him this year. He’s hiding his girlfri – he’s hiding Emma in his hotel bathroom.

And she’s sitting on the countertop with her legs crossed over each other eating the bag of chips like that’s not the loudest food she could have chosen.

“What are you doing?” she hisses. Putting the chips down.

“Ariel has requested I put on some clothes.”  

“But there’s no place for me to move in here so you can do that.”

Killian rolls his eyes at her flustered movements and far too loud hushed voice. It’s what has him turning on the sink before he leans forward and presses a kiss to Emma’s cheek. “I can slip my sweatpants on under my towel. I promise I’m not going to scar you.”

“You wouldn’t scar me. I just – ”

He reaches down to his bag, grabbing a pair of pants and pulling them on underneath his towel, his mind fighting with him to think of every delicious and dirty thought about having Emma in the shower, and tugs them up before dropping his towel to the ground and finding a t-shirt to wear. How is his bag so disorganized?

“What was that now, love?”

“Nothing,” she hisses, blushing. “How long am I supposed to stay in here? I’m kind of freaking out.”

“You’ve got food, water, and a bathroom. I think you’ll be good for a week or two.”

“Asshole.”

“I try.” He flashes her a grin before leaning forward and quickly gliding his lips over hers and tasting the salt and vinegar of her kiss. Damn does he love that he can do that. “I’ll try to get her to leave as soon as possible, okay? Be quiet on your chip eating.”

Emma scrunches up her nose before sticking her tongue out at him and grabbing another chip with one hand while the other turns the faucet off. He sighs, amused and exasperated all at once, before opening the bathroom door and stepping out only to find Ariel eating the Pop-Tarts.

He kind of wanted those even if there are a million better ways to consume five hundred calories.

“Why’d you turn your water on?”

“Didn’t want you to hear me pee.”

“Fair enough.” She shrugs her shoulders and pats the spot on his bed next to her. He takes the small desk chair instead. “Tell me why you’re in such a bad mood.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not a liar.”

(He is a liar.)

“Okay,” Ariel murmurs as she takes another bite, “so if you’re not in a bad mood, would you at least like to explain why you didn’t come to dinner?”

He swivels in the chair a bit, his legs antsy to tap and stay moving, but that’ll make him seem anxious to Ariel. That’s the last thing that he wants when he is, indeed, anxious for her to get out of the room.

“I – I felt like I let everyone down today,” he admits, leaving out his own self-loathing about his injury. Half-truths. He’s always speaking in half-truths. “I played a shitty game. I was in a bad mood. I was awful company and didn’t want anything to do with anyone. So, I kind of figured I’d come back here and work that out on my own instead of making everyone else miserable.”

“Killian Jones, you know for a fact that we are not miserable around you. At least Eric and I aren’t. Neither are Robin or Will or even August. The only person who would take issue with you being all pissy is Arthur and that’s because he’s got his own set of issues.”

He scoffs and closes his eyes as he stretches his legs out. She’s right. He knows that she is because she’s always right. She’s basically another version of Elsa in that aspect.

“I know. I’m…you know how I get, A. I’ll be fine. Tomorrow, I’ll come to whatever team-mandated meal you arrange.”

“That’s all I ask.” She rises from the bed, picking up the Pop-Tart she hasn’t eaten, and walks over to him to briefly press her lips against his temple. “I’m going to let you wallow, okay? But tomorrow after you’ve finished your practice, we have to talk about your calendar for the rest of May and June. I’ve got some charity stuff lined up for you.”

“I will be at your beck and call.”

“As you should be. Text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Will do.”

Ariel nods her head and smiles before walking out the door, letting it slam shut behind her. Letting out a sigh of relief, he places his face in his hands and simply takes a moment to breathe and let his mind stop racing about how horrible of a human being he is for lying to everyone.

He’s the worst, isn’t he? He has to be.

When he’s finished with his little pity party, he sits up and raises his fist to the wall, banging on it to let Emma know that she can come out of the bathroom.

The door clicks, and she emerges, flipping the locks on his door and then walking toward him, stepping into his space until he’s pulling her in by the hips to stand in the open space between his legs, his head resting against her stomach.

Maybe he’s not quite finished with his pity party.

“So,” Emma hums, her feet moving into his line of vision as her hands scratch at that back of his head, which may very well be the best fucking feeling in the world, “apparently everyone in the world knows you’re in a bad mood, and you don’t want to talk to any of us about it.”

“Do you want to talk every time you’re in a bad mood?”

“Hell no.”

“Exactly.” He leans back in the chair, the loss of her touch immediate. “I think I just…you want to watch a movie with me or something?”

“Can I pick it out?”

“Yeah, Swan, you can.”

They settle down onto the mattress, pulling the thin sheet that’s at the bottom of the bed over them instead of settling under the covers, and Emma tucks herself into his side so that her head rests on his collarbone and her hand is covering his stomach, a leg tucked between his. In all of the time they’ve spent together in the past two weeks, he thinks this is the most comfortable she’s ever been around him.

He likes it.

It’s…refreshing. He keeps thinking that, thinking about how this is so different than how he’s been the past few years. If he was with a woman, it was to sleep with her, to scratch an itch. It was not to settle down and watch Men in Black because despite insisting that she wanted to pick the movie, Emma refused to let him pay for them to rent a newer movie.

And obviously he wants to sleep with Emma, his mind racing with thoughts of what exactly that would be like to do to her, but he’s good just like this.

This is by far the best part of his day, and Florida isn’t seeming like such a hell hole anymore as his fingers play with the wisps of her hair that have fallen out of her bun and her hands toy with his mom’s ring that’s fallen outside of his t-shirt. He doesn’t even think she realizes that she’s doing it.

“The ring was my mom’s.”

Emma stops her movements, her fingers stilling, before looking up at him, her face only lightened by the glow of the television now that the sun has set, and everything is covered in darkness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess with it.”

“Swan, it’s fine,” he promises, reaching down to take her hand and place it back against his chest and against the ring. He smiles a little, the left side of his lips curving up, to try to reassure her of the fact that it is fine. He doesn’t mind. “I simply figured you wanted to know why I wear a ring around my neck. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m secretly married.”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking that until right about now.”

Later. He’ll tell her about Milah later. He can already tell that he’s about to tell her too much about his family tonight. She doesn’t need to know about his ex-girlfriend too.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know.” She pats his chest and readjusts herself so that she can look at him a little better. How are her eyes so green? “So, tell me about your mom. If you want to.”

“Her name was Amelia,” he starts out, scooting down a little further so that he and Emma are nearly eye to eye, “and she was just…she was amazing. I have a terrible memory, so I don’t remember much, but I remember that she had this red hair that would make Ariel jealous and this big belly laugh that kind of reminds me of Liam. I don’t – I guess I never thought about it before, but she was really into baking, which is probably why I eventually came around to it. That’s likely the only thing I got from her other than the red in my beard.”

He knows that it’s not true, that he is more like her than he’s willing to admit, but it’s not what he usually thinks about. It’s not what Liam talks about either even though he was seventeen when she died.

“How did she – ”

“Cancer,” he murmurs, tracing Emma’s pointer finger until he lifts their hands and treads his fingers through hers, squeezing their hands together. “It was very sudden, not a lot of time to say goodbye, you know?”

Emma presses forward and brushes a kiss to his knuckles. He’s sure it’s because no one ever knows what to say that, and Emma is likely no exception. “She would be so proud of you, I think. I know that’s probably overstepping my boundaries to say that, but I don’t see how anyone could not be proud of you for working so hard to achieve your dreams and for being so good to your family.”

Maybe she’s the exception then.

He’s not sure that his mom would be proud of him, not lately.

“Thank you, darling. I’m not sure if that’s true, but thank you.”

Emma’s brows pinch, her lips pursing. “How could that not be true, twenty-nine?”

Because he’s a self-loathing bastard who can never seem to bury his demons even when he needs to.

“Do you want to know part of the reason why I was in such a shitty mood today?”

He can’t tell her the full truth, but the half truth seems okay today.

“Only if you want to tell me.”

He gulps, nodding his head and inching further down to bed to tangle his legs with Emma’s and nearly brush his nose against hers. He’s twenty-eight, but there’s something akin to a childlike belief running through him that nothing can invade the quietness of this hotel room right now.

