Oh, my lovelies. You guys are gonna hate me. So I was sorto getting tired with my old story, Adoration Kills, so I started working on this one. WAIT, DON'T HATE ME. I'm still continuing Adoration Kills but this is another story to keep my interest at bay. Hope you guys like! And if you don't understand the flow of the story yet, don't worry. This is just a preface. The next chapter will explain everything. Enjoy!

Chapter One: Juxtaposition

I started counting in my head.

Ten pairs of eyes on me. Nine fingers tapping. Eight needlessly shirtless. Seven sitting down. Six different smells. Five more seconds to go. Four chewing seeds. Three brought bats. Two beads of sweat on my brows. One, I could already tell, didn't like me.

And none out of every single one in this goddamn small room were smiling. Just great.

I shifted my weight between my right and left leg, trying to get my mind off at how conscious I was of all their stares—or rather, glares. But the heat and the fact that I had no personal pace added ten pounds to it. "Nice to meet you," I said, cursing my feeble voice to the next century. It wasn't like I was a shy girl. I was an in-betweener—one of those people who wouldn't go out of their way to greet a stranger, but would do so if that stranger said hello first. My face, on the other hand, told a different story. Most people would say that I had that sad-puppy look written all over the way I look at the world, like I was some fresh meat waiting to be taken. My mother used to tell me that I, especially, needed to watch out, because I was just the kind of girl who others took advantage of. Which was why when I had heard myself, so quiet and weak and vulnerable, I was sure I'd be ripped to pieces in seconds by these onlookers who were probably hiding a nice set of fangs behind their scowls.

"Nice to meet you, too," replied an unknown voice. At first, it made me think that maybe not everybody here hated me from first impression, but as the greeting was followed by a wad of gum cleaving through the air and landing a wet one on my forearm, I took it all back.

I fought my need to grimace. It'd be showing whoever the immature brat was that he won; that I was as easily hurt as I was disturbed. My fingers pricked the at the gum, stretching it and prying it off my skin. Once I got a hold of it, I snapped my wrist like how I always did when I was on the field, and I stared in triumph—half disgust—as the purple lump flew and adhered on the concrete floor underneath me.

"Pick that up later," Coach Bob whispered beside me. He was nice. He knew that if he had instructed me to clean it up now, where I'd be practically on the floor in front of the guys I was trying to make ammends with, they wouldn't learn to give me some respect.

I cheated a quick glance at him. He had a knuckle-length scar that ran from the tip of his brow to the corners of his crow's feet. It looked like it blended in just fine, since his old age was starting to result to deep wrinkles here and there. I read somewhere that wrinkles aftermaths of years of laughter. I wouldn't know if that was true. I'd only met him and the other coach a few minutes ago, right before they forcibly hauled me over here. But when Bob smiled when he had greeted me, his wrinkles grew even farther in as if they were used to it. On the very right side of his mouth was a misplaced tooth. It stuck out like a sore thumb and dug into his lip. It made me wonder if he ever opted for braces when he was younger.

"Hey! Who threw that?" yelled Coach Watson. My ears drummed. I was aware of the fact that he could shout—everybody from my class three stories up could hear him screaming at his players everyday in seventh period practices—but standing so close to him had me under a new light. My feet slid to the left, closer to Coach Bob.

He was a tall, lanky man, opposite of Bob. Watson and his Hitler-famous mustache circulated around the school for quite a while last year due to the Rag-Doll Incident. That was how I always remembered him. During one of the home games, the Ump "seemed" to have made a wrong call and Watson got so p'd off about it, he snatched his three-year old daughter's doll and knuckle-balled it right into the Ump's face. It would've been fine if the Ump had his mask on, but he didn't. Someone told me it wasn't only that, but also because Watson used to be a hell of a pitcher back in the day and that his arm hadn't rusted over the year.

"I asked who threw that!"

