All Rusty knows is that there is someone on top of him, a knee stuck in his back. He can't begin to think, let alone move. Rusty attempts to shift the pressure from his back, but it is pushed further and a voice sounds from above.

"What are you, hmm? River? Shadow?" someone asks, wrapping Rusty's arms around his back. Rusty shakes his head, confusion setting in his mind.

"N-no! What are you talking about?"

"You're a spy; we both know that. I just can't tell where you're from based on this ridiculous outfit." He flicks the collar of Rusty's old middle school uniform; one he had been wearing all through his high school years because of the no team rule. He can't have worn old workout clothes during practice, now could he? He did wish that he had enough time to change before coming, though. Stupid Smudge! He thinks, wriggling under whoever is sitting on him. It doesn't have any effect. "Now what school're you from?"

Rusty shakes his head again, desperately. Why does that matter? Nothing he says is going to change anything. This boy's going to think he's a spy no matter what! "I'm from-," as the word Bridgeville almost slips from his lips, Rusty realizes that might not be the best choice. Redtail, or whatever his name is, transferred there for some reason. They already hate us for being rich. No telling what he'll do if I tell him. But then he'll really think I'm a spy. At least Bridgeville doesn't have a team!

"Get off me!" he yells through gritted teeth, kicking his legs upward. The person sitting on top of him is startled, and is knocked off as a stray foot catches him in the cheek. Thinking it would be futile, the one word circulating through his mind is very welcome. Yes!

Rusty quickly scrambles to his feet, holding his hands out in front of him in a boxing position. Though not a seasoned boxer himself, Rusty is sure he can pop off a good one-two before the attacker knows what's happened. But he is so surprised by the person lying on the ground, cradling a split lip, that he has to command himself to close his dropping jaw. His raised hands and arms are now back at his side as he gapes at the figure.

The gray haired pitcher –Gray, I think—is the one who had tackled him, mistaking Rusty for a rival player. Rusty tries to slow his heart. Gray stares up at Rusty for a second, looking as if anger boils in his eyes, but then it passes, and he does something surprising.

Gray smiles at Rusty, swiping a drop of blood from his chin. He rises to his feet, a happy expression etched on his face, though there is something else in it. Almost like embarrassment.

"Pretty good for a kitty pet, I guess." Rusty knits his eyebrows together, wondering what he's talking about. Kittypet? As in, like a cat?

Rusty's mouth hangs open yet again, thinking about words that could come from his mouth. All he can come up with is: "What?" Gray's grin becomes wider at this, closing the distance between them and wrapping an arm around Rusty's shoulder. Rusty winces in pain as his back screams. The boy next to him is not light.

"A kittypet. You've never heard of that before?" Rusty nods, ducking out of the boy's grasp. Gray shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets. "It means someone who's from Bridgeville. A kitty, you know, like you're lazy, and you're kind of a pet to your parents, since they have all the money. Hence the term Kittypet."

Rusty clears his throat, not sure if he can take offense to the insult. It is accurate to many that go to Bridgeville. "Ho-how did you know I was from Bridgeville?" the gray haired boy makes a motion for Rusty to follow him. Rusty complies, rubbing his wrist.

"Your uniform. Everyone from that school goes to Bridgeville. Just took me a few minutes to realize that." Rusty nods, glancing at where Gray is taking them. The field? He thinks as his feet hit the dirt ridden dugout. Rusty sees a spattering of blood on the ground, and he reaches up to rub his cheek. There's only a small cut spanning just below his eye, but it's still causing a small stream to erupt from it.

Gray notices Rusty's fingers caressing the cut and scoffs. "Seriously, try to hide the fact that you've never been hurt in your life." he walks to the bench and unzips a purple backpack, pulling a white rectangular object. It pops open, and he extracts a thin, small band-aid. "Here," he says, holding it out.

Rusty takes it angrily, wrapping it around the cut quickly. "I've been cut lots of times," he says, shoving the wrapping in his pocket. Gray raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything. Before Rusty can say something else, he picks up a bat and shoves it in the red haired boy's arms.

