Wally At Bat

This was a mistake. A massive, sweaty, sunburn-waiting-to-happen mistake.

The Maplewood Park softball field looked exactly like the kind of place where dreams—and ankles—went to die. The infield was mostly dirt with a few desperate patches of grass clinging to life. The bases were faded, their original color a distant memory.

A layer of dust clung to the air, kicked up by warm gusts of wind and the overly enthusiastic movements of people who actually wanted to be here. The faint scent of sweat and sunscreen hung in the heat, mixing with the unmistakable smell of hot aluminum from the dugout.

And the dugout? It smelled like a decade’s worth of shattered athletic ambition. The sun was doing its best impression of a medieval torture device, baking the earth and everyone on it.

I should’ve faked an injury. Or death.

Neither would have been as painful as what was about to happen. I wiped at my forehead, already feeling sweat bead under my hairline. My shirt stuck to my back. It was too late to turn around, but the thought of sprinting to the parking lot was still very much in play.

Instead, I was here, standing awkwardly near the dugout in sneakers that had seen better days, cargo shorts that screamed “I have given up on fashion and life,” and a t-shirt that boldly declared, “I’m Just Here for the Snacks.” Which, to be clear, was the only reason I had agreed to this farce.

Across the field, Nessa stood with Rachel, Megan, and Jessica, all of them chatting like this was a fun social event and not an exercise in corporate-mandated suffering. Norm was already on the field, stretching like he had been training for this his whole life.

Why was Megan here? She wasn’t a co-worker. Had ‘the gang’ integrated new members just to spite me?

Then Nessa spotted me and smiled.

“Well, well. If it isn’t our star player.”

“You have wildly inaccurate expectations.”

She shrugged. “I like an underdog story.”

Norm and Nessa were team captains; a decision that immediately felt like a setup. Norm, of course, stacked his team with Rachel, Megan, and a guy from Accounting who looked like he could throw a car. Meanwhile, Nessa, after picking a few decent players, turned to me.

“I’ll take Wally.”

It was said too easily, too casually—like she wasn’t deliberately making my life worse. My head snapped up. Her expression? A perfect mix of amusement and calculated mischief. This was a setup. It had to be.

My head snapped up so fast my neck cracked. My entire body went rigid, like my brain had just sent an emergency shutdown signal to my limbs. Across from me, Norm grinned, clearly enjoying whatever fresh hell this was about to be.

I frowned. “Why.”

“For morale,” she said.

“For whose morale?”

“Mine.”

I already regretting not staying in bed today. “I feel like this is just another way to torture me.”

Nessa grinned. “Perks of being captain.”

First time up to bat, I swung and missed. Badly. I swear a drunk raccoon could’ve done better. The air whiffed past my bat with an almost mocking whoosh. The force of my own swing nearly spun me sideways, and I had to stumble a step to regain balance. Someone snorted from the dugout. Probably Nessa.

From the outfield, Norm’s voice rang out. “KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE BALL, BUDDY!”

“Oh, THANK YOU, Norm! I was planning to close my eyes next time.”

Next pitch—I managed to foul it backward, sending the ball on a murderous trajectory straight toward the umpire. There was a collective inhale from the spectators as the ball rocketed backward. The umpire ducked just in time, letting out a loud, very non-professional "Jesus Christ!" as it whizzed past his head. A beer can tipped over in the bleachers.

Nessa, from the dugout, lost it. She was laughing so hard she had to bite her glove, her shoulders shaking with pure joy at my suffering.

This was my nightmare.

Somehow, by sheer dumb luck, I actually contacted the ball. Barely.

I took off running. Well, that’s what I called it.

In reality, it was less of a run and more of a desperate, lurching movement that barely qualified as forward motion. My legs were working against me, like they weren’t convinced this was a good idea.

Rounding first base, my foot caught on the dirt, and suddenly gravity turned against me. The world tilted. My vision blurred for half a second. My arms windmilled at speeds that should not have been physically possible. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as my body made a last-second deal with physics to stay upright.

For a terrifying moment, I was at the mercy of physics and God. It wasn’t a full-on faceplant, but it was close enough to make every witness suck in a sharp breath.

I staggered to my feet, and lumbered my way back to the dugout, breathing harder than I wanted to admit. Before I could collapse onto the bench, Nessa leaned over and patted my back. Just a quick, casual gesture. Normal. Meaningless.

Except it wasn’t. Because my brain immediately short-circuited. My entire system went into DEFCON 1, hyper-analyzing the warmth of her hand, the way her fingers pressed just slightly before pulling away.

What was that?

It was a two-second touch. Normal. Casual. Right?

So why the hell does my brain keep replaying it like it was a goddamn movie trailer?

Before I could process it, she smirked. “You’re doing great, sweetie.”

Sweetie? Maybe she meant sweaty. Yeah, probably.

I moaned and tried to shake it off. But something about the way her hand lingered was replaying over and over.

Norm’s team obviously won. After the game, everyone gathered near the concession stand for post-game drinks. I found myself watching Nessa more than I meant to. She was laughing with Rachel, swiping dirt off her knee, just… existing. Being Nessa.

Nope. No. Not doing this. This is just post-game exhaustion messing with my head.

I turned away, pretending I hadn’t just had an existential crisis over human contact. My fingers tapped idly against my knee, restless energy buzzing beneath my skin. I took a long sip of my Gatorade, swallowing hard, trying to focus on anything that wasn’t the fact that she was still standing there, just a few feet away.

But then—I caught her watching me. Tilting her head slightly, like she knew exactly what she was doing to my nervous system. The look held for half a second too long. Just enough to make my throat dry.

“Something on your mind, Wally?”

I choked on my Gatorade. “Nope.”

She gave me a knowing look but said nothing.

Norm, of course, clapped his hands together. “Next time, we’re playing dodge-ball!”

Fantastic. Another opportunity to publicly disgrace myself.

But for some reason, my brain was still stuck on that two-second touch.

And that was dangerous.