"I did." A blonde boy raised his hand, revealing his horrible farmer's ran as his sleeve rolled down to his shoulder. His feet were propped up on the table and his chair was leaned back, almost all the way. The smirk on his face was so big and cocky it took up half of his dirt-covered face. "Sorry, Coach. I meant to hit her face."

"Dammit, Yume!" I swore I heard the ceiling shook. "Apologize and get on the track! I want ten laps and if you give me anything less, your ass in gonna be on that bench for so long it's gonna have an imprint." Watson ran a tired hand down his face. It must've been the first time I've heard a player talk back to their coach. Either this team was stupid or unbelievably good that even the coaches would take anything just to have every player available. "Honestly," Watson continued, "I'm trying to make it work here! Suck it up and stop bitchin', you damn pricks! We lost Jules, okay? Unless you wanna stay here while West Ranch takes playoffs—again—we need another Jules. Better, faster, more accurate. And she's—" he slapped a hard hand across my back; I had to reach out and grab the edge of the table to not fall over from the sudden impact "—the closest thing we've got."

Except for the throb that buzzed inside my ears, it got quiet. Watson seemed like he was convincing himself that that was a good speech, with his nose high in the air and brows furrowed, but I knew so otherwise. They couldn't care less. Bob's muted sigh that came a little afterwards reassured me that I wasn't the only one who saw through the boys' silence.

Wallowing in the heavy atmosphere that weighed down on my shoulders plus the heat that was starting to get me was not an okay situation. Before I'd been dragged here, I was planning to come home to a nice, cold bowl of birthday cake ice cream and a nice, cold shower that was accompanied by a nice, cold nap. That sounded so good compared to where I was. My finger sprung up to my forehead to catch a hasty sweat. Great. I was sweating already. Although I was used to it, this was the first time I'd sweated by just standing inside, where it was shaded. The damn club room might've been a human toaster, but it was nonetheless shaded.

The reserved reticence was disturbed by dull, steely sound. Yume—was that his name?—dropped his feet from the table surface, creating another harsh sound as his metal cleats met with concrete. He stood as his chair slid back against the wall. He locked his eyes with mine. "Sorry," he spat, inspecting me up and down as if I couldn't see it. He snatched a cap from a boy's head beside him, threw it on and fixed its bill, still keeping his attention focused.

I rolled my eyes. "Apology not believed."

"Apology not sincere."

He turned around on his heels and reached for the door. As soon as he opened it, the heat waves came flooding in, raising the room temperature another hundred degrees, and both coaches signaled Yume to get out so he could close the door faster. On his way out, he snuck his hand over his shoulder and flipped me the little birdy.

Ooh, I'm so scared.

"I want you done in fifteen minutes, Yume!"

"Got it, coach."

For some reason, it seemed like the tenseness doubled after Yume left, like his team was trying to fill in the missing hole but overdid it a little bit too much. I shifted between my legs again. It was a bad habit I couldn't break, and right now I didn't feel like changing it.

"So what now?" asked a boy whom I recognized. Tobita Yuu. One of my friends had had the biggest crush on him for so long that it's probably leaning to love at this moment. I didn't know why. Sure, he was nice, but there was a fine line between being a gentleman and sissy. Though he did play his position well—I'd give him that.

"With the distraction gone, we welcome her into the team," said Bob. A few of them grunted. Most sent me a menacing frown. "Hey now. Since when did we learn how to complain, boys?"

Arms crossed. Looks exchanged. Few spitted at the ground then turned to catch my attention. That was your face, they would seem to say to me.

"She'll start practicing with us starting next week. I expect you to give your utmost respect to her when she begins." Bob glanced at me. "You won't be disappointed. She might not be at her best at the beginning, she's just going to get used to how things work around here, but she's good. I bet she'll impress evenyou, Natsume."

I rivered Bob's stare to the very back corner of the room, towards a raven-hued head who's identity I knew straight away. Unlike Tobita, way too many of my friends had crushes on Hyuuga, as they were part of the 99% of the woman population in the city that couldn't help but be drawn in by his good looks and athletic ability. I didn't know where I stood in that portion. I did think that he was more attractive than the average male, but what else was there about him? His talent as a centerfielder?