“I haven’t spoken to my father since I was nineteen years old,” he admits, bringing their hands up to rest between their chests. “That seems like a shitty thing to do when I was only down to one parent, but my dad is an asshole, you know? He was the one who signed me up to play little league ball, and every single day I was outside running or practicing my batting or pitching once I changed to that track. He pushed me so damn hard, which I always thought was a good thing, until I’d lose a game or be a minute slow on my run and he’d make me do everything all over again. I was eleven, and the man had me on a meal plan to make sure I was developing with the sole purpose of playing ball.”

He takes a breath, blinking away the tears that aren’t there but might as well be.

“He became obsessed. Completely and totally obsessed. And since Liam was long gone from the house, he was my only influence. I did what he said when he said it and played it off as it all being part of the game that I loved. But he pushed and pushed and pushed until I hated waking up every day. He screamed at me, calling me a pathetic fucker, told me that I was ruining his life by not being good enough. It was just this constant stream of hatred spewing out of his mouth, and when I got to Vandy, he started betting on my games, started taking bribes and offers and so many things that could have taken the game away from me forever. He’s a piss poor excuse for a dad, and it took me nineteen years to realize that I didn’t have to be subjected to his shit. So, I just…I cut him off. Liam and I both did. And today I – I was mad about how I played, and I took it out on Liam by saying he was not my father and some other stuff. That always kind of spirals us, and that’s why I was so annoyed when you first got here.”

That was too much.

That was far too much.

Killian should have kept his mouth shut, should have never let all of that out even if it’s skimming the surface. Emma likely already thinks he’s insane, that he’s got enough issues, and he just revealed so many more.

Good things in his life do not stay, and Emma is most definitely a good thing.

And he’s not even telling her about his arm.

“Your dad is a fucking asshole,” she spits, untangling their hands and running her palms up over the skin at his neck until she’s softly gliding her thumb underneath his eye. “I can’t imagine how much that has to mess you up in your mind. He took something you loved and twisted it. He was not what a parent should be, and you have every right to be upset about that. I’ve never met Liam, but I know that he loves you and that he understands how you tick. I’m sure he’s not mad at you for being upset with him when he understands your anger was coming from something else.”

Tell her, tell her, tell her.

His mind is screaming at him, but he can under no circumstances tell her everything. Not about Milah, not about his arm, not about all of his thoughts and feelings.

In time.

He’ll tell her in time.

They’re so early in this thing that they’re doing, and even if it’s been awhile for him, he knows that two weeks in is not the time to dumb every bit of baggage that he’s carrying.

“Thank you, love,” he sighs, closing his eyes and pressing forward to slowly guide his lips over hers, another silent thank you for simply being here. It’s nice to have someone on the road with him. Honestly and truly. “I’m sure this is not how you imagined this night going.”

“What?” Emma laughs, a tentative smile curling on her lips. “You think I didn’t come in here expecting you to tell me about your shitty dad as we watch Will Smith kill some aliens? I feel like that’s a pretty normal night.” “So this is normal for you then?”

“Staying in bed as much as possible?”

“Absolutely.”

He hums, inching closer and closer to her so that their foreheads brush together and his nose is pressing into her cheek as he speaks. “I think I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

[kikumerio]

[fic] what you have tamed (kuraryou exchange 2018)

to: @swwyz from: @kikumerio notes: dear tsu, i'm sorry i couldn't get my fingers to run with any of your wonderful au prompts, but you did mention futurefic -- so i hope you enjoy this glimpse at kuraryou post-high school ;;; happy kuraryou day!

(read on ao3)

* * *

He can't count the number of times they've found themselves here, the last few weeks as winter comes to a close, lolling on the embankment, shivering in the crisp air. This'll be one of the last, he guesses. There's a faint sting to that, even though he knows it's not really the end. That something like what they've got doesn't just fade away.

"Really?" he's asking Ryou-san. "Nothing at all?"

"I've had other things on my mind." Ryou-san sounds totally disinterested. "For someone to keep my attention... that person would have to be exceptional."

Not the reveal he's – not pushing for, exactly, but half-prepared for. One of these days. But – that person. When Ryou-san says something, it's never an accident. There's a warm feeling in the pit of Youichi's stomach.

"I suppose you've put quite a lot of... thought into it." Bone dry.

Youichi shrugs. Ignores the innuendo. "Eh, you know. There's plenty of time, right? After graduation. College. After that. What's the rush?"

Silence, and then a cool hand covers his forehead. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Peachy," Youichi says. Bats at Ryousuke's hand, as his heartbeat gallops in his ears.

"A fever? Possession? Body swap?"

"This isn't a horror story, Ryou-san."

"Hmm."

Youichi settles back into the grass. "I just think, you know. The right thing is worth waiting for."

"How romantic." Sharp, needling. Ryou-san's way of showing fondness.

Youichi smiles at the sky. "Sure," he says. "If you want to put it that way."

* * *

Youichi didn’t even notice at first, was the thing. At first, right after the third years had graduated – and he’d think of them as "the third years" for a long time, long after he himself moved up to 3-B – he and Ryou-san kept up a pretty steady stream of messages, trading news from the high school baseball circuit and reports on Kominato junior for stories about college life. Sometimes they'd text back and forth about the same big game on TV, kind of like they were watching together, almost.

Around the end of Ryousuke's second term at university, just as Seidou bowed out of the fall tournament and Youichi started to come to grips with the fact that his last high school baseball game had been three months ago, enough of the old team came home for the holidays that they had a meet-up, the first since Spring Koushien. Tetsu-san came by Seidou every so often to keep an eye on Little Yuuki, but Jun-san was back from Osaka, and Fumiya from Hiroshima, and even Chris-senpai was home, patient as ever as he was pelted with questions about California. And then suddenly between one breath and the next there was Ryou-san, smiling tranquilly next to Haruichi, and Youichi thought his face was going to burst from grinning so hard.

It must have begun after that. Youichi went home for New Year’s and squirmed as his mother ruffled his hair extra hard every other minute, her way of saying I can't believe you’re graduating. Haruichi sent him a picture of the Kominato family lined up at their local temple, Ryousuke’s hair short and windblown. Looking at them next to each other it was impossible not to see that Haruichi was a good four centimeters taller. Youichi remembered thinking it was funny that he didn’t hear anything from Ryousuke, but that was Ryou-san for you. He texted him anyway.

hppy new years partner

And after a minute: Happy New Year, Kuramochi.

Then there was the final push for exams, even though they didn’t really matter with a recommendation from Coach and his college offer in hand, then the scramble to do the rounds of goodbye parties and pack up and move into the baseball dorm at Hosei, the grueling first-year hazing-we-mean-training-camp, attending obligatory Spring League games to cheer for his new senpai, dragging himself to lecture whenever he could manage between three-hour sessions of morning and evening practice. And Ryousuke—did he have exams? He must have; it was the end of the term, and he wasn't texting Youichi at all.

In the middle of the summer heat, Seidou made it to Koushien for Sawamura and Furuya and Haruichi's last hurrah. Youichi couldn’t make it all the way to Kobe during game weeks, but he knew hell and high water combined wouldn’t keep Ryousuke away. tell the kids hi for me, he texted.

He never got an answer, which he didn’t realize for a while, because then the Fall League was on them and Youichi woke, slept and dreamed Big Six games for eight brutal weeks. They beat Meiji but lost to Waseda, and then to Rikkyo – embarrassing – coming a respectable second overall. He was so exhausted by the end of the league he barely had the energy to read the congratulatory messages he did receive, much less notice the ones he didn’t. Then a lackluster nod at studying with his freshman teammates, who were all in the same classes, and then it was the holiday break, again, and Youichi went straight from the end-of-season drinking party to his dorm room and slept for eleven hours.

He truly rejoined the world of the living sometime around the day after that. The sun was out, so Youichi wandered outside to bask on the steps outside the dorm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d just... not done anything. He had a date with his PS3, just as soon as he could get himself to move again. He scrolled through his neglected messages instead, squinting against the glare. 31 new notifications. His mother, Haruichi (what a dutiful kid), Shirasu (huh), a text chain started by Sawamura entitled holidays?? that looked like a roll call of who’d be around for New Year's and included a pointed are you reading this Miyuki kazuya???

Youichi snorted. No answer from either Kominato, though presumably the younger would be there. Actually, there was no reason the elder wouldn’t either, even though he hadn't been around lately, not since – And all of a sudden Youichi realized the last time he’d seen Ryou-san face-to-face had been over a year ago.

It threw him, for a minute. But no time like the present. He opened a new message.

hey ryou-san!! long time no see. got some free time? wanna meet up?

