Hello! So, yet another story I've wanted to write for a while: a sports AU! This one is a baseball AU, and very much comes from my love for a fic called 'Waiting for Spring'. This fic is also Muggle AU so no magic here! Instead, these characters have been transported to the world of minor league baseball!

I should say, I am not a baseball player, have never played it officially. I do not know the terms, or the details. BUT there may be a second chapter to this story sometime in the future.

House: Slytherin, Class: Charms, Category: Standard, Prompts: no male characters mentioned, ball game, WC: 2988

Warnings: mentions of depression, burn-out

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Today is the day.

A new coach, new team members, maybe a transfer for me before the season even starts if things don't go my way.

I've been playing for the Holyhead Harpies for five years now, and I've always held a great position on the team. I'm a good player, and I play a clean game. Unfortunately, the Harpies have not had very good seasons as of late, and the tabloids go after everyone.

Ginny Weasley, star of the strike-out? Doesn't matter if it's true or not, the fake-news double entendre is still painful.

Last season, the club decided that the coach was the main problem and have re-hired. Rumours have been circling for the last few months about who it's going to be. I heard that she's going to be bringing a few recruits across from another team that she's been working with.

So, yeah. Today will be interesting. And yet I almost can't bring myself to open my eyes.

I know Hermione has probably been up and about already from the red glare behind my eyes — the curtains must be open, and she's probably tried to prod me awake a few times.

The problem is this: the season is long, and even once it is over, I don't rest enough. Instead, I end up going out clubbing with Cho, or staying up late for movie nights with Hermione. Even in the off-season, I am not really the type of person that relaxes easily.

Hermione is not exactly the opposite, but for the last ten years, she has been the person to keep me going, to keep me awake, and to drag me from the deep pit that is post-season depression. And start-of-season depression. And depression in general.

I open my eyes, and sunlight glares right into them, searing my retinas.

"Fucking hell," I mutter. "I am not ready for this."

"Yes, you are!" Hermione's voice comes from the bathroom to my left, lively and awake. The door opens and she stands there in the doorway, a toothbrush sticking out from her lips and her hair pointing in every single direction possible. "You love training."

I groan. "Shut up." It doesn't matter how right she is.

The end of the season is a good thing because the rest of the season is like a never-ending marathon of games, training, emotional turmoil, and trying not to read the latest in sports journalism. Days ending and beginning with Hermione snoring next to me.

Hermione is staring at me pityingly. "Come on, Gin. We've got a million things to do." I turn away from her and into my pillow. This is my happy place, and I will both live and die here.

Of course, Hermione decides that I will in fact not be dying here and leaps onto the bed, disturbing every soft furnishing that we share, and completely derailing my intentions to sleep just a little bit longer. "Let's go!"

I've been thinking a lot about the new team configuration. Like I said, we've been stagnant for a little while, and we need something to shake things up. We need someone to bring out the fiercer side of us, and to make us really compete rather than just play.

I glance around at Hermione. She's brilliant, but she's not the one to do that.

I slide out of bed and throw on a sweater, mumbling something to myself and Hermione about breakfast.

It's been a tough year, so Hermione and I had to move in together, not quite able to pull enough money together for decent rent separately. Our previous coach did not do us any favours, so minor league baseball players are in a flat share that only has one bed.

So, yeah.

Home life: A bit depressing. Finances: On the down. Dating life: fucked.

I go to the bathroom on my way to the kitchen and spend five minutes scrolling through Bumble, trying to stop this day from really beginning. There are a few girls that catch my eye, but not enough to really excite me, or even make me bothered to send a message of any sort.

Maybe living with Hermione has turned me straight.

Disappointed, I hit the showers next and take an excessively long time washing my hair and recounting the last nightmare I had. Something about magic, something about dark creatures roaming in the dark, someone chasing me. It's a nightmare I've had since I was a child, but never something I've investigated, in spite of the free psychotherapist that comes with the team.

After showering, we jog to the bus stop and head to the training grounds.

"This is our season," Hermione says. The bus chugs along beneath us, an asthmatic beast that can barely take the weight of the early-morning rush. "I've been plotting with the numbers."

I laugh and turn to her. She vibrates in my vision. "We don't even know who's playing!"

"I can make an educated guess based on the conjecture that's been going around recently," Hermione says. "You know that Pansy Parkinson is looking for a new team, right? Hopefully not her. Parvati Patil could be on the cards, too."

I laugh shortly. "Right. You don't like her because she's mean."

"Well, yes!"

I bump shoulders with Hermione. "You're ridiculous."

"You're ginger."

"Bookworm."

"Lanky."

"I love being lanky!"

Hermione grins back at me. Whatever happens, we'll be alright.

