Baseball Pants and Knee-High Socks
Soul Eater Resbang 2015
Summary: From the Little League World Series to regular games on Junior Varsity and Varsity high school teams to benchwarming college games, Maka Albarn and Soul Evans have taken baseball, themselves, and winning as seriously as Gordon Ramsey takes cooking. But that's what happens when you've been bitter rivals with someone for years; your relationship is one that few understand. It can only be built as you watch someone grow and develop as an athlete while simultaneously wishing they would just reach that plateau already. They've grudgingly recognized the other as an incredible athlete, have yelled and screamed over a play that they should've made, that they would've made if not for that person - and they've harbored a little whisper in their hearts, a voice that questions: What would happen if he were to catch my pitches, if she were the one I was calling signs for?
And, of course, the admiration that will never be voiced. Baseball pants do wonders for the butt.
Warnings: language, overly-competitive losers, sports-related stress, bad puns
Rating: PG-13 for language and lowkey romantic situations
Pairing: SoMa with background pairings not significant enough to be important.
shout out to Professor-Maka for her wonderful beta skills at 3 in the morning. She's the best, as always.
also, shout out to my wonderful, amazing, incredibly talented artists ahshesgone & mrsashketchum (who made the beautiful cover for this fix) who put up with all of my shenanigans and writer's block and still created art that I've cried over several times. It's amazing amazing and everyone should go check it and them out!
It started with a handshake. As they looked one another over, each captain made assumptions about the other, assumptions that were quickly changed the minute their hands met.
Soul Evans was relatively confused why a small, pigtailed girl had approached him so determinedly. She had a ballcap shoved backwards on her head, so he assumed she was the little sister of someone on the other team and hoped that she wasn't there to bother him. And then she stuck her hand out in his direction.
The smirk that curled across his self-important expression pissed her off, and she narrowed her eyes.
Her hand was small and thin, just like she was, but there was a certain strength in her grip—a strength that was reflected in her eyes as she glared at him over their clasped hands. He looked like he had never put a day's effort into anything he did, with slouched shoulders and disinterested eyes, but the calluses that covered his palm told of long hours spent in the batting cages.
And then she spoke, and damn it if it wasn't the perfect voice to match those fierce green eyes—clipped but strong. An elementary schooler had no right to sound so commanding, honestly.
"My name is Maka Albarn. I'm the captain of the Death City Angels. We're very much looking forward to the game tomorrow."
The surprise that wiped his expression blank made her smile in victory.
"Uh, Soul Evans, Fenwick Flyers." He quickly regained his cocky attitude, perfect smirk back in place. "Hope you don't mind it too much when we wipe the scoreboard with you guys."
Maka's competitive spirit flared to life. She laced her fingers behind her head, rocking back on her heels like they were having a nice chat between friends. A sharp smile of her own curled her lips as she drawled, "Ah, will you? Hope y'all aren't so bored you forget how to make basic plays—kinda like you did in that playoff game, yeah?"
"Just don't forget to bring the tissues," he snapped, turning on his heel and stomping away.
Maka watched him leave, his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants; that should get him rattled, she thought with satisfaction. The Flyers were admittedly better than the Angels—and it was all thanks to Evans. If she had to play dirty to push him off balance, then so be it. Her jaw clenched. Maka refused to see her teammates' defeated expressions as they saw their Little League dreams go down the drain again, refused to be the cause of their tears and broken hearts. As their captain, as the ace of the team, as the starting pitcher, she had a responsibility to bring them the win. And she would, no matter the cost.
Soul kicked the side of the concessions building. He had finally managed to push that game out of his mind, but one word from her, and all his worries and insecurities as a baseball player came flooding back. Eyes watering from the pain in his toe, he leaned his forehead against the warm cement, the memories of the final game of the regional competition, of the line drive to third, of the pass ball, of his stiffness… Soul slammed his fist against the wall. Dammit. It had been entirely his fault that they almost lost that game, and the look in her eyes told him that she knew. Similarly, he knew what game she was playing. Soul set his jaw, pushed himself upright, and headed towards the Flyers' entrance gate. There was no way his team would lose to hers. Not as long as he was captain.
"HEEY, MAKAAA!" As soon as she was within hearing range of her team's dugout, she was greeted with a familiar obnoxious cry. His enthusiastic waving, though, had her smiling. It helped her to forget the knots in her stomach from the memory of Evans' haunted expression. She needed to forget it. She'd show nothing but the most positive face for her team — she owed them that, at least.
"Can it, Blake." Harvey Éclair shoved the center fielder, but his protests fell on mostly deaf ears.
"I keep telling you, Harv, it's Black Star. Black. Star."
"Dude, that's the dumbest nickname ever—"
"It's cool, cool—"
Maka ignored the pair's usual banter with a roll of her eyes. As she jogged up, she smacked a high-five with her catcher, Kirk Rung, who was stretching out in the small patch of shade offered by the lone palm tree near the field. It was lining up to be a meltingly hot day, typical for late summer in central California. Hailing from Nevada, the Angels were used to practicing long hours in unbearable heat, but Maka wondered if the Flyers would be able to deal with it. She shaded her eyes, looking across the field to the opponent's side; some of their shirts were already darkening with sweat from just the warmups.
Good.
"Hey, hey, Maka, you're doin' that thing again," Blake said, his loud voice practically in her ear. When she turned her head to scowl at him, his finger jabbed painfully into her cheek and he burst into laughter. It took one look and a half-step from a girl not even five feet in height to send the idiot scampering away, still laughing raucously.
"What the heck was that all about?" Maka asked, rubbing her sore cheek.
The catcher shrugged. "Your game face is real freaky. He meant well."
"He usually does." She sighed as pulled her arm across her chest in a stretch. She'd missed a good majority of the team warmups, and she hoped riling Evans up would make up for the lost practice time. Not that the coach would see it her way, but Maka was willing to make sacrifices for what she thought was right.
"But what were ya doin' over there?" Kilik asked as he swung his arms in large circles. "Lucky ya didn't get caught by the coaches or umps." Kirk nodded toward her uniform. "No fraternizing other team while in uniform, remember?"
Maka pursed her lips; the kid wore glasses, but she was pretty sure he really had super-vision and only wore them to make his eyesight normal. "That's only for Major League, jerk. But I was just...saying hi. We've never met, and I wanted to let him know exactly who they were gonna be dealing with tomorrow."
"That's the freaky side of you, y'know," the catcher stated matter-of-factly, in his staccato Caribbean Islander accent. Maka scowled and threw one of her batting gloves at his head. Kirk laughed, catching it easily. "How'd he respond?"