He scoffed at Bob's comment and turned away, fixing his bill until it covered the tops of his eyes. I caught Watson's chastising shake of his head, but otherwise Bob smiled like he imagined that sort of reaction from the boy.

"Anything questions?" No one stirred. "Alright. I still expect your best effort at practices. I won't go easy just because a female being has joined in on our 20-sets sprints," Watson bellowed.

20 sets.

Just that?

"We're fielding tomorrow. Bring your cleats, gloves, and other crap. Catchers, bring your gear. You'll be catching for the ol' machine." Somewhere in the back of my ear, I heard someone mutter, "It's better than catching for her." But that didn't faze me. I turned it around and took it as a compliment.

Bob clapped his sun-tanned hands. "You boys did an excellent job today. Good hustle. Clean up the field—yes, Kitsu, that includes dragging—and do a break. I wanna be able to hear from inside, you hear? No half-assing it! Alright, dismissed."

During the whole ten minutes that I'd been with them, I had never seen them move so fast and hastily. Like they were dying to get out of my presence. They all pushed their chair back and slammed the door open, reveling in the scorching light of the sun that was at its peak.

"Augh! Who turned the lights on?"

"Faster, Yume! My baby brother could lap you in a second!" In the distance that would be the school track, Yume hollered back, "Shut up! I'm just warming up!"

"I can't believe she's fucking joining."

"Great coaches we have."

"Don't let them hear you, man. Keep it down."

One of the boys on his way out, a blonde one, clashed stares with mine. Instead of the usual scowl I'd been receiving, the corner of his lips turned upwards into such a fashion that I didn't recognize at first, but after a while, I realized it was a smile. An actual smile. From someone on the team.

I smiled back.

"Lovely, aren't they?" Bob said to me as soon as the last pair of cleats was out the door.

"I can already feel the love."

"Well, to tell the truth, that went better than we expected," confessed Watson. "We brought a bat just in case things got violent." He pointed behind a trash can, where a metal Easton was cleverly hidden.

"They get violent?" I asked.

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

I laughed. I'd been in brawls before. Yeah, sure. But the circumstances were usually a little bit easier, where I would be pretend-wrestiling a toddler and purposely losing to boost up their self-confidence. "I've never fought with boys."

"And we don't intend to let one of our own break that," Bob reassured, flashing his misplaced tooth. "You're safe, don't worry."

"And since we know that we're intruding in your girl time of going home and playing with your dolls and Barbies, we're gonna let you go, too."

"Coach Watson, Barbies are dolls."

"Would you rather have me already know that?"

This time it was Bob's turn to sprout a grin and let out a deep sound from within his throat. "Alright, okay, you're free to go. Thanks for coming today."

I shook his hand as he sprung it forward—his wrinkles were already making their way to his fingertips. Afterwards was Watson's. "Not like a had a choice," I replied jokingly. "So when I do come by to get my stuff?"

"Friday."

"Okay. Thanks." I circled around the table to the door. I felt their attentive stares burning holes in my back. I was used to it, since they were always there every Saturday morning I practiced alone out in the field at a park close to my home, but the difference between then and now was that I was aware who was watching me. They didn't reveal themselves until today.

Before my hand twisted the knob that was searing with heat, Bob called out to me. I peeked over my shoulders to the two of them, keeping their eye on me as I suspected. They both looked like they had just had an epiphany.

I quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah?" I answered.

"Welcome to the boy's varsity baseball, Ms. Starting Pitcher, Mikan."

So, as I said, this is just a preface to give you a little taste of what The Bassball Goddess will sound like. the next chapter reveals Mikan's background, how she got on the team, and all that stuff. I really hope you guys liked it! I introduced some of the major characters, but not all. I'm making up this story as I go along, by the way. No plot tree or anything like that. Questions? PM me! Please don't forget to review guys. I'll update this in a short while, be patient.

Again, thanks for reading, lovelies.