We make it off the bus at around 8am and walk across the road to the training field. It's a nice day — bright, but not too warm. Perfect conditions for a game, even though I know that most of today will be spent indoors doing some strength training and working on our movements. You know, checking that I can still throw a ball and hold a bat upright.

"Good to see you, Ginny," Luna says as she walks up next to me. She's new, having joined within the last six months as a mid-season transfer. A clever player.

"You too, Luna."

A few more of the players join us over the next ten minutes, anxiously waiting on the pitch for the coach to arrive. Katie Bell gives me a hearty hug, and Cho doesn't say much, apparently hungover from the night before, face adorned with over-large sunglasses.

8:30am rolls around, and I see two figures walking onto the pitch from the gym, both of whom I recognise.

The first is Angelina Johnson, previously played for the Falmouth Falcons and made it into baseball legend there with an impressive number of home runs, and even more other batting records. I have to admit I am in complete awe of her.

The second person must be the new player. She's striking, with dark hair and dark eyes, and a slender frame.

I know her, have swooned over her, have heard the stories about her.

Pansy Parkinson, the dark horse of the baseball world. Vicious on the pitch, gritty on the balls, and absolutely fucking stunning. She's known for her biting interviews and quick wit alongside a gnarly playing style that keeps games absolutely riveting.

It's not a crush that I have, but more of a fascination. Definitely.

"Good morning, team!" Angelina Johnson has a spectacular booming voice that I'm sure will make it to a commentator box one day in the distant future, when her career has slowed. "I am your new coach and captain. It's great to meet you all, after all of the negotiations with the club. I am also here to introduce your new player, who I hope you will greet pleasantly. This is Pansy Parkinson."

Pansy smiles wryly. Maybe even the dark horse of baseball gets nervous.

Angelina continues: "Now, I know that the last year has been tough, but we're looking forward to a fantastic season. I will get to know each of you better, though I have studied your careers thus far, and I hope that together we can become the best team in the league. I know that…" She looks down at a piece of paper then right at me. "Ginny, I know you've been captaining and leading the team for the last three years, so I will entrust Miss Parkinson to you. You're to show her around, introduce her to training regimes, and take her through the course of the next two weeks. Good?"

I nod once, affirming. Pansy is staring at me, like I am an animal fit to eat. I feel uncomfortable, but there is something else stirring in the pit of my stomach.

"We're going to start with warm-ups. You can do ice breakers on your own time. I'm sure the team has their own rituals that the coach does not need to be a part of."

We titter in response, which is all the confirmation that she needs. Angelina then gives us strict instructions for the day ahead; she tells us where we should be starting, what weights we should be building up to, what the goals are for the day, for the week, and then for the month. It's much less of a hustle than these meetings usually are, and it feels incredibly strategic. When it's over, I feel like I need to catch my breath from the influx of information, whilst Hermione looks about ready to bust out a notebook and start making a spreadsheet.

As we disperse to head to the gym, Pansy approaches me.

"I know you," she says, looking up at me with those dark eyes, her hair strewn across her forehead. She'll need to get that sorted to progress — no fringes allowed on the field. "You're Ginny Weasley. I've been following your career."

"How nice. Now, come on, I'll show you the training areas."

"I've seen the online tour."

I start walking away anyway, trying to ignore the pit in my stomach. She really is beautiful, and her voice is something else entirely. I feel a little like I've been transported to somewhere in my dreams, and it's a stupid notion but… Fuck, yeah, I do have a crush.

Pansy Parkinson is insufferable, but she is also brilliant. She is fierce, determined, and strong. We start by stretching, and she's flexible too. She's sort of charming in a painful, sharp kind of way. I can't explain the feeling, but I feel very noticed. Pansy looks at me when she lifts a weight, and when she sprints too.

She is daring me to watch her in a way that feels like it goes beyond peer reviewing.

The air feels fucking charged with whatever vibes she is sending my way.

When I show her around the pitch three days later, she acts like she is impressed, staring up at the seats, touching her hand to the grass. We've been stuck inside training for half the week, but really. It's a field. Yes, it's glorious, yes, it is my home, but —

"You've played in bigger stadiums," I remind her, almost scowling. She doesn't need to take the piss like this.

She shrugs, still not looking at me. Her expression is almost haughty, but there is more behind her eyes. "There's something about being in this team that speaks to me. I don't know, the first all-female baseball team — there's a weight to it, despite, you know, the track record."

I know what she means. I've felt that feeling too, many times over. That heavy weight in my chest: pride. Like I want to laugh and cry in the same breath, and like I'd yell on every rooftops about the love that I feel for this game, and the love I feel for this team. Out of breath with the thought of it, I watch her, silent. Maybe she isn't quite as sharp and mean as she seems to be in the interviews. Maybe there is a softness there, maybe there is a part of her that feels emotionally attached to this silly, incredible ballgame.

"My grandma played on this team," Pansy says, breaking the silence.

"You're joking."