"Exactly as I wanted him to."
"Yo, Akane! You warmed up, or what?" Soul yelled to his starting pitcher. His tone was short, agitated, and he could see his teammates giving each other sidelong looks. He glared at some of the younger players who were staring too long.
Akane Hoshizoku came jogging up to the captain from where he had been chatting with some of the other pitchers. Even though he had just joined at the beginning of the season, and even though he was the oldest player and would be graduating the Intermediate League after the World Series, he had quickly and easily fit in with the team. Soul was jealous of the other boy's self confidence, but for all his petty feelings, the catcher couldn't deny that Akane was an amazing pitcher. His control was beyond anything Soul had seen from a pitcher so far in his eight years playing baseball, and as a catcher, it was all that Soul could ask for.
"Hey, lay off them, Captain," Akane said quietly, putting his hand on Soul's shoulder. His voice had already changed, and the deep tone helped to calm the catcher's rattled nerves. "Coach'll yell at you again if you're too harsh."
"Yeah, I know." Soul's voice was gruff and he willfully ignored the glances his teammates shared. "Sorry. Gimme a sec to drop this stuff off and get my gear on, then let's go work on that curve that's been giving you trouble." He didn't wait for the pitcher to answer, just turned and continued on toward the dugout, adjusting the bag full of his gear as he went.
He was snapping at the team, but he was the one who was late. He hated being late. Not that it had really been his fault. Albarn had held him up, after all, lying in wait like she had, loitering outside the field until he arrived. Even though there were "no loitering" signs (she was from the west, though, so there wasn't any proof that she could actually read those signs.) Albarn probably hadn't thought anything of catching him before practice, but to him it was a big deal. It disturbed his rhythm, and Soul didn't like things that messed with his habits.
Annoying.
He dropped his bag onto the bench with the loud clanking of metal bats knocking into each other. Soul sighed and pulled off his cap, running his fingers through the stubble. It was hot, even with his hair in an uncool buzz cut. The other boys had wanted to do it in celebration of winning the regional competition, and Soul, high off their victory, had joined in. There had been hell to pay when he'd gone home, his mother furious he had broken the appearance of the perfect high-class boy, but it had been worth it just to have her attention on him for once.
Soul closed his eyes and tilted his head back, taking a deep breath of the warm air. He needed to get on the field, needed to shove any useless thoughts to the dark corner of his mind where they belonged, where they sat and brewed, and baseball was the best way he'd found to do it.
"You look pretty shitty," said a deep voice behind Soul. The catcher spun around, clutching his heart. Standing there was the Flyers' coach, arms crossed and looking as cool as any snake. Soul got a slimy feeling from Coach Moss - Mosquito, as they called him behind his back, for his tendency to buzz around and bite - and he wasn't very fond of the man's coaching methods – but he couldn't deny that they were effective. Before the coach joined the team, the Flyers would have been lucky to make it through the first elimination round. And now – now they stood at the cusp of the world stage, two teams away from being America's representative in the World Series.
Well, after all, Soul had heard that the man was a baseball fanatic, had a doctorate in Kinesiology, had spent his whole life analyzing form and what made the best baseball players the best. He probably would have made a damn good ball player - if he was any taller.
"Coach," Soul greeted while shoving his hat back on his head. "It's hot."
And it was ridiculously hot. Only 9 in the morning, and temperatures were already climbing into the mid-80s. At least the open-air style dugouts offered chances for a cool breeze to blow through; they'd definitely be grateful for that during game time - if wind even existed in this place.
"It's summer, so drink lots of water." Moss began to walk away, mostly ignoring Soul's comments, as usual. "Oh, and lay off the other kids. You're the captain, not their coach - you're supposed to be their friend, not their boss."
Soul curled his lip at his Coach's back. Except he was sort of their boss? As soon as they stepped on that field at game time and Soul got into position behind home plate - that field was his domain. He called the pitches, he was responsible for keeping the pitcher calm, he told the infielders if there was a shift on, he directed the pickoffs, was responsible for getting the out on any stolen bases - it was him the team relied on out there during game time. It was him, not Mosquito, the team looked to for support. He was the captain; he was the one everyone was relying on to keep their spirits up.
It was a lot of responsibility for a twelve-going-on-thirteen year old.
Practice was scheduled to be relatively easy, the focus just on perfecting a few of the key plays. Despite that, Maka's uniform stuck to her uncomfortably, and she wiped her forehead before winding up for the next pitch.
Kirk's glove was low and inside the strike zone for a leftie; it was Maka's weak zone, and they both knew it. She breathed in slowly through her nose as she brought her knee up tight to her chest, attention entirely focused on the worn spot in the center of Kirk's glove.
Right there. She had to put it right there. Evans batted left, and if he made a connection with a screwed up pitch, the game was as good as over. She hated him; hated how easy he made everything seem, hated how well he could organize and motivate his team. She'd spent hours re-watching the Flyers' playoff matches, and the more she'd studied his movements and his plays, the more her stomach had churned.
With a big exhale, Maka lunged out of her windup, arm coming out wide and low, knee skimming the ground. The ball sailed in the curve she wanted, and kept going - and going - up above Kirk's head. The catcher exploded out of his squat, barely snagging the ball before it flew past him.
For a moment, Maka allowed admiration to bloom in her chest; she really was lucky to have a catcher as great as Kilik Rung.
Back to business though, Maka's face fell flat. "Again," she called, holding her glove out for Kirk to toss it back, chest heaving with repressed tears. Why couldn't she do it, why? How could she hope to lead her team to victory if she couldn't even put the ball where Kirk wanted?
The catcher took one look at Maka, and then shook his head. "Break, Albarn. No point killing yourself the day before the match."
"No, again," she demanded, face red at the sympathy she knew she was getting from Kirk at the moment.
Rung gave her a stern look - appraising her condition, she was sure – and then glanced over at the sleeping pitching coach. With a shake of his head, Kirk lobbed the ball back to her. "One more time, and then I mean it, Maka."
The ball was familiar in her hand, the sun was warm on her back; it all set the scene for the perfect pitch. Kirk's knees cracked as he settled into his squat, the sharp sound ringing in the quiet bullpen. Maka wasn't sure where the relief pitcher had gone, or if he had gone at all; it was only her and her catcher, and the feeling that she could do this.