It had been almost two weeks since the last time they'd texted, desultory complaints about the snowstorm rolling through Tokyo. Ryousuke would be an upperclassman soon; he’d said something about choosing seminars. Sure enough, when Youichi finally got an answer, late that night, it read, Ah, I’m a bit busy right now. Rain check, please.

np gimme a shout when your free!! hows school?

Ryousuke kept read receipts on. It gave Youichi two days to wonder before he got an answer.

Going. Stay warm out there.

Youichi couldn't put a finger on what exactly made him feely itchy and uncomfortable. So he ignored it. He'd cracked the starting lineup midway through the league and he couldn't let his practice schedule slip if he wanted to stay there, even for a couple days. Plus he had plenty of other shit to catch up on – violent manga to read, games to play. He wasn't going to let this get to him.

thanks ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ btw made the starting string. when are you gonna come to one of our games?

This time, four days went by before he got a single, completely unrelated message: I suppose you've heard about Fumiya's latest.

Even then, it took a couple hours before Youichi got it, until Sawamura—fucking Sawamura—texted him a picture of himself and Furuya and Haruichi and Ryou-san at—they were at Seidou, on the practice grounds, with Yui and Little Yuuki and some vaguely familiar faces that must be their underclassman. oniisan came to visit!!!!!!! the text said, and that was when Youichi realized Ryousuke was doing it on purpose.

* * *

He didn't expect it so he didn't have any defense. Just hurt – dumb, animal hurt, the kind where his body didn't know whether it wanted to lash out or curl into a ball whimpering to protect himself.

He was—supposed to know. Ryou-san wanted him to know. Wanted to hurt him.

Ryou-san hurt people on purpose, sometimes. But he'd never wanted to hurt Youichi.

That was the thing. Ryou-san hurt people, if they did something that made him think they deserved it, but not his people, not Haruichi or Youichi or Jun-senpai or even dumb, lovable Sawamura – not unless something made it unavoidable. Youichi didn't think he'd done anything to deserve it. He hadn't had a chance. So it was unavoidable. For whatever Ryou-san wanted.

Youichi didn't have the right kind of brain for these kind of games, always guessing one step ahead of one step ahead. But he knew Ryou-san. He knew how Ryou-san expected this to go down. Youichi would be hurt, confused (check); he'd pull back, bury himself in baseball. Like he always had before. The distance would grow, the noncommittal texts – We should get dinner soon or Let’s hang out when you’re not so busy – slowing to a trickle, lip service, greetings on birthdays and Haruichi going pro, until the reason for the distance was forgotten and Youichi was left with a mild wistfulness and some fond memories. And in a few years they'd finally meet up for a Seidou reunion and Ryou-san would show up with some boring guy and introduce him as his date and smile, like Youichi was supposed to be surprised, like he didn't know –

He swiped a hand across his face, blinking back furious tears. Fuck that. Fuck Ryousuke. Youichi got to his feet.

"You-san?" Haruichi's voice was fuzzy, like he had a hand over the receiver; there was laughter in the background. "What's wrong?"

Youichi said, "Give me your brother's address."

* * *

He was lingering by the bicycle bay, the sun down and twilight shading the rusty light into grey, when Ryousuke came back to his apartment building.

Turned out it wasn’t that far away; twenty minutes on the Toei Line. For the last year, or more, they'd been twenty minutes apart. Thinking about it made the pressure in Youichi's head increase, something tight squeezing around his temples.

He knew it was Ryousuke the moment he turned on to the street. He hadn't changed in the ways that mattered. Perfectly self-contained, not a movement out of place. Smaller than Youichi remembered. It made his face heat and his throat prickle, anger and confusion warring with dumb canine instinct, Ryou-san, it's Ryou-san.

Ryousuke was working on his thesis proposal – Youichi knew that much, from the little he had been allowed. Something something economics. He was probably coming back from the library; he had a laptop bag over one shoulder and carried a paper bag bulging oddly with book corners. When he reached the bank of mailboxes, Youichi moved out of the shadows.

Ryousuke glanced at him. Then did a real, actual double-take, which would have been satisfying enough to defuse the entire conversation if Youichi weren't still so angry he couldn't see straight. Ryousuke didn't move, arrested two steps from the door, and Youichi could almost see him weighing it—walk right past, go inside, deliver the killing blow right then, or—

"Hello, Kuramochi," said Ryou-san.

No one else said his name like that. Like Ryou-san was rolling it around on his tongue, tasting it before he let it go. Like it was special.

Youichi said, "I guess you think I’m real stupid or something, huh."

Ryousuke's face gave nothing away. "And, I mean, maybe I am. I didn't even get what you were doing until yesterday. How long've you been working on this?"

Ryousuke didn't answer him. He turned away and moved toward the front door. Youichi thought with a sick sort of anger that now Ryousuke was going to try to ignore him, now that he knew Youichi was going to push him for answers and not just whimper for mercy. Then he saw Ryousuke was holding the door open.

Ryousuke said, "If you want to do this outside, by all means."

It was the cool voice that meant if Youichi wanted to drag him into such a mess he’d put a short and bloody end to it. Fine. Fine. He was Kuramochi Youichi and Ryou-san could fucking bring it. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stomped inside.

Ryousuke's apartment was on the second floor. Even in the middle of anger, Youichi couldn't help casing the place, trying to drink in as much as possible, as he always did with the rare insights he was allowed into Ryou-san's privacy. It was a simple studio, five by ten maybe. It couldn't have been much different from Youichi's suite, but it looked bigger, somehow. It was definitely cleaner. The desk was neat, the bed made up and tucked in a corner. A single mug was drying on a rack across the sink. No plastic bags bulging with empty cans leaning against the cupboard, no drying laundry strewn over the fold-out table and chairs.

Ryou-san took a position by the window, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair. Kuramochi leaned against the tiny fridge and folded his arms.

He knew Ryou-san could wait him out, so of course then Ryou-san had to throw him by breaking the silence. "Congratulations."

"On what."

"Making the first string."

Youichi bit the inside of his mouth in an effort not to say I knew you read them, playing into Ryousuke's hand, again. Because of course he already knew that, that was the whole point, and Ryou-san knew he knew, and he knew Ryou-san knew, and – he hated this. He hated it.

With that eerie Ryou-san trick of reading his mind, Ryousuke said, "I don't think you're stupid. You understand perfectly well, don't you?"

And there it was again, the rage flaring behind his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I understand what you're telling me fine. You made sure of that."

"I've always thought it's best to be straightforward."

Youichi snorted, loudly. Sure, Ryou-san was straightforward, sucker punching you in the front to distract you from the knife in the back. But it wasn't worth arguing. Ryousuke didn't look the least bit affected by Youichi's scorn; he still emanated perfect composure, that hint of the smile you knew was there even when you couldn't see it. Youichi said, "You still think I'm – you think I don't know why."

"Why I don't feel like talking to you any more?"

"Why you want me to think that!" Youichi's voice shook just a little, god damn it.

"We're not in high school any more, Kuramochi." How childish, Youichi heard.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ryousuke's voice sharpened. "This is what happens. People grow apart."

"So, what, you should just give them an extra shove?"

"Why waste time?" He knew Ryousuke was doing it on purpose, he knew Ryousuke knew all his weaknesses, and it still hurt. "Things change. Friendships die."

The blaze of anger flashed through Youichi like lightning. "Who said anything about friendship?"

You wouldn't see it, probably, if you hadn't spent years learning Ryou-san's tells, how to communicate when words would have been too slow, attuned to every slight movement that might get the ball in your glove a hundredth of a second faster. Ryousuke's hand was still where it rested on the chair. His whole body was still. The stillness of a predator, or prey.

Ryousuke would deserve it if he weaseled out and went for some bullshit about partnership or brotherhood. But that wouldn't get them anywhere, and Youichi wasn’t here to score points. He didn't know what he was here for, exactly, only that he’d been waiting for it for a long time.

He'd been waiting, and now the pitch was coming. He couldn't fuck up now.

"I don't—you know I'm not good at, at subtle stuff. But I'm not stupid. I always thought—after a while we'd figure it out, you know? Whatever it is. Maybe—maybe not for a few years, maybe not for—I don’t know—but I always thought... I knew, okay? You made sure.” He took a deep, shaky breath. "So don't try and tell me this is, we're, that it's just friends. I know it's not. It never was."

Ryou-san just – looked at him, a look Youichi hadn't seen in a long, long time; like Ryou-san was reassessing everything he'd known about him. That hurt in its own way too.