"Not about mee-maw." Then she turns to me and smirks. The moment is over. "Come on, Weasley. Why don't you show me the showers next?"

"Are you hitting on me?"

"Is it that hard to tell? Is it working?"

I laugh it off, though I'm not certain whether she can tell what I'm thinking in the slightest. Maybe I'm not hiding the crush as well as I had thought. Meanwhile, this hotness in my belly grows stronger, and I find myself doom-scrolling through her Instagram.

Hermione doesn't question my purple, bruised eyes the next morning.

The fact that Hermione hasn't commented so far on my unusual behaviour is a bit of a red flag. I find out exactly why on the Monday of Pansy's second week with us. I'm feeling stronger, more confident, but I'm anxious, filled with energy and not enough rest.

It's lunchtime and Pansy goes off into town to buy something. Hermione and I know better, and we stay on site at the significantly cheaper (and also far less tasty) stadium cafeteria. Greasy food just does something amazing to my afternoons. Hermione is looking at me with a strange expression, watching for something that I can't put my finger on.

I wipe my mouth. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

She smiles. "Kind of."

"Ketchup?"

Hermione just keeps looking at me as though she can see through me. "What do you think of Pansy?"

I put down my hotdog. "Why? What do you think of her?"

Hermione shrugs. "She's a good player."

"But?" I can't help the coldness that leaks into my tone.

"She's a liability, Gin. She could put the team at risk."

"Maybe we need a risk, Hermione. Look at our team." We both turn to look at the rest of the cafeteria. Everyone is fighting fit, doing amazing, but this group has suffered the penalties of a shitty last season. We need someone to boost us, to make us better, to try a bit harder, to fight. "We need risks to keep us on our toes."

"I'm worried."

"Good," I reply. "You'll play better when you're a little bit scared of losing."

"I don't want to lose my career."

"You won't. She's an amazing player."

Pansy and I finally make it to batting practice, stretched out beyond all recognition from the training. I'd feel almost like a completely new person if it wasn't for the stiffness that makes my bones ache, and this strange desire to kiss my new teammate. Completely irresponsible of me.

It's actually embarrassing. I've even stopped scrolling on Bumble.

"Your curveball hits are a fucking nightmare and I hate them," Pansy says, rolling a ball between her hands, feeling it out, testing the weight of it.

"I hate you," I mutter in return and turn to the bat. It's heavy but in a good way, the way it should feel. "You're horrid."

"And I made a career out of that."

"Urgh, fuck you."

Pansy stands upright and glares at me. "Go on then."

I stop looking at the bat. "What do you mean?"

"Fuck. Me."

"You know the rules."

"Fuck the rules!" Pansy shouts, laughing. "Come on! You are so fucking boring, sometimes, Ginny. You need to live a little more! Where's that fire I saw? In that ginger chick on the field? Where did she go? What the fuck happened to you? I've seen you play! I admired you. Where did you go?"

I throw the bat down.

"Yes, that's what I'm talking about!"

"I'm not doing this," I say and turn to walk away. I'm not having this fight. I know why the fire has gone. I know why the intensity is gone. It's because I can't fucking sleep, and I can't rest. Can't build up the fire if I can't have any downtime. The energy? Yeah. It's gone.

I'm done. Maybe I'm completely done at this point.

Maybe they should have fired me. I mean, look at me! Walking away from the pitch, crushing on my teammate… This is so stupid. It's beyond unprofessional.

Maybe I've been lonely for a bit too long, been a captain for a bit too long, got wrapped up in the team and didn't think about myself enough for the last five years.

Maybe my time in baseball is up.

Unbidden, tears fill up my eyes, and I scream a wretched, broken scream, and I kick at the dust. When Pansy grabs my arm, I almost deck her.

"Woah, woah," she says, backing away. "I know what's up."

"How the fuck can you possibly know what's up?" I shout, at the complete end of every wit I have ever had. "What could you know about me after two weeks? What could you know to cure this?" I slap my chest, trying to gesture to her how much everything just hurts.

I'm strong, but in this moment, I am so fucking weak that it breaks my heart.

"Ginny, for fuck's sake! Just come with me!"

Pansy doesn't do what I expect. She leads me through a meditation, makes me stretch further than I've stretched before. She doesn't come onto me, she stops teasing — though I do start to miss it — she is gentle, and she helps. It's so simple that I don't know how I didn't think of it before.

I finally have the respite I need.

I've spent so long thinking of the team, living and breathing our statistics and our games, that I forgot to look after myself. I forgot how to sleep, how to dream, how to not be afraid.

Of course, depression doesn't disappear, but I am rested, and I'm energised.

The first night I sleep without nightmares, I kiss her out of sheer joy.

By the time the new season comes around, I am more rested than I've ever been, and my intensity… Well, that is all the way up — in every department.

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Thanks for reading!