Kirk signaled – four fingers (fast, her brain supplied instantly); two fingers, together (curve); tap against his calf (down and inside) – and Maka agreed with a sharp nod. One more time. Once more she brought her glove up, knee to her chest, coiled up, a spring ready to burst – and then a lunge forward, hand snaking around, shoulder creaking, fingers rolling off the ball, twisting its trajectory at the last moment. Submarine pitchers were rare these days – from the majors down to little league – but she'd grown up with underhand pitching, even though her first love was baseball, and submarine pitchers were unsettling for batters to face.
Maka wasn't sure she was all that great of a pitcher, but when the batter saw her duck down at the release, saw her knee nearly scrape the ground - well, she wasn't above using intimidation techniques. The number of three-up-three-down innings she'd had in her seven years of playing little league was almost impressive. But the Flyers were not a team to mess around with; their coach had an evil look about his eyes, and Evans' influence as a catcher was notorious among the League. It was all the news had talked about, and the recorded games Maka had seen - Maka may have not minded intimidation techniques, but the Flyers lived and breathed them.
And she was a sham of a pitcher, anyway, Maka thought, as she watched Kirk leap out of his crouch once more to catch her wild throw. Maka's determination went out of her all at once, and she dropped onto her haunches, head buried in her hands. The crunch of Kirk's shoes on the clay alerted her to his approach, and she mumbled her apologies.
Gently, his hands came down on her shoulders. Even more gently, he said, "Maks, there's absolutely no reason for ya to be sorry, though? You're incredible. The 'Super Submarine,' remember? That's what they're calling you on the news stations. You're famous! Twelve years old and major leagues already want to recruit you!"
Maka's stomach twisted, and she swallowed thickly. Dropping her hands from her face, she shook Kirk off with a glare. "Yeah, and what happens when the world finds out I'm just a fake, huh? That I actually suck and can't throw a decent curve? Huh? What then, Rung? What happens when I fail?"
The catcher released her shoulders, but grabbed one of her hands in both of his and carefully folded the dusty baseball into her grasp with an encouraging smile before plopping heavily next to her on the mound. "Then we start again, next year." The lilt of his Caribbean accent made him sound so carefree, and Maka almost believed him. "We're only twelve, y'know? There's a lot of years between now and the majors; I know you'll somehow figure out that spot. You're Maka-fricken-Albarn. You'll do it."
She spun the ball in her hand, the feel of the stitching and the leathern familiar as it passed over calluses from years of practice. It fit snug in her palm, as though it was meant to be there. Her fingers closed tightly around it, but she could still see some white between them. Someday her hands would be big enough to enclose the ball entirely; someday she would be bigger and stronger and better.
Maybe Kirk was right.
But the fact that there was the possibility in the future for a win didn't change the fact that there was also a strong possibility of failure in the present, and Maka didn't do maybes very well. At all. She liked concrete. She liked to know that she could do it, to have proof of past success to gauge her future success.
And she didn't have that right now. And she wasn't comfortable.
The pitcher got to her feet in one smooth movement. "Again, Rung."
With a sigh, the boy followed suit. "Aye, aye, captain."
Coach Mosquito was living up to his name again: buzzing and annoying, biting in all the places you couldn't scratch. Soul scowled at the coach's back as the former shortstop waved his bat around, screaming something about slow feet and sloppy gloves to the middle infielders; he'd just that morning scolded Soul for being too harsh on the players, and there he was, yelling his head off.
The catcher winced in sympathy at the younger boys, who looked exhausted as fielding practice neared the two hour mark. They'd made a sloppy play, sure, but they were only eleven, and the play had connected; Coach was being unreasonable, and everyone knew it. The sun was sinking down lower in the horizon, and the team all just wanted to go back to the motel, take a hot shower – maybe even a bath, Soul thought; he was so sore – and have some fun before the game the next day.
But unfortunately, only Soul had the authority on the team to try and do something about moving them towards that goal.
Soul hung his head with a sigh, stretching his shoulders out as he pulled his body away from the dugout fence. Collected, the catcher trudged up the concrete steps. He could feel the hopeful eyes of all the boys on the team as they watched him cross the short distance from the field to the batter's box where Coach Mosquito had been hitting balls out to the fielders.
"Coach," Soul called. The short, mustached man looked up and around, trying to identify who was interrupting his rant. Spotting Soul jogging up to him, the coach narrowed his eyes.
"What is it, Evans?"
"A word?" When Coach Moss nodded his head in assent, the catcher stepped in close and began speaking quietly. "Coach, with all respect, the boys are tired. They're nervous, too. D'you think it would be better to cut practice short today so that they can rest up and be fresh for the big game tomorrow?"
Moss looked down his obscenely large nose at Soul, then turned his beady gaze out onto the sweating, panting field of boys. "They've been fucking up this play every time we run it. I'm doing this for your guys' benefit, you know."
"Right, Coach, and we know that," Soul agreed patiently, adopting his father's negotiating voice. "We know you're doing everything for the sake of us getting this win. And we appreciate everything you've done for us so far, we really do. But weren't you just telling me this morning to not be too harsh on them?"
The coach scowled and swung the bat up onto his shoulder. "One more time, and if Otto can stop the ball, you boys can do your cool downs!" he called to the team. "Otto! Remember, you've gotta get in front of the ball; it's really not that difficult a concept!"
"Thanks, Coach," Soul said before turning to jog back off the field.
The boys in the dugout swarmed Soul as soon as he was back through the fence, throwing arms around his shoulders and jumping up and down around him as though he'd just knocked in another home run. He grinned around at the excited boys, sharing in the relief that practice was almost over, but shushed them quickly.
"You know Mosquito; don't get too happy for too long, or he'll, like, make us run another mile or something." Soul chided, though his heart wasn't really in it and his team knew it.
The ting! of a metal bat hitting the ball caught the team's attention, and they watched in anticipation as the ball skittered across the infield grass, and Ike Ottomon threw himself in front of it desperately to stop its path, and then deftly flipped it back up to second baseman Trey Utley, who stomped victoriously on the bag.
There was a moment of hushed disbelief, and then the dugout and field exploded in cheers, everyone rushing out to praise the relatively stunned short stop. In the mess of shouting and jumping boys, almost everyone missed Mosquito's small, cold smile; it raised goosebumps on Soul's arms, and he quickly averted his gaze.
Maka couldn't sleep. Lights out was at 9:00, but she tossed and turned and stared at the flashing lights from passing cars for more than an hour before finally throwing the sheets aside and stepping into her frog slippers.
She was supposed to be sharing a room with the mother of a teammate, but the lady had been snoring loudly since her head had hit the pillow, and Maka had a feeling she wouldn't be waking up again until the alarm went off in the morning.