“What did you think I was going to do, anyway, just—let it happen?” Ryou-san didn't say anything. Youichi's voice dropped, and to his own mortification he heard a helpless, plaintive note in his own voice. "I thought you knew me better than that."

That was the thing—the worst thing. That he’d thought—he’d known Ryou-san didn't see him the way other people did. Ryou-san didn't treat him the way other people did. Ryou-san got what made him tick and what lit him up and exactly how to take him apart. But despite all that, he still didn't get this, this most important piece. He still thought Youichi would let him down.

Ryousuke finally spoke. "I guess neither of us know each other as well as we thought."

The blood pulsed in Youichi's face. "Speak for yourself. I know you just fine."

"Do you?" And there it was, the first flash of the smolder that Youichi knew was there, always, like a forest fire in winter.

Youichi held his ground. "You bet I do."

"People change, Kuramochi."

"Not that much."

"We've barely spoken in months."

"And whose fault is that, huh?" He pushed himself off the fridge and crossed the room, just six steps, fists balled at his sides. Close enough to see Ryou-san's chest rise and fall, perfectly controlled. Close enough to touch. Whether to slug him or—

"Ryou-san," he said, as quietly as he could. "Don't do this to me, come on."

Ryousuke spoke to some point past his ear. "You seem awfully sure this is about you."

"I don't know what you thought I might do but—I wouldn't. I won't. I swear."

Ryousuke finally looked him in the eye. "Is something wrong with your hearing, Kuramochi? I said it has nothing to do with you."

"Bullshit," Youichi started to snarl, then pulled himself up short. Think, Youichi. What had he just told himself? Punch in the front, knife in the back. Right.

"Fine," he said. "'S not about me.' He saw it flash across Ryou-san's face, disappointment that he'd been right all along – like now he got what he'd been pushing for, he'd secretly been wishing he wouldn't.

"What do you think you're gonna do?" Youichi said.

Ryousuke's face froze.

"Cause whatever it is. You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily, Ryou-san."

Ryou-san wasn't moving. This was it—his chance, now or never. He took took two more steps. In arm's reach now.

"You can have anything you want. As much as you want. You know that, right? You’ve gotta have known it."

The good thing about Ryou-san was also the bad thing about Ryou-san, which was that once he got the bit between his teeth he would run with it until he dropped. He was a fighter; it was one of the things Youichi liked so much about him. Only this time Youichi was pretty sure he was fighting something that didn't exist.

"Any time since second year. All you had to do was say the word."

Two more steps.

Ryou-san smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile.

"What makes you think I want you," he said, cool as glacial runoff, the cool of a frosted drink on a hot day, a chill that made Youichi want to submerge his head and never come out.

How did he know? He didn't, he supposed. Other than that Ryou-san wouldn't be doing this if he didn't have something to be scared of.

That was when he saw that Ryousuke's hand, nearly imperceptible, was trembling.

It hit, a current of vindication and rapport and desire and tenderness all together, like something physical, pulling him in ten directions at once. He didn't know if he wanted to punch Ryou-san, or wrap him up or and never let go, or maybe fall to his knees, or maybe all of the above. It was even odds that Ryousuke would physically step on him, though, which he didn’t want–or maybe he kind of did? it was confusing—so he settled for taking the hand in his own, as gently as he knew how.

He knew that hand well. Smaller than his own, finely shaped. The most capable hand he knew. The baseball calluses had faded; a long angry paper cut ran down the index finger. He curled the strong, flexible fingers around his own. Lifted it to his lips and kissed the knuckles, once. Then he waited for Ryou-san to cut him off at the knees with a single word.

It never came. When Youichi looked up, Ryou-san's smile was gone and his jaw was clenched so hard the skin was white. His eyes were open, and looking at Youichi.

"Come on, Ryou-san," Youichi said again. Hoarse. "Give me a chance."

Ryou-san's voice was barely a whisper. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He couldn't help the laugh that bubbled over. Because—hadn't they just been over this? He knew Ryou-san. He knew exactly what he was asking for.

"Ryou-san. I'm here, aren’t I?"

It must have shown in his grin, because Ryou-san's face flashed irritation, before, unwilling, softening at the edges.

He knew that look too. That was the one that meant Even I didn’t know if you'd make that catch. You’ve managed to surpass my expectations this time. It meant, If I were a different person I'd say 'Well done, Kuramochi.' It was his special look.

He was still holding Ryou-san’s hand in his own. He squeezed it, gently. "Come on, partner. What do you say?"

Ryou-san said, "I suppose there are worse ideas."

Ryou-san's head tipped back. Youichi wasn't an idiot.

Ryou-san's lips were dry. One arm wrapped around his neck, one around his shoulders. Tighter, tighter. His arm slid right around Ryou-san’s waist. Perfectly sized to fit together. He'd known that, too, somehow. Ryou-san felt just right. Of course he did.

Ryousuke's mouth was soft—softer than Youichi had thought. And he had thought, deep down. There was a reason he’d never taken the girls in his class up on their hints, a reason he'd never taken anyone home from a group date. Waiting, all this time, for the time to be right. Until all of a sudden waiting wasn't enough.

He didn't know how far he could push, here. Funny, when he'd just pushed as hard as he could. Ryou-san made a dissatisfied noise. One hand clenched on Youichi's shoulder; body poised, held just centimeters from Youichi's, just far enough for tension to crackle in the space between.

Then – it was like an electric current, a shudder passing through Ryou-san's body, and then Ryou-san had one hand digging into the meat of his shoulder and the other wound in his hair and was molding himself to Youichi, going for his mouth like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this for a long, long time.

Youichi caught him with both hands and hung on. No room to breathe, to think, just to take as much of Ryou-san as he could. To feel the sharp pain of a hand tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck, the fingernails digging into his shoulder, the hungry, urgent mouth.

Again, and again. He didn’t know how long it went on. He was struggling for breath, gasping – "Ryou-san," into his jaw, the side of his neck, the magic words, "Ryou-san—"

He felt Ryou-san's smile against his cheek. "No need for honorifics, Kuramochi."

"Look who's talking," Youichi managed, between deep, panting breaths. "That the best you can do?"

"What was that, Youichi?" Ryou-san murmured in his ear and Youichi thought he was going to melt down right there in the middle of Ryou-san's apartment. Ryou-san knew it, too, he had the most insufferable knowing smile on his face – Youichi was grinning, grinning so hard it hurt, in relief, in sheer happiness.

Youichi kissed him one more time, long and hard. Ryou-san might look unruffled to outside eyes, but Youichi knew better – the heightened color, the deep breaths, the disordered hair where Youichi had run a hand through it, gathering Ryousuke up toward him. Not that he had anything on Youichi himself. He knew he had to look like he'd just gotten run over, and it gave him a deep, satisfied glow. Bring it. He was ready.

Ryou-san was giving him a long, lingering once-over. Reading his mind again. "You’d better be prepared," he said.

"Hell yeah I am," Youichi said, maybe more fervently than necessary, because something in Ryou-san's eyes kindled, assessing. Youichi's cheeks were warm, but he refused to back down. Ryou-san wanted to go there, Ryou-san could take what he got.

"Hm." Ryou-san eased back down onto his feet – Youichi hadn't realized he'd been on his tiptoes – and smoothed his hands over Youichi's shoulders, patting them once, absent and proprietary. It lit up some sort of nerve center down deep in Youichi’s brain. He was ready, all right, eight days a week.

"Hm," Ryousuke repeated, pensive this time. "I suppose there's no way to avoid mentioning this to Haruichi."

Youichi's train of thought, which had been progressing in a decidedly non-little-brotherly-direction, pulled up short. "Huh?"

Ryousuke's lips made a slight twist of distate. "Haruichi had some words. About... Well."

Youichi laughed—cackled, fine. "I bet."

One eyebrow went up sharply. In anyone else that would be a pout. "Don't think you're getting off so easy, You-san. He wasn't terribly impressed with you, either."

Youichi couldn't help it. He ducked his head to steal another kiss, reveling in the way Ryou-san leaned up into it, leaned into him, didn’t hurry to let go. "I can handle junior," Youichi murmured when it was over, blithely ignoring years of evidence to the contrary

Ryousuke's shoulders quivered – with laughter. "Is that so."

Youichi was carried away on a tide of satisfaction, blissfully invincible. Nothing could touch him. "Sure. The Kominato whisperer. That’s what they call me."

"Do they," Ryou-san said, which, oops, maybe that one had been a mistake – no, that invisible smile was there, and –

"He can wait until I'm done with you," said Ryousuke.

