“I was born to yell,” she joked.
They stood there for a beat too long, the air between them charged with something tender and unfinished.
He lowered his voice.“I’mproud of you.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, blinking fast.“You’llmake me cry and ruin my tough-girl image.Todayis a day to be seen as a warrior.”
“I like you better when you’re soft.”
She laughed, but it came out wobbly.
“Don’t go sweet-talking me now,” she said.“Westill have a game to win.”
He leaned in, his voice low.“Winor lose,I’vealready picked my team.”
ThePirateQueens’ bats cracked against balls as the warm-up continued, the sharp sound echoing across the field.Themorning sun was bright but not yet brutal, and the smell of freshly cut grass mingled with the tang of the chalked baselines.Thedugouts hummed with chatter as the women stretched, laced cleats, and tossed balls back and forth.
Rose paced along the first-base line, eyes sharp as a hawk.Everydrill mattered now.Notbecause it would change their muscle memory in the next hour, but because it kept their nerves from swallowing them whole.
“Ginny, keep your glove down,” she barked, then softened it with a smile.“You’retrying to snag butterflies, not grounders.”
Laughter rippled again, though there was tension threaded through it.Everyplayer knew what today meant.
TheSelmerSidewindersweren’t just any opponent.Theywere the team that had taken the trophy two years running, their pitcher known for her wicked curveball, their outfield so fast they made stealing bases look like child’s play.
But this year was different.Thisyear, thePirateQueensweren’t the underdogs.Theywere equals.Hungry, determined, and stitched together by more than just batting averages.
Rose tossed a ball towardMaggieagain.“Drivethrough it.Yes!That’sit.”Thecrack of a clean hit sent the ball soaring past second base, andMaggiewhooped, running halfway down the line before jogging back.
Acen’s presence was steady in the bleachers, like a heartbeat she could sense even when she wasn’t looking.Hewasn’t just watching the game.Hewas watching her.He’dmade the decision not to coach with her today.Thisday should be hers.Accordingto him.Insteadof feeling weighed down by expectation, she felt buoyed.
The practice wound down, gloves smacking, cleats thudding against dirt, andRosecalled them in.“Huddleup, ladies.”
They circled close, the smell of leather, sunscreen, and determination wrapping around them like armor.
“I don’t need to tell you how much this game means,”Rosesaid.“Buthere’s whatIwant you to remember.It’snot about proving the town wrong.It’snot about silencing whispers.It’sabout us.Aboutwhat we’ve built together.Everypractice, every late night, every bruise and blister.We’vealready won, because we did this as a team.Todayis just the cherry on top.”
Her voice trembled just enough to betray her heart, but no one called her on it.Instead, they stacked their hands together and shouted, “PirateQueens!”loud enough to startle a flock of starlings from the nearby trees.
The stands were filling now, neighbors and classmates, parents with toddlers, old timers with folding chairs dragged close to the fence.Thewhole town turning out.Thebleachers rattled with the stomp of boots, paper programs fanned against flushed faces.Homemadeposters waved in the air:PIRATEQUEENSRULE!andBRINGHOMETHATTROPHY!
“Listen up, y’all,”Rosesaid, hands on her hips.“TheSidewindersthink they’ve got us beat.They’retaller, they’re younger, they’ve got more travel-ball experience.Butnone of them knows what it means to wearPiratered.Wefight for each other.Everyinning, every pitch, every play.That’show we win.”
The women stomped and cheered, fists pounding the air.Thesound rolled across the field like thunder.
The hum of chatter in the stands grew into a roar as the announcer’s voice crackled through the loudspeaker, calling both teams to the dugouts.
TheSelmerSidewindersstrutted onto the field in crisp green uniforms, smirks flashing as they stretched.ThePirateQueensanswered with steady steps, red jerseys gleaming under the sun, their logo, a heart-shaped softball with the team name embroidered on it, bold across their chests.
Rose’s throat tightened.Thiswas it.
The first inning was all nerves.
The ump’s call echoed:“Playball!”
The first pitch cracked against the catcher’s mitt.Thecrowd roared.
TheSidewinderscame out swinging, their leadoff batter slamming a double down the third-base line.Thecrowd roared, half in triumph, half in worry.Rose’schest tightened, but she clapped her hands, calling, “Shakeit off!Nextone, let’s go!”