Out in the cool night air, the pitcher finally felt her head clear a little. Staring at the shadowy ceiling for so long had done little for her mental state, and Maka just needed to think about nothing. Cars flashed by on the throughway in front of the motel, and Maka wondered where they were all going. Headed home to families and cozy beds? She hoped that they were.
For a brief moment, Maka's chest squeezed. Her father was supposed to have been at the competition, but his softball team had had a game on the other side of New Mexico and he couldn't reasonably get away. Part of Maka wished her mother could be there, at least. But another part of her worried that Maka would simply have disappointed the all-star pitcher if they lost the game. There was so much excitement, so much riding on her shoulders, and Maka just wanted to give up. It was too much pressure, with the nation watching her actions and her team resting their hopes on her pitching and her accuracy. Maka groaned loudly, resting her forearms on the grimy metal railing and sticking her head over it. She wasn't thinking about it, she wasn't thinking about it, she wasn't thinking about –
Was that Evans? On the balcony below hers?
A thin, white-haired figure leaned against the peeling railing of his own floor's balcony. The boy, clad in a thin t-shirt, looked too fragile to be the Evans who stood broad-shouldered and narrow-eyed on the field. It seemed wrong for a strategic genius like Evans to be so human under the full moon.
"Evans?" Maka called out hesitantly to the boy below her. She wasn't sure why she did; it wasn't like they were even acquaintances by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps she felt a certain level of kinship with him, because though he was a brilliant ball player, he was still out soaking up the moonlight, nervous, before a big, important game.
The kid craned his head around to see who said his name, and Maka's stomach squeezed. It was him. Evans squinted up at her, trying to distinguish her features, she was sure. "Yeah? Who're you?"
Maka's fingers were trembling when she held her hand up in an awkward wave. "Uh, Maka Albarn? From the Angels. Um, we met earlier today, I don't know if you remember me or –"
"Albarn?" Evans asked, the confusion evident in his expression. "What d'you want?"
"Can we – can we go somewhere to talk? That's not so awkward?"
The catcher's cheeks flared as red as Maka was sure hers already were and he made some approximation of a nod. "You wanna come down here? I think I saw a bench somewhere near the vending machines"
"Y-yeah."
Albarn's hair was still wet from her shower, and the powdery scent of the motel's complimentary shampoo wafted towards him every time she shifted on the dirty bench. Soul cleared his throat at the same time that Albarn started to say something. Both preteens broke off awkwardly, and Soul glanced over at the red faced pitcher sitting nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with him.
"Sor-"
"Go-"
They broke off again, and Soul breathed a laugh. He gestured for her to go first, not wanting to risk speaking at the same time as her; Albarn had been the one to call him out, so she should also be the one to explain why the hell she did so.
The pitcher fiddled with her hair, separating it into two chunks and holding on to them tightly. "Uh - um. Sorry. For, y'know, calling you out here. And everythin'." She had a hint of a southern accent, Soul noticed, as though one of her parents had been from the deep south and she'd picked up on certain pronunciations.
"No prob-" Soul's voice cracked, and he wanted to disappear. Ears flaming, he cleared his throat and tried again. "No problem." He scratched the back of his head. "What's up?"
"Just - just can't sleep. Nerves, and stuff, I guess."
"Are you scared?" Soul teased, bumping her shoulder with his gently. The Albarn curled next to him right now reminded Soul of how the younger players would shiver and freeze up before starting their first game.
"No," she snapped vehemently back to him. "We're gonna win."
Soul stared at the small girl, taking in her hunched figure, knees pulled to her chest. Her pose screamed insecurity, but those green eyes of hers burned furiously even in the dim yellow motel light. "Well," Soul began slowly; his heart was pounding in his chest for some reason, and he had to collect his scattered thoughts. "Well, I guess we're going to have a problem, then, because the Flyers are going to win tomorrow."
Maka got to her feet suddenly then, hands tucked behind her back as she directed that slow, fierce grin at Soul; she was so small that even with him sitting, they were nearly at eye level. Soul swallowed. She was back to the proud ball player that had confronted him on the field that morning, and it was unsettling how quickly her demeanor changed.
He blinked when her hand was suddenly in his face, so similar to early that morning. "We'll see about that on the field, Evans!"
Eyebrow raised, Soul took her hand with a small laugh. "Sure, I guess."
Albarn nodded at him and spun on her heel. She had one foot on the second step when she stopped and looked over her shoulder back at Soul. Her brows were furrowed, and Soul scowled. "What?"
When she smiled at him this time, though, it was gentle. "Thanks. For coming out here and talking with me and stuff. You're really not a bad guy, Evans!" Her expression brightened, and Soul shrank back from the glint in her eyes as the moon shifted. "But we're still gonna beat you. Night!"
And with the last sound of her bouncing up the stairs, Soul buried his burning face in his hands. "I'm not a bad guy, huh? She's so weird."
The scent of warm rosin and leather surrounded Maka as she brought her glove up to her face, centering herself for her wind up. This was her moment of truth, her do-or-die moment: She either nailed this pitch or her team went home in shame, and all the newscasters would talk about "what a shame it was" that she'd been "washed up so young."
The pitcher shook her head, repeating her catcher's advice from the day before. Maka looked past Evans, bouncing his bat around on his shoulder, batting stance textbook-perfect. She blocked out the blur of the colors that were the screaming fans just behind home plate. She even ignored the umpire standing behind Kirk imperiously, his face hidden behind the metal cage that Maka's imagination briefly twisted into some horrid monster before logic stamped out the apparition.
Kirk's glove, Kirk's glove, Kirk's glove – there was nothing else in the world; there couldn't be. The catcher brought his knees close together, the neon nail polish he used to make it easier for her to see his signs flashing as his fingers flipped from four to two and tapped the inside of his calf.
Maka took a deep breath.
Sweat was running down her back and the sun was burning her neck, but all of those were only distractions. They didn't matter. Maka had to tell herself they didn't matter. Screaming muscles, stinging palms – it was all part of the game, and the game was a part of her. All she'd ever known was baseball; she lived and breathed the sport, and the thought that her body might betray her on this one pitch – it was unforgivable.
Evans was up to bat, and Kirk's glove was almost in the dirt. She could do this-it was The Game-she had to do this. Maka's knee curled up to her chest, and the world seemed suspended as she coiled into her windup and then snapped out, arm snaking down to skim the clay mound. Her eyes were trained on the worn spot on Kirk's glove, so she didn't get to see Evans' reaction to her pitch, but she hoped he had a look of horror for just a moment.