"Sure," Youichi said, husky. "All yours, Ryou-san."

And you better not forget it again, he wanted to add, but from the tiny, tiny smile on Ryousuke's face, he kind of thought he didn't have to.

* * *

"About time," Haruichi sniffed, next time he met Youichi for fast food. "Honestly."

"A lot of help you were," Youichi groused, stealing a handful of his fries as punishment.

"If you can't solve your own problems, why should I be expected to fix them for you?" Haruichi pointed out, which was pretty reasonable, actually, except—

"I didn't know there was one! Which was what it was!"

He stopped to review his pronouns. Haruichi blinked at him. "You-san, are you skipping class again?"

"Shut up, junior," Youichi grumbled, and stole another fry.

[epacer]

Story You May Have Missed

Engle (Class of 1975) reflects on childhood with Ted Williams

Dave Engle had a childhood most kids can only dream about: He grew up hanging around with Ted Williams, a longtime friend of Engle's dad.

In fact, Engle's father ran Williams' summer hitting school in Massachusetts, and Engle always went along. A former big league player with the Twins, Tigers, Expos and Brewers, and a current scout with the Orioles, Engle has plenty of memories of the "Splendid Splinter," who had a tough-guy exterior in public, but not in private.

With Friday being the 51st anniversary of Williams being elected to the Hall of Fame, Engle reminisced about those days around Williams in this week's Q&A with MLB.com.

MLB.com: Your father and Ted Williams grew up together?

Engle: They were best buddies. They played baseball together at [Herbert] Hoover High School in San Diego. My dad was playing in the Minor Leagues when Ted was in the Minor Leagues. Then, my dad had a chance to come home and become a school teacher, which was a real job. He took the bird in the hand, and Ted went on to become Hall of Famer Ted Williams.

MLB.com: But they did remain friends?

Engle: My dad ran Ted's hitting camp. The day after school got out, we'd hook up a trailer, jump in the station wagon and drive from San Diego to Lakeville, Mass., every year for about 15 years. We got to play baseball and swim in the lake and ride horses and archery and riflery. It was a great opportunity for me to be around Ted, and to really get to know him pretty well before he started managing the Senators.

MLB.com: Did you realize who Ted Williams was?

Engle: I thought he was a great fisherman, because he had a picture of a 120-pound tarpon in the mess hall with him standing there. Then I figured out, this guy is a baseball player who happened to fish on the side. He had a place down on the Miramichi [River] in Canada. He owned a mile of the river. He also had a place down in the Florida Keys. The guy was bigger than life. We'd have a barbecue every Spring Training when the Twins played in Winter Haven [, Fla.]. I got tired of getting grilled by him about hitting, so I would bring Kirby Puckett, Tom Brunansky, Mickey Hatcher -- a different guy each year, so [Williams] could grill them.

MLB.com: You got to know him in a lot better realm than most people?

Engle: Absolutely. He was almost like a godfather to me, because I was growing up at camp. Before his son, John Henry, came around, Ted would gravitate to my brother and myself and take us places. He would say, "Get in the car, we're going to go down and go fishing on the lake." I didn't really know how fortunate I was until much later in life.

MLB.com: So at this stage of life, when you think about Ted Williams, what comes to mind?

Engle: It's all part of the good fortune I've had in life. For being a little shooter in this game of baseball, I was able to have participated in football on a national championship team at USC [in 1974], and actually play on the baseball team that won the College World Series [in '78]. There have been so many things that have happened in my life. I wouldn't trade places with anyone that has ever lived, because of the experiences that have happened. The Ted Williams side is just one chapter in this incredible life story that I have been able to just be like a fly on the wall around all these great players and great situations.

MLB.com: The experience hasn't lost its luster?

Engle: I just turned 60, and I pinch myself every day, because I love and appreciate the game of baseball more today. I've lived five or six lifetimes of wonderful experiences. It is just all of us in the fraternity, that we're all lifers. We're a very fortunate group that we never had to go to a cubicle and sit and work all day long. We've got grass under our spikes. We're in the stands. We're talking to people. We're in different cities. We're so fortunate, and I really feel blessed and honored to be part of this since I've been 21 years old. It's going to be 40 years pretty soon.

MLB.com: Any particular tips that Ted gave you that stick out in your mind?

Engle: The hips, baby. He'd always grab the hips and do this little drill. When he was at Hoover High School, they had the weights hooked to the wall that were on the cable and you pull. He had these drills, but the one he loved the most was to pull on those weights, hold them and pop his hips. You really feel the muscles burn in your thigh when you have those weights in your hands and you're actually trying to take the bat handle down to the ball where it was coming in. For a few years, I really religiously worked on that.

MLB.com: He was into preparation?

Engle: He was such a perfectionist. I didn't realize it at the time. You try to grasp a few things here and there, but he was in the 800 series when I was taking freshman economics. I had the benefit of all these great coaches, and playing three games every two days at camp for seven weeks every year with some of the greatest coaches. I probably was a [Class A] or [Double-A] player, but because of all the coaching and playing that I did, it actually helped me be good enough to be a player at the Major League level, where if I didn't have that training, I don't even think I would have ever even gotten the opportunity.

MLB.com: You cherish those times with Ted?

Engle: It was a lot of special evenings and days with Ted Williams and my dad. My dad was equally a great athlete at USC. He played both football and baseball, on the national championship teams with both sports. That was back in the day of leather helmets and no faceguards. I never even knew any of this stuff until he had his 80th birthday party. I knew he played, but he never talked about himself at all, and Amby Schindler was the quarterback at USC with my dad. He sat me and Roger, my brother, down and told us what a great player and athlete that my dad was, and he single-handedly helped them win that game against Tennessee in the Rose Bowl [in 1940].

MLB.com: Did Ted talk about him much?

Engle: On page like 27 of "My Turn at Bat," Ted made a reference to my dad about "Roy Engle was the only guy that was ever a better hitter than me." I'm reading the book and I said, "Dad, did you know that this was in here?" "Ah, don't worry about that." He never wanted to talk about it. We had Jackie Robinson Day. You think he might have told me that Jackie Robinson was playing at UCLA while he was at USC. You might want to mention that while we're sitting around the barbecue one night, but he never talked about himself. In the station wagon for two weeks driving to Massachusetts, he had all this opportunity to mention that. Never came out of his mouth.

MLB.com: Back to Ted, did you see the competitor in him?

Engle: He was a dynamic personality that I never grew tired of being around. I laugh about it now, but he took all my nickels. I got a nickel a day for candy at the canteen after dinner. We'd jump in the batting cage, and he'd bet me how many balls I could hit in the net behind the machine in straightaway center. No matter how many I hit out of 10, he always got one more than me. If I hit six, he'd hit seven. If I hit five, he'd get six. If I hit eight, he'd get nine. I never beat him at anything. *Reposted article from MBL News by Tracy Ringolsby, January 21, 2017

[nashvilletonihon]

There’s No Race, There’s Only A Runner. Just Keep One Foot In Front Of The Other...

Hey guys. It’s been a few days (ok, maybe a little bit more than that) since I last posted anything. To be honest, I don’t have much to tell. I’ve been at my high schools for two weeks now and have actually taught less than a handful of times. This upcoming week is the Cultural Festival, so both Amino and Kumihama have been focused on preparing for that. This means there are shortened classes and varied schedules depending on rehearsal times. Cultural Festival is a school wide event that requires the students to all participate in various activities. At Amino, the First Years are required to perform in a play. The second years are required to sing and the Third Years are required to dance. There are also food stalls, games and activities that the teachers can buy tickets to. (I have one for a Japanese tea booth I plan on visiting on Wednesday.) At Kumihama, all of the students chose to perform in different plays depending on their homerooms. There is a general atmosphere of excitement and anticipation filling the hallways and classrooms at both schools and I am 100% ready to see all of the students hard work and effort come to fruition. We just have to hope against hope the typhoon doesn’t ruin everything.

This past month has been one of the most difficult of my life. I’ve been very open and honest about my struggles regarding moving to and living in Japan. This week was especially hard because I was not feeling well, school and classes did NOT go how I had imagined them and I was incredibly emotional and homesick. (For those of you following the saga that is my sleep schedule, I wish I could inform you that it’s getting better....but it’s not.) I thought maybe a run would combat the stress and anxiety I that I was feeling, so Wednesday night I did just that. In 90 degree weather and at least 1,000% humidity I put on my running clothes, laced up the new sneakers I bought (because I FINALLY found a pair in my size) and just...ran. I didn’t have a set destination. All I knew was that I needed to run away from my emotions. (Spoiler alert: They caught up with me later.) As I was aimlessly running, I stumbled upon a park a short distance from my apartment. Curious, I decided to take a little detour to see what it had to offer. Turns out there were a few tennis courts, a small lake, a really, really nice baseball field and some nature trails heading up a “mountain” toward one side the stadium. 

