Yep, I've written Pitch fic. Unfortunately this is just introspective Lawson-reflecting-on-the-twilight-of-his-career fic. You can mentally squeeze this into the most recent episode or imagine they go out again for drinks later. Hopefully I'll write something of substance at a later date!

Title from "Diane Young," by Vampire Weekend.

Lawson watches her retreating back as she winds her way through the crush of bodies on the dance floor and finishes the dregs of his beer. There's a time he'd join them, maybe slide up behind a pretty girl and whisper his stat line in her ear as an icebreaker or whatever. Maybe if he wasn't a ballplayer—if she wasn't a ballplayer—he'd slide up behind her and try one of his patented, one-hundred per cent success rate pickup lines on her. She'd probably slug him in the arm and shake him off, ballplayer or not, now that he thinks about it.

He's too old, too broken, too sad. Too hung up on his ex.

Lawson goes for another drag of his beer, then remembers it's gone. He lifts a hand to flag down a server when a hand lands on his shoulder.

"Sure you haven't had enough, slugger?"

Ginny slides into the booth and settles across from him, clutching a tall glass of neon yellow something in one of her hands. There's even a tiny, bright pink umbrella. Lawson rubs his thumbs in his eyes and tries to sit up straight, but it's too much effort. He gives up trying to be presentable for the lady and continues to slouch in his booth.

"I am bottomless pit of booze and self-loathing," he says, gesturing at her with his empty bottle. "What the hell is that, Baker?"

"Limoncello," she says, holding the glass out to him. "It's really good, you wanna try?"

"It looks like piss," Lawson says, sniffing disdainfully.

Ginny tilts her head, dark ringlets spilling over her shoulder, and spears him with an exasperated look. "Are you for real?"

"I might be drunk," Lawson allows.

"Wow, really? I definitely couldn't smell the stench of cheap American light beer on you from across the room," she says, pulling her drink back and taking a sip of it. When she sets the glass down, her lips are glossy and she licks the limoncello off.

Lawson looks away, down at his empty bottle, feeling creepy and pathetic.

"Why aren't you out there dancing with Torres and Evers and Chapman? Hell, you even got Miller out there and you know how much that guy hates to have fun," Lawson says, as he worries at the paper label. The label is damp and wrinkly and he picks at it with his blunt, neatly trimmed fingernails, which are still bright yellow with polish from that day's game. His nails are as bright and yellow as her drink.

"I noticed you were moping here by yourself," Ginny says.

"I'm not moping—"

"You're moping," she says, reaching out and tapping him on the back of the hand. "I thought we were a team, Lawson. Didn't you give a big, passionate speech on team unity the other day?"

Lawson lifts a shoulder. "I might have."

Ginny rolls her eyes, openly mocking him now. Lawson figures he's earned it. "C'mon and get your ass on the dance floor," she says, wrapping her hand around his and prying it away from his empty bottle.

"Baker…" Lawson tries to gently twist his hand out of Ginny's grip, but she's having none of it.

"You're bringing down the mood."

Ginny tugs on his arm and, with a grudging sigh, Lawson allows Ginny to pull him out of the booth. Lawson stumbles to his feet and Ginny pushes at his chest to help him stay upright.

"I'll try to be less of a downer if that'll please your highness," he says, bowing deeply at the waist and nearly toppling over.

Ginny steadies him with a hand on the shoulder and smiles widely at him. Lawson can't help but smile back. Her smile is infectious, and you can't help but want to reflect some of it back at her.

For a moment, Lawson can see a just little bit of himself reflected in her brilliant smile. He's twenty-three again, a green, wet-behind-the-ears kid with stars in his eyes, suddenly and unexpectedly thrust into stardom. A kid with a world of possibilities ahead of him, a world of possibilities he can't even begin to imagine.

Lawson lets Ginny pull him onto the dance floor. He pantomimes dance moves that aren't so much dance moves as they are awkward arm movements and off-beat swaying that make his knees throb with pain. Ginny and some of the younger guys dance circles around him, grinning and giggling and shouting things Lawson can't hear over the bass of the club music. Ginny catches his eye and smiles at him, all teeth, her cheeks dimpling.

She leans in and yells over the music, "I'm glad you're dancing."

Lawson can hardly make out the words. "Me too," he says, and it actually surprises him that he means it.

Some of the guys tease him for his lack of moves, or the fact it's Ginny he's dancing with. Miller shoots him squinty, suspicious glares from his corner of the dance floor. Lawson's knees really fucking hurt—

Ginny catches his eye again and flashes a smile his way.

—but, in the here and now, he's good.