After showing him her weakness the night before, she wanted to also show him the she wasn't all talk. There was a bite and a bark, as her father had once said. It was 1-1, Flyers, top of the 4th, and Maka's bravado, this game's turning point, the Angels' victory all rested on her pitch smacking solid and true into her catcher's glove.
But with a sinking, nauseous feeling, Maka watched her low curve do a 180 mid-pitch, soaring high out of the strike zone. Kirk jumped out of his squat, snagging the wild pitch before it hit the umpire in his mask.
Maka bared her teeth in a snarl, jerkily bringing her glove up for the return pass as the ump called ball one. This was it; she was done. The team was going to lose, they were going to give her those looks that made her want to dig her heart out with a spoon and eat it, and no college would ever recruit her and she could basically just kiss her major league dreams bye-bye because no way was -
Kirk still hadn't tossed the ball back to her yet, and she refocused on her catcher to see him making the slow trudge up to the pitching mound. No. God, no. She turned her back on her catcher, scuffing her cleat in the powdery clay. They'd wet the red dirt that morning, but the California sun had dried everything out by the top of the third.
Kirk's warm hand landed on her left shoulder, arm wrapping comfortingly around her neck. His Islander accent was muffled and twisted by the glove he held over his face, but the melodic rise and fall of his voice relaxed her stiff posture a bit.
"Maks, you gotta pull yourself together, girl. I know this pitch is scary, I know. But it's not just you out here. Look around, Cap'n," Kirk said, fingers digging into her shoulder, accent thickening as he got excited. Maka lifted her eyes from her beaten cleats to the field full of her sweaty teammates - her friends who had stood by her through everything.
She'd feared the disappointment she would face if she lost the game, the glory she would face if she won it; yet somehow, Maka had forgotten that baseball was a team sport, that everyone who stood on that mound had seven friends at their back and one in front, all of whom fought together for victory. The pitcher made eye contact with the middle infielders, huddled together in their own conference, and the two boys gave her big, goofy grins and even goofier peace signs; she couldn't help the small smile that crawled across her face. With a big sigh, Maka nodded, tension flowing from her. The umpire whistled for time-out to end and Kirk gently folded the baseball Maka hadn't realized he had been holding into her hand, just as he had the day before.
Maka briefly watched his quick jog back to the batter's box before her eyes slid past Kirk's narrow shoulders to Evans' taunting expression, red eyes shaded by his batting helmet. Discomfort stirred in Maka's chest, and she brought her glove back up to her face to hide the snarl she gave him in response.
Kirk was settled back down behind home plate, and Evans stepped back into the batter's box. He lowered his right hand, signaling he was ready for whatever Maka could throw at him. Kirk flashed his sign to her again, four, two, tap, and she nodded once. Okay; she was fine.
She could do this. Maka's eyes slid shut for a moment, collecting her emotions, her thoughts. Her fingers spun the baseball in her glove, the feel of the warm leather under callused fingertips comforting. One failed pitch didn't make her a failure, and one lost game didn't make her team losers. Even if they lost this game, they'd made it this far, had beaten countless teams. They wouldn't be losers.
Maka snapped her eyes open, burning gaze focused on Kirk's glove, face impassive. She subconsciously noted Evans grin, sharp teeth flashing in the killer sun, saw him spin his bat tauntingly. But then she was winding her body up, energy coiled in her center - and then her arm was snapping out low to the right, fingers twitching the ball just off a straight course at the last moment.
Stumbling out of her pitch, Maka managed to straighten herself just in time to see her pitch curve neatly inside, just flirting with the edge of the batter's box - and to see Evans bring his bat in close, shoulders hunched, body curled in on itself in order to knock the ball into the gap between first and second.
Her angry, unintelligible yell harmonized with the sharp ting! of the metal bat. But all she could do was watch despairingly as George and Juan dove desperately, ball bouncing carelessly just beyond the reach of their outstretched gloves. To see left fielder Hiro sprinting in, sliding across the carefully manicured outfield in order to scoop up the ball and toss it to the centerfielder. Blake had a strong, true arm, and Maka bit down on the back of her glove as Evans rounded the corner for first, head and arms pumping. Blake was gonna make it, Blake was gonna make it, Blake was gonna make it -
Evans slid into a clean, foot-first slide, dust rising dramatically. His cleat came to a firm rest on the bag just as shortstop Harvey's glove came swinging down to smack him in the back.
Safe.
Maka could've screamed. She might've screamed. Why was he so fast? That was unfair. Blake was well know for having a strong arm for his age, and the fact that Evans had outrun it was insane and made Maka want to gnash her teeth. A look at Blake showed him staring at the rival catcher as though he'd like to take a big chunk out of him.
When Evans directed his shit-eating grin towards Maka, though, she spit to the side and turned her back on him, adjusting her cap as she went.
Soul scuffed his foot across the clay, sliding it out to balance himself, bouncing from foot to foot. He was taking a pretty generous lead off the bag, betting that Albarn was going to continue ignoring him. He lightly clasped his hands between his knees, crouching slightly. His eyes were trained on Albarn's thin back, watching for any shift in her weight that would hint that she was going to spin and try and pick him off.
Akane was up to bat and Soul bit his lip to hide his grin. The calm pitcher with his equally relaxed batting stance was easy to underestimate from the rival's side. He didn't brag and taunt the other team, didn't cockily swing his bat around, using unnecessary movements to make himself seem bigger. No, he just stood there, weight poised on one strong leg, bat resting calmly on his shoulder. And much like Albarn's pitch threw most batters off, Akane's impervious stare gave most pitchers the jitters.
He was scary and Soul loved it.
But Albarn was different, and as Soul watched her shoulders rise and fall in a quick exhale - her pitching tell - he would bet Albarn was returning Akane's stare with a cold smirk of her own.
Soul stifled a shiver as he watched her deliver her submarine pitch from the back; God, he wanted to catch that pitch. Being on the receiving end of it as a batter was odd and enticing enough in its own right, but Soul wanted to know what it would be like to guide her, to be the one calling the pitch, to feel it smack squarely into his glove. He wanted to study her form, her delivery, to be able to discuss it with her, in order to figure out just what she was doing wrong on that low inside curve.
He shook his head, and shook his feet. The game was here and now, and there was no need to be dwelling on impossibilities when his pride and his team's pride rested on this win.
Soul shifted his weight slowly, settling his momentum into his far leg, ready to spring into action the moment -
Ting! Akane reached for the wide pitch, face screwed up in a concentrated expression Soul had only seen maybe four times since the older boy had joined the team, and dragged the pitch down the first base line.