Feeling adventurous, I decided to explore one of the trails. I quickly realized how out of shape I am as I began to climb the almost vertical stairs. Huffing and puffing I hauled myself up this mountainside. With each step I took I became more and more emotional. I kept thinking about how classes that day had been a total bust. The students sat there. Stone faced. Silent. They just stared at me like I had grown a second head as I attempted to introduce myself. The more I tried to make it exciting, engaging and fun, the more they refused to participate. You want to talk about feeling judged? Stand in front of a classroom full of 30 high schoolers who want nothing to do with you and what you have to say. 

(It ain’t fun.)

Wheezing and panting, my mind filled with failures of the day, I finally reached the top of the mountain. Exhausted, stressed, anxious and downright fed up, I sat down next to a small, run down temple and cried. 

“What am I doing here? Why did I leave the great life I had in America for this? The students don’t care. I can’t understand anyone. I’m alone and I miss my family. I miss Preston so much. Does he miss me like I miss him? I miss going to movies with him. Feeling his arms around me in bear a hug. God, what I wouldn’t do for a hug. From anyone. I could still be working at a really great job right now back in the States and having the time of my life with my friends. Instead, I’m here. I don’t want to be here anymore. I feel like such a failure. This is too hard and I honestly don’t know if I have anything left to give. It’s only been a month but it feels like a lifetime. I want off this roller coaster. Please. I just want to go home.”

I cried until I thought I couldn’t cry anymore. (I did the next day while on the phone with my mom.) I sat there next to that temple with snot, sweat and tears running down my face and felt so, hopeless. To have so many things beyond my control is new for me and I hate it. I knew this was going to be hard but I had no idea it was going to be THIS hard. I know by now that I must sound like a broken record when it comes to this. “Yes Rachel, we get it. It’s hard but god bless, pull up your big girl panties and DO something about it.” Or maybe that’s just what I would tell myself from the outside looking in. And I promise you all that I am. I’m studying Japanese like it’s a dying language, saying yes to every offer that involves hanging out, grabbing food or exploring, getting involved in after school activities like Kendo and attempting to stay as busy as possible to keep my mind off of the crippling doubt and anxiety ridden thoughts I’m having.

Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. 

That being said, I’m a firm believer that the universe gives you exactly what you need precisely when you need it. Enter Kate and Jess on a rainy Thursday evening. A few days earlier, Leah (my predecessor) had reached out and informed me that last year an older Japanese couple, Kumi and Masani Yoshida, had invited some of the JETs over to their house for a weekly dinner. The wife used to be a JTE at Amino (my base school) and apparently their bread is famous among the Kyotango AET’s who have had the pleasure of attending one of these gatherings. 

I’ll be honest, I didn’t want to go. I had just finished bawling on the phone to my mom when I got the message that they were outside my apartment. I quickly splashed some cold water on my face, slipped my sneakers on and walked outside. No make-up. Messy hair. Sweaty and sick looking. “Sorry I look like death warmed over.” I mumbled. “Not at all. You look great.” Kate replied with a smile. (Already being much nicer than I deserved.) “Would you like to follow us so that you know how to get there the next time?” Not feeling particularly social, I quickly agreed and got in my car. 20 minutes later we had arrived at an adorable Japanese home with two of the kindest people waiting for us inside. (I dare someone to find an unkind person in Japan.) 

Dinner was entirely vegetarian, comprised of dishes like noodles, rice and vegetables all grown in and harvested from their personal garden. AND THE BREAD. (I would 100% die for that bread.) The Yoshida’s didn’t even seem to mind that I was mostly speaking in English, too tired to try to work out what I wanted to say in Japanese. Kate and Jess have been in Japan for five years now and did most of the translating for me and the Yoshida’s in return. I was maybe a little more candid than I should have been upon first meeting them about how lonely and miserable I was. (Keeping in mind that I had my incredibly gracious hosts sitting right next to me.) I told them mostly everything. How isolating the countryside is, especially when you’re a Prefectural JET because you don’t get the luxury of meeting all the Municipal AET’s at the Board of Education almost every week. I talked to them about how sad and homesick I was and how I didn’t know if I had it in me to last an entire year. They both listened with patience and responded with kindness. Kate told me about how she went through the same feelings and emotions when she arrived. Her situation was a little different from mine because she wasn’t a JET at that point and had no job to work at or school to attend. “I was home for 10 hours a day, by myself. It was awful.” she confided in me. “But don’t worry. We’ll make sure you’re not alone anymore.” I almost started crying at the dinner table. 

As the meal began to wind down, we made plans to return again the next week. This time Kumi invited us to come earlier than 6:45 so that Kate and I could help her cook dinner if we wanted. It’s a fantastic opportunity to expand my Japanese recipe book and authentic dish making skills, so of course I adamantly agreed. Laden with leftovers and some brand new towels (the Japanese love giving gifts) I slipped on my outside shoes as Kate informed me that Kumi is well versed in the art of tying and wearing 着物 kimono and that there is a festival dedicated to kimono is October. I was immediately invited and have plans to attend with Kate and Kumi if our schedules allow. Kate and Jess also made plans to pick me up the next morning to show me around Kyotango, take me to the grocery store so that they could help me with any questions I might have regarding labels and food items and to basically let me know that living in the countryside isn’t a death sentence. (However much it might feel like one at times.)

So this morning, we did all of that. It may have been raining but that didn’t dampen our spirits as we bought locally grown veggies and homemade bread at a cute café down the street from where I live, drove along the coastline for some of the most gorgeous views I’ve ever seen and a place that I definitely plan on taking my family and Preston when they come to visit next year. We grabbed a delicious lunch of ramen at the mall where I do some of my grocery shopping and capped off the afternoon with a trip to this tucker away liquor store next to the train station where I can find all of my favorite American whiskeys and spirits for half the price. Places I never would have known about if Kate and Jess hadn’t taken time out of their Saturday to drive around and show me. I am forever indebted to them and their kindness. We already have plans to go hiking once the weather cools down for good and to go to the 温泉 onsen (Japanese bath/hot spring) for some girl relaxation time when school gets to be too much. I laughed and smiled more today than I have all week. Most importantly though, I didn’t feel judged for the way I’ve been feeling. Here they are five years later with no plans to leave and a potential house in the works. Life’s funny, ain’t it?

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. I have no idea what the next 11 months will bring. (Except maybe tears. And most certainly memories.) What I do know is that I am slowly surrounding myself with a group of wonderful, kind, caring, gentle, patient and genuine human beings who make each unknown day a little bit easier to manage. It makes me excited to introduce my family and boyfriend to them. To show my loved ones the people who have become so dear and so close to me. My network of support and a safety net when walking the tightrope gets to be a tad too scary. 

I’m one fortunate gal, I tell you what. I haven’t given up just yet, and I’ll keep puttin’ one foot in front of the other.

- レイチェル (Rachel)

[freenewstoday]

New Post has been published on https://freenews.today/2021/01/12/carrasco-mets-primed-for-playoffs-world-series/

Carrasco: Mets primed for playoffs, World Series

NEW YORK — Carlos Carrasco got a welcome call from new Mets owner Steven Cohen.

“He was so excited. He can’t wait to meet me. I can’t wait to meet him, too,” the pitcher said Tuesday. “The way he talked, the way he said everything is — he looked like a really nice guy.”

New York has bulked up since Cohen completed his $2.4 billion purchase of the Mets from the Wilpon and Katz families on Nov. 6. Carrasco is expecting a postseason contender.

“I’m so happy right now. I wish spring training started next week, to meet everyone and start wearing this jersey,” Carrasco said during a news conference. “It’s something really important for me, just wearing this jersey right now.”

Carrasco and All-Star shortstop Francisco Lindor were acquired from Cleveland last week for infielders Andrés Giménez and Amed Rosario plus a pair of minor league prospects: right-hander Josh Wolf and outfielder Isaiah Greene.

A right-hander who turns 34 in March, Carrasco missed three months of the 2019 season while fighting leukemia. He pitched through the coronavirus pandemic, going 3-4 in 12 starts with a 2.91 ERA, his best since a career-best 2.55 ERA when he split 2014 between Cleveland’s rotation and bullpen.