"Go to home," he commands, enveloping his arm in a well-worn glove. Rusty raises an eyebrow, a question forming on his lips.

"Why?"

Gray doesn't look at him as he leaves Rusty behind, setting an upheaval of dirt on his way to the pitcher's mound.

"I want to test you, kittypet. You play a lot, don't you?" he asks, glancing at Rusty. Rusty nods, swinging the bat to one shoulder.

"Yeah, I guess. I'm on a team of two with my friend." Gray steps onto the mound and kicks at it with a toe, a grim expression settling in on his face. Rusty is surprised at how fast he changes his attitude.

"That's great; now are you going to hit, or what?" Rusty nods, jogging to home. He stands to the right of the plate, swinging the bat just a miniscule amount in front of him. I'm ready, he thinks, steadying the bat. Rusty is glad that all the other coaches and players are gone. He doesn't want them see him embarrass himself, but mostly he doesn't want them all to tackle him like Gray did. He is starting to fear that the rumors Smudge heard from Henry are true.

But as Rusty is deep in thought, the ball has already sprung past his face, landing loudly in the fence behind him. He widens his eyes, staring down at his hands. What just happened?

"Come on, give me more competition," Gray taunts from the pitcher's mound, sprinting towards Rusty to gather the ball. He sweeps it up and jogs back, throwing the ball up into the air and catching it.

"I could've thrown it to you, you know," Rusty says, hitting the bat against his foot. You can do this, Rusty.

"I didn't want you to make yourself seem more pathetic than you already are," Gray responds, already preparing for the next throw. Rusty swings his bat up, his eyes focused on the ball this time. To the mitt. Back in the arc. Now it's coming!

As the ball hurtles towards him, Rusty locks his gaze on it. All time slows down. The sounds of outside dim, and instead of cackling birds and scuttling squirrels, Rusty can only hear the sound of crackling energy in the air. He's really good!

And as he starts his swing, expecting a home run, the ball sweeps past, almost as if taunting. What? He thinks, his body already in full swing. It spins him around, sending an array of dirt up into the air.

"Man!" Gray yells from the mound, not quite smiling. But Rusty can see the taunting in them. I'll do it this time for sure!

He picks the ball up from the ground and spins it in his hand, glancing at the seams. He realizes that he can hit it, just as long as he stays focused and ignores Gray's power. Without thinking, he sends the ball in a long throw to Gray, settling at home before the pitcher catches it.

He narrows his eyes, Gray disappearing from view. Just the ball, in all its glory, is in Rusty's gaze. Almost as if in slow motion, it leaves Gray's hand, straight towards his bat. Why was this so hard before? He thinks, the bat moving in a forward arc, though not in slow motion as the ball is.

As Rusty is staring at the ball, he sees the exact moment that the metal strikes it, sending it overhead. Farther than Gray. Farther than second. Farther than third.

It finally lands in front of the large rock, just barely inside the fence. Rusty smiles at this, numb to everything still around him. I hit it! I hit that amazing fast ball!

He is still in a loopy happiness when he feels a pat on his back. "That was great, kittypet! You're better than some on my team, though you shouldn't tell Bluestar that. She'll rip my head off."

Rusty barely registers some of the words, but two stick out. You're better. Gray actually thinks he's good, and a proud heat expands in the bottom of his stomach.

"Excuse us if we're interrupting," a voice says, the sharp bravado ringing across the field. Gray's eyes widen in fear and he turns quickly to the direction of the voice. Rusty does as well, though not as quickly.

In front of them, positioned in the dugout, leaning up against the fence, are the two coaches. One of them; the one who told Gray to keep his fastballs the same, is the one with golden yellow hair. The other is the one who spoke to the team about Redtail. She hair bright blue hair, and Rusty assumes she is the Bluestar Gray was talking about.

"Er- sorry Bluestar," Gray says, bowing his head to the coach. Rusty raises an eyebrow, glancing between the boy and the woman. While he is wondering if the blue haired girl even knows that he's there, she addresses him.