The Angels scrambled, Albarn racing toward first, the catcher and first baseman rushing in towards the ball where it bounced halfway down the first base line. But Soul only saw all of this out of the corner of his eye; he was already desperately sprinting for the next bag. Nothing mattered but the off-white base and the screaming of his teammates echoing in his ears and in his heart - not that he could decipher what it was that they were screaming. A quick glance under his arm showed the rival catcher scoop up the ball. Soul was halfway down the baseline, lungs and legs screaming. The catcher was reeling back, was whipping his arm forward.
Soul poured on the speed, forcing his leaden legs faster, faster, faster. Soul was almost there, the bag was ten feet, eight feet - he threw himself into a headfirst dive, not thinking about the consequences of his choice. Gravel in the clay scraped at his forearms, dug into his chin, and his hand slammed painfully into the unrelenting side of the bag. But he was there, his hand was on it.
Soul looked up at the third base umpire, who looked between the third baseman's glove on Soul's shoulder and Soul's hand pushed up at an uncomfortable angle on the side of the bag. With a twist of his mouth, the umpire laid his hands on top of his forearms and then swept them out: Safe.
The third baseman - number 11 - straightened, protesting. "C'mon, ump! I had him; I had him!" But the umpire's calls were final unless challenged, and a glance over at the home dugout said that the Angels' coach didn't see the point in wasting his precious challenge.
With a shrug, the third base umpire walked back to his station, and 11 turned his glare on Soul. The catcher finished brushing pebbles from his scrapes and shaking loose clay from his uniform - before directing a smarmy grin at the third baseman.
"Rotten luck, eh, eleven?" Soul couldn't help but taunt the other player. His wrist hurt in a way that he didn't logically like, and his chin was throbbing - but adrenaline would take care of those minor inconveniences if he threw himself into the game hard enough.
The bespectacled boy simply harrumphed and looked away, muttering about lucky breaks and blind umpires.
Albarn struck out the next two batters, middle infielders Otto and Trey both staring open-mouthed and trembling at Albarn's unsettling delivery. Soul's heart stuttered every time her saw the girl's arm whip out, knee skimming the clay and body twisted low; it was as unnatural as it was exciting, and - God he wanted to catch her pitch. Soul shook his head, trying to stop focusing on that one impossibility, and dug his stance into the red dust, literally grounding himself in the game happening right then.
Pinch hitting for the left fielder, Dave Hitchins sauntered up to the plate next, and Soul had to grin at the cocksure way his friend knocked his bat against home plate before pointing it at Soul. You're coming home, buddy, was what Dave's matching smirk seemed to say.
Dave's bat rested comfortably in his hands, and Soul inched his way into a dangerously large lead off. Right-hander Albarn stared at him, measuring, and though he couldn't see her expression in great detail, he imagined her green eyes were frosty. A light shiver ran down his spine, but Soul just crouched lower, trailing his fingers in the loosened dirt. He was so close to home, just forty feet, but with two outs already, if Dave got thrown out - the inning was over; it was a single or nothing game.
Soul bit down on his lower lip, hard. If it had been any other pitcher but Albarn, Dave's confidence would have been justified. But Soul knew how disorienting Albarn's pitch was to look at; three at-bats and six innings, and it still threw him for a loop. Dave had only managed to hit a line drive straight to first, and he was the Flyers' best batter, after Soul himself.
Soul kissed the knuckle on his thumb for good luck as Albarn sent him one last frigid glance. She wasn't going to try to pick him off, had found out in the third inning that all that did was waste her energy and her team's time. She had a beautiful windup, though, Soul couldn't help but notice, her left knee high and tucked close, body perfectly balanced. As soon as her right knee was skimming the dirt, arm bending unnaturally back, Soul was skipping out a few more steps, edging his way closer to home.
It was a dangerous gamble he took, and he would be pulling out what little hair he had left if any of his teammates had tried it. Go too far, and you won't make it back to third before the catcher picks you off; don't go far enough, and a short hit could mean you're out. He had to tempt the other players to throw to home, when they usually would just toss to first and dust their hands of the inning. But Soul knew from experience that a player edging closer to the base was a cause for nerves - and nerves brought wild pitches and wild passes. Soul almost liked wild more than anything else, nowadays.
The ball left Albarn's fingertips, spinning beautifully, and heading straight for the lower edge of the strike zone. Dave held still, blew a bubble with the gum he'd been chomping on, and let the pitch come in low, as a ball. Soul breathed out slowly, breath hissing through his teeth. Dave could have hit that ball, but Soul knew that the other boy was trying to prove a point: He wasn't scared and Albarn wasn't that good.
Soul's foot hit the bag, and he immediately turned back to take the lead off again. Albarn was staring at him in a way that was intentional enough he knew she was trying to tell him 'I see you.' Soul shivered, ground his teeth together, and dug his cleat into the ground. The pitcher turned her gaze away and Soul could breathe again.
One more ball and two strikes, and Soul was getting really sick of having to jog back to third to tag up before returning to his spot, which was starting to get well marked with trenches from his constant digging with his cleats. Soul shook his head and filled a couple in as he waited. Albarn was standing, still as a statue, eyes closed with her glove up to her nose. The bespectacled third baseman stood halfway between third and Soul's daring position, and Soul spared him just a glance to check his position. Then his eyes were back on Albarn pulling her knee to her chest.
The pitch was low, and he nearly grinned outright. It was Dave's favorite spot, low in the strike zone. The left fielder tensed up before swinging his bat in a shining arc, the ting! of his hit loud and clear and solid; the ball soared up and over the heads of Albarn - who watched it thin-lipped - and the first and second basemen. Just past the infield, the ball took a sharp dive, plopping into the grass just out of reach of the left and centerfielder's gloves. The centerfielder almost made it, though, but almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. While this game was war, Soul was already taking off for home at full speed, barely sparing another look for the centerfielder who had scooped up the ball and was cocking his arm back to power it to home. But the ball was just over the pitcher's mound and Soul was stomping triumphantly on home plate.
The Flyers were was going wild in the dugout as Soul's brought them into the lead, shaking the fence and whooping and hollering. Soul's face was stretched into a painful smile when he smacked a high-five with the on-deck Kowski. He spared a glance back over his shoulder at Albarn, who stood stock still, staring stiff-shouldered after Soul. The catcher didn't think it possible, but his grin stretched even wider, and he stepped into the cheering mob that was his dugout.
Maka was rattled, and she was embarrassed that it was showing in her playing. Two and a half innings, and she'd let them have one more runs while scoring none for the Angels. Evans was keeping the pitches random and strategic enough that no one could find enough of a pattern that they could predict the placement. Maka hated him, and she was sure the catcher would be tickled pink to know it.