“The first time that I found out that I had leukemia, I just think about it for 10 seconds, the worst thing,” he recalled. “But after that, I just always had my wife on my side and she told me, ‘You’re going to be fine. From day one to even now this morning, you’re fine, you don’t have anything.′ And that’s what I needed to hear.”

A positive thinker, Carrasco said that has been a key to his return to health.

“Just given to the simple, of just being strong,” he said. “I never feel down. I always think about it a different way. I have kids. I have a wife. My parents, friends, I don’t want them to see me sad. I always be strong and that’s what I’ve been feeling right now. I’m feeling really strong about that.”

Carrasco joins two-time NL Cy Young Award winner Jacob deGrom and Marcus Stroman in the rotation, which also may include from among David Peterson, Steven Matz and Seth Lugo. Noah Syndergaard is likely to return from Tommy John surgery at some point from June until the season’s end.

After going 88-73 with a 3.73 ERA over 11 seasons with the Indians, Carrasco joins a team seeking its first World Series title since 1986, one that feels it is positioned to contend around its pitching and a core offensive group that includes Pete Alonso and Michael Conforto.

Carrasco will keep his No. 59 in New York and Lindor his No. 12. Winner of Major League Baseball’s 2019 Roberto Clemente Award for best exemplifying baseball, sportsmanship, community involvement and contribution to his team, Carrasco is looking forward to starting community work in the New York area.

New York’s offseason has included Stroman accepting an $18.9 million qualifying offer and deals for right-handed reliever Trevor May ($15.5 million for two-years), catcher James McCann ($40.6 million for four years) and Syndergaard ($9.7 million for one season).

“The potential is to make it to the playoffs and to the World Series, too,” Carrasco said. “We have a really good team. Adding myself, Lindor is going to be really, really good, really nice. We have really good players, starting pitchers, relievers, I think we’re going to be fine.”

Source

[allisonswrittenwords]

“Math is for eggheads!”

Yeah, and it doesn’t have any practical applications once you’re out of school, right?  It’s just like science – once you’re not learning about it, you don’t really need it.

Now, I admit, I never liked Math (or Science).  I did well with both subjects until 8th grade, but struggled once I got to high school.  Where I was a solid A/B student in English/Literature and History, I was more along the lines of a B/C+/C student in Math and Science.  Don’t get me wrong, I find concepts of both subjects interesting as an adult, but when I was in school, I was frustrated constantly.  I loved how equations looked and loved working on solving them.  That was usually where I did ok.  Word problems, however, are the worst.  My high school required three years of math, with the maximum requirement being Algebra 2.  You just hoped you could start Algebra 1 in ninth grade so you could finish the math requirement, as mandated by the state of New Jersey, during junior year.  No Pre-Calculus or Calculus for me – I was done with Math!

As for Science, again, love the concept of science, loved 3-2-1 Contact as a kid, but it frustrated me.  I did well in ninth grade science – it was a introduction to Biology and Chemistry (I think it was called Bio/Chem Tech), but it was so much fun, and I was a solid A/B student.  We had a great teacher and once in a while, we got to watch Bill Nye The Science Guy when it was relevant.  However, once I got to Biology in 10th grade (and the dreaded Chemistry in 11th grade), I struggled.  I never got anything above a C in Chemistry.  I loved my teacher, and he seemed to understand that not everyone was good at the subject, but he would work with the ones who struggled the most.  I was grateful for him, but Chemistry was the final required Science class in New Jersey, so yeah, I didn’t move on to Physics.

11th grade (1999-2000). And yes, my hair really was that long!

During college, I had to take (for non-major requirements) two Math classes.  In my case, it wound up being three, as my SATs put me in a workshop/basic skills Math class for my first semester.  I actually liked that class, it was like Pre-Algebra, but not taught by the former nun I had in eighth grade.  We also met regularly one-on-one with the professor, and she was a nice, very approachable person.  She knew why we were there, and was great with us.  And the next class I took, which was the first required class everyone at college had to take (can’t remember the name of it), was actually fun.  By the time I got to the Algebra 1-level class I *chose* to take (there were other classes, this one sounded interesting to me), I loved Math.  Where I struggled in high school, I excelled in college.  It was 1000-level Math, but still, I loved it, and I was actually good at it!

College graduation (2005)

My college also required one science-type class, so I took one that I had heard so many amazing things about – Atom, Man, and Universe.  It was a 200-student class (no social distancing there!), taught in a theater-style classroom by this adorable older gentleman from Israel.  He was wonderful, and the material was so interesting.  I got a B in the class, but I felt like I learned so much, and grasped it.

These days, my favorite kind of science involves planetariums and museums, and my favorite kind of math involves practical applications.  While there were times I certainly thought “I’ll never use this again,” it was a teenage mentality and it certainly is not the truth.

The best kind of math and science, for me, is the surprise kind.  Where you didn’t think you’d learn either subject, it comes out of its way to teach you something.  That type of “surprise Math” is the basis for a very entertaining – and educational – short from 1959, featuring someone else who believed there was not actual use for Math.  It’s also my Retro Rewatch for this week!

A “Mighty Strange” Place

Donald In Mathmagic Land is a 1959 short film by Walt Disney, released theatrically on a bill with Darby O’Gill and the Little People.  The film was nominated for an Academy Award, and made available to schools beginning in the 1960s, considered to be one of the most popular educational Disney films ever made.

Donald Duck is hunting, when he wanders into a “mighty strange” place – a land where numbers flow over waterfalls, trees with square roots, and then is encountered by a walking pencil that wants Donald to play Tic-Tac-Toe with it.  As he wanders further, a geometric bird recites all the numbers of Pi.  It is then that the unseen “True Spirit of Adventure,” merely a disembodied voice, welcomes Donald to Mathmagic Land and “the wonder of mathematics.”

Donald is immediately resistant to the whole idea, as “math is for eggheads.”  But the Spirit decides to strike a “chord” with Donald, by piquing his interest in music.

Alright True Spirit of Adventure, you have him, he’s listening.

The early origins of music, as created by Pythagoras and his contemporaries (and their “jam session”) in Ancient Greece, is explored.

Music gives way to the pentagram, the golden section of the pentagram, and how it constructs golden rectangles, as well as the influence of the golden rectangle in ancient and modern cultures – construction of buildings, creating of paintings, and even dancing!

The golden rectangle isn’t just for construction of buildings, creation of paintings, and dance, but also to humans and nature – the “ideal proportions” of the human body fit the structure of the golden rectangle.

Well, almost every body.  Not everyone is “mathematically perfect.”

In nature, the pentagram is found in flowers and animals, with the golden section featured in nature’s designs.

From nature to games, Donald learned that mathematics plays a pivotal role in the games one plays, including chess (which features a nice nod to Alice in Wonderland), baseball (Donald loves this!), football, basketball, hopscotch, and three-cushion billiards.

After some “mental housecleaning” of Donald’s antiquated ideas, bungling, false concepts, superstitions, and confusion, Donald plays with a triangle and circle in his mind, which gives way to the learning of how the two work together, spinning them into a sphere and a cone, and giving way to the invention of the wheel, magnifying glass, train, drill, spring, propeller, and telescope.

Finally, Donald learns that pentagrams – and in turn, numbers – can be drawn into infinity – no paper is big enough to accomplish this, and that technological advances and scientific knowledge are unlimited.  The key to unlocking the future, the Spirit informs Donald, is mathematics.

With his newfound appreciation and knowledge of how math figures into everything (my aforementioned “surprise math”), Donald finds out that the doors to the future will be unlocked by the curious and inquiring minds of future generations.

The True Spirit of Adventure ends the lessons with the words of Galileo:

“Mathematics is the alphabet with which God has written the universe.”

Because Math!

My Reaction

Donald in Mathmagic Land was released as part of Disney’s Mini Classics collection in 1988. I owned the VHS of this, along with Mickey and the Beanstalk.  I believe we had Wind in the Willows also, or in the very least rented it.  I do remember these Mini Classics very well.  The video went to a younger cousin when I was in my teens (as alot of my videos and clothes did), so I lost track of it for a few years in the 90s, until I was in high school.

My eleventh grade math class, Algebra 2, watched this movie on the last day before winter break.  This was in 1999, and prior to that, it had been at least five years (probably more) since the last time I watched this.  And it was the last time I saw it.  Not something I ever forgot, but not something I approached watching again.

Until this week.

I had a pretty good memory of the animation and the rectangles, as well as the billiard scene and live action band, so watching this again really jogged some good memories of watching this in my living room as a six-year-old.  I really enjoyed this back then, didn’t understand much of it, but as an adult, I get it.  The concept is simple – math is everywhere (even when you least expect it), and its hidden knowledge is waiting to be unleashed from behind a locked door and shared with the world.

The animation is just as beautiful as I remember it, very much on par with Disney animation of the time.  The music is whimsical and beautiful, and the sound effects – especially the ones used to highlight all the rectangles on the Parthenon in Athens, Greece – always got my attention.

Ding-ding-ding!

If any of the concepts were a little fuzzy from so many years of not watching this, the billiards scene is the one that I remember best.  At 4 minutes and 46 seconds, it is the longest of the “live action” segments, but has alot of detail and explanation as to how the game is played, and how the player figures out his strategy. Even as a kid, this was always fascinating.

I’ll be perfectly honest, as soon as the video got to the section on games, I said “the billiards segment!” out loud.  It just always has stuck with me.

I love this video, all of it.  It was good then, it was good as a teenager, and it is good now.  I had so much fun watching it on the treadmill – I actually thought it was longer than 27 minutes.  It made my workout go a little faster, which is not always a bad thing!

Watch Donald in Mathmagic Land

Even if you’ve seen it before, even if you don’t understand all the concepts of math (I don’t, but I get some of it), this is a fun watch.  I have the DVD of it (and I’ve converted it to digital), but it is also on YouTube.

Upload via TrueDisney

Remember, “Mathematics is the alphabet with which God has written the universe.”  It may not always seem like you need math, but it is always there, always advancing, always helping science – and life – advance.  And yes, you do need it.

Because Math!

Have a great day!

Retro Rewatch - "Donald in Mathmagic Land": The Wonderland of Mathematics is the setting for this 1959 "edu-taining" Disney short! "Math is for eggheads!"

[techcrunchappcom]

New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/getting-back-to-work-gladstone-football-team-begins-summer-workouts-news-sports-jobs/

Getting back to work: Gladstone football team begins summer workouts | News, Sports, Jobs

Austin Hemmingson | Daily Press Gladstone’s Ryan Polley performs a deadlift at the Gladstone training facility Monday, while teammate Blake Servant walks by. The Braves began outdoor workouts for the first time after Gov. Gretchen Whitmer lifted the stay-at-home order last week that was originally supposed to run through June 12. After the order was lifted, the Michigan High School Athletic Association approved use of outdoor school facilities in groups of up to 100 as long as social distancing is taking place.

GLADSTONE — For the first time in nearly three months, athletes were allowed to return to outdoor athletic facilities Monday. Following Gov. Gretchen Whitmer’s announcement early last week that she would be lifting Michigan’s stay-at-home order, the Michigan High School Athletic Association approved workouts at outdoor school facilities in groups of up to 100, as long as social distancing takes place.

The Gladstone football team didn’t waste any time, jumping into summer workouts at the Braves training facility right next to the football field. A group of roughly 15 showed up for the hour-long workout, which began with head coach Jeff Hansen running through protocols of how they would deal with the new regulations due to COVID-19. Temperature checks were conducted on each athlete before beginning any physical activity, hand sanitizer was present before using the equipment, and regulations for conducting a safe workout were posted on the wall.

“It’s a relief,” Hansen said about getting back to work. “It’s kind of exhilarating to have the kids come back — you can tell they’re happy to be here. I’ve had a lot of correspondence with our players through text messaging and email, talking about finally being able to come and do this. To do something football related, the kids are excited, the coaches are excited, and we’re just really happy to get things moving in a positive direction and be involved with sports again.”

The players were able to take weights outside, and they also used medicine balls to do lunges among other activities.

“We just want to get their bodies back to working athletically, because a lot of these guys generally stay in pretty decent shape, but they’re not in competition shape,” Hansen said. “The MHSAA has eased some of the regulations when it comes to summer dead periods, I think, because a lot of the kids are going to be de-conditioned. They haven’t competed in spring sports and their winter season was cut off, so we’re going to start slow and just make sure we get everybody in good enough shape so that they can have a good healthy season. … If they’re healthy, that’s going to help them to deal with being less injury-prone and things like that.”

Austin Hemmingson | Daily Press Gladstone football coach Jeff Hansen does a temperature check on Caden Downey before the team begins its outdoor workouts Monday. Each player has to be temperature checked before participating in any physical activity.

For seniors Blake Servant and Ryan Polley, it’s been a long time since participating in an organized team activity.

“It feels really good,” said Servant, who last participated in an athletic event during wrestling in the winter. “All throughout quarantine I’ve just been trying to ease in and keep fit and stuff, but just coming back and lifting more heavy weights is a better feeling.”

Servant suffered a bad ankle sprain in a scrimmage against Munising before the season even got started last fall, which limited his impact. He’s looking to bounce back in a big way as a senior.

“I just want to finish off my high school career really good with football,” he said. “I just want to really work hard this summer and hope to be something good this season.”

Polley’s last organized team event was baseball practice in the spring before everyone was put on lockdown.

“It feels great (being back),” he said. “It’s nice to be outside. I’ve been working out at my house, but it’s just not the same — especially getting back with my teammates and everything.”

He hopes to see more guys come out and more production as the workouts continue. Workouts are to continue every day, Monday through Friday from 4:30 to 5:30.

“With this group of guys, the sky is the limit,” he said. “I think we could be a really good team. … We have the talent, it’s just a matter of getting people here and working.

“More than just even getting guys here, I’d like to see everyone getting dedicated and trying to become better. Whether it be max (lifts) or just getting faster or anything like that, I’d just like to see everyone trying to better themselves.”

Although the workouts are voluntary, Hansen noted they’re a point of emphasis.

“It’s something we emphasize greatly, because when our student-athletes are working out together for all of their sports, it gives them confidence and they see the improvement,” he said. “They get in better shape and they feel better about themselves. Confident athletes just play better. They get to mingle with their teammates, so you build a lot of team chemistry and trust, where they see each other working. They put themselves in a position to succeed, because the athletes that have came in and have worked and are ready, just stand a better chance to get out there and maximize their playing potential.”

Last week, Great Northern Conference athletic directors met to discuss a number of contingency plans for football scheduling if the MHSAA puts on tough travel restrictions or COVID-19 numbers spike back up.

“The MHSAA has kind of given us some guidance on how we can do summer workouts and where they see competition going. There’s some level of adjustments they can use based on what the level of COVID infection rates are in different places,” Hansen said. “They’ve thought about breaking down scheduling into something regional, and maybe putting in a radius of where you should play schools … things like that. So there are a lot of options on the table that are really positive as far as moving towards having a football season and an athletic season this

Austin Hemmingson | Daily Press Gladstone’s Ryan Polley performs a deadlift at the Gladstone training facility Monday, while teammate Blake Servant walks by. The Braves began outdoor workouts for the first time after Gov. Gretchen Whitmer lifted the stay-at-home order last week that was originally supposed to run through June 12. After the order was lifted, the Michigan High School Athletic Association approved use of outdoor school facilities in groups of up to 100 as long as social distancing is taking place.

Austin Hemmingson | Daily Press Gladstone’s Ryan Polley performs a deadlift at the Gladstone training facility Monday, while teammate Blake Servant walks by. The Braves began outdoor workouts for the first time after Gov. Gretchen Whitmer lifted the stay-at-home order last week that was originally supposed to run through June 12. After the order was lifted, the Michigan High School Athletic Association approved use of outdoor school facilities in groups of up to 100 as long as social distancing is taking place.

Austin Hemmingson | Daily Press Gladstone football coach Jeff Hansen does a temperature check on Caden Downey before the team begins its outdoor workouts Monday. Each player has to be temperature checked before participating in any physical activity.

fall. As long as we have kids in school and COVID doesn’t come back with a vengeance, we’re going to be okay.”

One of the possibilities that was discussed at the meeting is playing two games against each conference opponent, which would make an already tough schedule even tougher. The Braves always have their work cut out for them as one of the smaller schools in the GNC. This year will be no different, but Hansen is optimistic about his group of senior leaders.

“I really like the culture of our football program — we’ve got a lot of ownership within our locker room,” he said. “These workouts are led by our seniors and upperclassmen that have been part of it. They understand the expectation and they understand what it takes to win games and how tough the GNC really is. If you want to be competitive in the games in the GNC, you have to put the work in during the offseason.”

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