She wished she could say that the Flyers success was all due to Evans being unfairly proficient at his position, but the Connecticut team was solid in their bats and defense; Maka didn't want to think of the number of hours they had spent on drills to perfect some of their tougher defensive plays.
It was the bottom of the ninth, though, and Maka swallowed nervously as she stepped into the on-deck circle. Kirk was up to bat before her, and she settled her bat over her shoulder as he did. The Flyers' pitcher had been unnaturally nonplussed by any of the events all day, his eyes calm behind his glasses and face impassive. He went about his job with confidence and efficiency, and Maka's gut churned with jealousy.
The pitcher - number 04, Hoshizoku - had a quick windup and delivery, and that in and of itself was almost as disconcerting as Maka's own submarine style. His pitch wasn't overly fast, though, so it was easier to see where the ball was headed than some of the other pitchers they'd faced in playoffs.
Kirk's batting style was almost as relaxed and efficient as the pitcher's movements. He made the way he scooped the low pitch up and over the heads of the infielders seem easy. The catcher took a heartbeat to determine the ball was going to be fair, and then he took off, tossing his bat to the side and running for all he was worth to first.
Kirk got to the bag safely, and the Angels yelled and stomped and shook the dugout fence. Maka watched him laugh and slap their younger teammate stationed as the first base coach on the shoulder, before handing over his batting gloves and ankle guard.
She sent up a short prayer for good luck and crossed herself quickly before she stepped up to the plate. Leaning her bat against her leg, Maka pulled her batting gloves snug and tightened the Velcro
"Nervous, Albarn?" came Evans' taunting voice from her right. "All the people watching you, your team relying on you. It's the ninth, after-"
"Shut up, Evans," she snapped, voice haughty and cold to cover up the way her mouth had gone dry and it suddenly seemed ten degrees colder, despite the blistering Californian sun. With one last tug on her gloves, Maka swung her bat up to her shoulder, but held her left hand out to hold off the pitch as she dug out her stance.
She could feel Evans watching her every movement behind her, and her motions were jerky and erratic because of it. Maka couldn't help but think about what the catcher had said, couldn't swallow because her mouth might as well have been cotton balls. It was the bottom ninth, Angels one run down, and with one out already - Maka knew this was do-or-die: She either managed to get on base with a double, or she got out and essentially kissed hopes of making it to the next round goodbye. There was a young first year starter between her and Blake, and if Maka didn't bring Kirk closer to home, they would only win through some out-of-season Christmas miracle if Blake managed to hit a homerun; he was 1 for 3, though, and those were odds not even Maka's father would bet on.
Evans really was just way too good at his position, Maka thought. She had expected 04 to throw the first pitch down the middle, like he had almost every other at bat, but Evans called a high inside curve. She ducked back away from it, thrown, though she'd apparently had no reason to worry because the ump called it fair.
The dugout exploded in boos and "open your eyes ump; can't you see that was way inside"s and Maka hid her smile by tapping her bat against home plate.
"Your team ever heard of glasses? 'Cause I think they may need them if they think that pitch was outta the strike zone," was Evans' snarky commentary.
Maka's mouth flattened into a line, and she tapped her bat against the plate one more time with more force than necessary. Then 04 was preparing his pitch again, tugging on his cap - probably copied the pros' habit of doing that because he thought it made him look cool, Maka thought caustically. But there was too little time between the hat-tug and 04's pitch to get distracted, if Maka was going to try to spot its trajectory.
Low - outside - her weak spot. Maka slid her hands further down the bat's taped leather grip, towards the flared bottom, lengthening her grip on it so she could reach the pitch. Being short and small was good because people underestimated her when she stood on the pitcher's mound, but it did make it more difficult to reach outside balls in the batter's box.
She just barely managed to reach the ball, but it tipped foul. Kirk, halfway to second base stopped midstride, and jogged back to tag up on first.
Three times Maka just barely managed to stay alive, desperately reaching for the outside pitches. She could feel her heart pumping adrenaline through her body. Her hands trembled on her bat and her knees shook in her stance. There was so much resting on her hitting a single or double, and in that moment, she hated batting. Maka knew Blake thrived on it, loved being in the spotlight with everything resting on his shoulders, but Maka liked knowing that if something were to go wrong, she would have teammates there to back her up.
Hoshizoku was winding up for another pitch, and Maka tightened her grip on her bat to still her shaking fingers. His release was slower than normal, she noted, and it looked like he'd twisted his wrist at the last second. It was an odd pitch, and it wasn't until the ball was halfway to home that Maka realized it was curving way inside - way more inside than he had pitched before. At the last second, she managed to twist her body away, to expose her back rather than her elbow to the dangerous smack! of baseball against skin.
Pain bloomed up from just below her right shoulder blade. Breathing was hard - and for a moment just after impact, she forgot how to do it. A firm hand was on her elbow then, pulling her upright. Evans, catcher's mask abandoned somewhere, was peering into her face, mouth pulled down in a concerned frown. "Albarn, are you alright? Anything hurt?" He paused and seemed to reconsider his words, "well, anything hurt more than how it feels when a 50 mile-an-hour baseball hits you?"
Maka turned a weak glare on him. "M'back hurts, but no, I don't think anything's, like, broken?" her voice rose in an unintentional question.
Evans let out a breath of a laugh, and released her elbow so he could gently shove her shoulder. "Take your base. Jesus."
"No, I'm Maka," she grinned, turning on her heel to begin her slow, painful jog to first.
"And I'm done," she heard Soul mutter behind her, and Maka wished he wouldn't be so funny because laughing hurt.
The tiny shortstop struck out, just as Maka knew he would, and she bounced from toe-to-heel as Blake stepped up to home plate. His face was more serious than she'd seen it, and while it made her nervous, she was glad that he was aware how much was riding on his shoulders, at the very least. The centerfielder pushed his batting helmet down more snugly on his head before scuffing out his stance in the batter's box.
Evans' sat up from his crouch, heels flat on the ground, half standing. They were going to pitch it high to Blake: Evans' glove was leveled at Blake's ribcage. Maka chewed on her lower lip as she slid a few more steps away from first base. She was ready to run, was ready to try to make it home on a double - if Blake could manage one.
The pitcher was winding up; Maka shuffled a few more inches to her right. She could feel her heart pounding desperately in her chest. Her palms were sweating. The bruise blooming on her back didn't hurt yet, but some part of her knew that it would and dreaded when she stopped running on adrenaline and would actually begin to feel it.
Number 04 released the pitch, and Blake twirled his bat once before swinging - under the baseball and late, for all his bluster and self confidence. The ball smacked solidly into Evans' glove as Blake was almost through with his swing. Maka groaned and turned to jog back to first. Blake was wound-up and overeager, and was making stupid mistakes because of it. She wished that there were batter conferences like pitching ones, because Kirk needed to work his calming magic on the centerfielder right now.
Tagged up, Maka took a lead off of first again, inching farther and farther away from base as the seconds ticked on and the rival battery continued to ignore her. She made eye contact with Blake as he was settling back into his stance; she flashed him a peace sign, trying to tell him that it was OK. He was still wound up, though, and was constantly moving in the batter's box, swirling his bat, readjusting his balance. Maka could only hope that the movement would distract the pitcher, because she knew from experience that it didn't help Blake's batting average.
But Maka had never seen a pitcher more unfazed by anything; she watched 04 pitch another strike straight into Evans' glove. Her mouth twisted bitterly, and her tag-up on first was more of a stomp than a step.
"I don't think your pitcher is human," Maka snarled at the Flyers' first baseman, startling a giggle out of him. She could hear him snort as she shuffled into her lead off.
Evans was back in his half-crouch, glove leveled at the same spot it was before, and Maka groaned internally. It was Blake's weakest spot, and he unfailingly chased it - and of course Evans noticed the centerfielder's bad habit and took advantage if it.
Maka had to marvel at the efficiency of 04's pitching style, the speed and quietness of his delivery. She hated it because she was jealous of it.
Third time's the charm - and Maka grinned when she heard the harsh clang! of Blake's strong swing crashing into the ball. She was off the base and running even before Blake had finished his follow through, even before she could tell if the ball was fair or foul or would be caught. There were two outs already, so none of that mattered; if it was fair, she would have a jump start on her base run, if I was foul, she'd simply turn around, and if it was caught - well the inning, the game, would be over, and it definitely wouldn't matter then.
The cheering of the Angels' dugout died as Maka was rounding second, Kirk almost home, and the Flyers' dugout was going wild, players emptying onto the field. Slowing, Maka glanced behind her to see the Flyers' right fielder waving his glove triumphantly in the air. And the game was over, just like that.
Maka came slowly to a stop, shoulders slouched in defeat. Kirk was crouching next to Blake, one arm around the other boy's shoulder.
As Captain, Maka had to shove down her disappointment, her desire to stand rooted in her spot and cry and yell about how it wasn't fair, but she couldn't; that was baseball. Her father had a silly saying to sum up baseball: There was always a winner and a loser, but whether you were a loser of a winner or a winner of a loser depended on how you handled yourself after the hats had been hung up. The complexly profound sentence helped her straighten her posture and stiffen her shoulders. She had a team to console, because heaven knew Coach wasn't going to do it well.
The team was already emptying from the dugout, gathering in a small huddle just to the left of it. Maka could see them cast sullen glances towards the still-screaming and cheering Flyers. With a sigh, she trudged her way over towards her team, slowly removing her batting helmet as she went. Kirk was waiting for her near third base, and the catcher wrapped his arm around her, using the small bit of difference in their height to pull her in close in a semi-hug.
"Oi, Maks, good game," the catcher told her quietly as he tugged on one of her braided pigtails.
Maka huffed a laugh. "Yeah, same to you, Rung. Just sucks that we weren't able to take them all on to the World Series."
"We did our best - they did there best. Tell 'em."
The catcher gave her a gentle push towards the group of their teammates, all in varying states of emotion.
The younger players were subtly trying to wipe their eyes on their clean uniforms, lower lips wobbly; they avoided even glancing in the direction their seniors. The older players who, like Maka and Kirk, would be leaving the League, stood nearly shoulder to shoulder, faces stony. Of all the players, they had had their hopes the highest, had believed whole-heartedly that they would be able to make it all the way through finals - that they would be the ones representing the US in the World Series.
Maka ran her hand over her face. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped into the circle. A quick glance around confirmed her original suspicion that Coach wouldn't be there - which suited her just fine; he'd only done so much for their team.
"Everyone-" Maka started, but as 13 pairs of eyes turned and focused on her, expectant, she choked up. Needing the physical comfort, she dropped her batting helmet at her feet and held her arms open wide. "Everyone, bring it in."
The sniffles increased, but the team as a whole pretended not to notice. Arms linked around shoulders, heads were tucked in close. The body heat was almost unbearable in the late afternoon sun, but the feeling of a trusted teammate tucked under their arm was what the team needed more than anything at that moment.
When Maka spoke again, her voice was rough and quiet. "Guys - you all, we all played hard today. No one could say we didn't put 120% effort into our game today, and I'm - I'm so proud of you all."
Blake, tucked in close on Maka's right, groaned obnoxiously. "Ewww, Maks, your emotion's gonna infect me!" He squeezed her shoulder as he said it, and Maka couldn't keep a small smile off her face as the team tittered around them. If Blake's voice was a little more gruff than usual, everyone pretended not to notice.
"Shove it, Bacilio," Maka snarled half-heartedly, purposely butchering the pronunciation of Blake's real name.
She cleared her throat. "As I was saying - I couldn't be more proud of all the effort y'all gave today. I won't lie to you guys and say that I'm not sad we didn't make it on to the next round. But I'm not sad about losing the game; that would be unfair to the Flyers and, more importantly, that would be unfair to you." Maka was finding her groove, stealing some phrases from the peptalks she'd heard her father give. "It's been a gift getting to play with you guys this year. If there was any team I would want to make it this far in the World Series with, it would be y'all. Thanks for all the sweat and energy y'all poured into practice and teams. It wasn't always easy - God, do I know it wasn't always easy - but y'all stuck with it and, just, yeah: Thanks, I guess."
There was a moment of quiet, and then Harvey Éclair, in his dry voice, spoke up. "You started so strong, Albarn - I was tearing up there once, I think -" the team laughed at that, thinking of straight-faced, composed Harv shedding a tear. "And you finish your speech like that?"
Hiro, never one to miss an opportunity to tease Maka, jumped in next. "God, honestly. I mean, if your goal was to cheer us up, you only kind of made it. I don't care about the game anymore, but I think I might cry because of how pathetic that speech was."
Maka scowled, face heating up. She'd thought she'd done pretty well on her speech, all things considered. But she knew the boys were just joking around, and it had brought smiles and laughs to the huddle, so she could only begrudge them a little.
"You talk big now, Hiro, you jerk, but I saw you shed a tear or two during my pathetic little speech." She aimed a kick across the huddle at the Japanese- American boy grinning at her.
