boston's ronin

one.

"Ten bucks says you won't hit the ball."

"Nah, I'll just hit you instead," you retorted back to the catcher who was squatting behind you. You tapped the tip of the bat you were holding to the toes of your shoes before tapping the catcher's left knee. It was something you did every time it was your turn to bat; you did it for good luck.

This was something you guys did when you had a day off. You would go down to the park that was a couple of blocks away from the station and play baseball. Living in Boston, everyone was big into baseball, specifically the Red Sox. So, whenever the team had an off day, you'd split the department into two teams and have some fun.

It was homicide against homicide. Ever since Jane Rizzoli took over as head of Boston Homicide when she got back from teaching at the university, the homicide department expanded. They were able to work on multiple cases at once, everyone had a partner, and it was working fantastically. With the homicide department being as big as it is now, this made baseball a whole lot more fun.

Of course, not everyone had the same days off, so the teams were sometimes small. No one minded though, because everyone was very competitive when it came to the game. The team that took up the field had a retired detective and his wife, the medical examiner and his assistant, and your partner. The other team who was currently up to bat, had the batter (you), the head of Boston Homicide along with her wife, and your partner's wife. Anyone else would see the unevenness, even though it was one person, as unfair. The team of women loved it though, because they beat the other team every single time.

You eyed the retired homicide detective that took up the pitcher's mound. Your boss had called him up and told him that they were headed to the ball field, asking if he could join. He said yes, and that he was bringing Kiki, his wife. You watched as he took a glimpse over to the runner on first base who happened to be your boss, Jane Rizzoli. She seemed to be playing a game with the pitcher, acting like she was going to run for second, but would quickly retreat when the pitcher would send her a glare. It made you laugh.

"That'd be considered cheating and you'd get ejected from the game, Fireball."

You snorted, "Yes, because let's make Kent Drake yell at us with that Scottish accent of his that five to three is more unfair than five to four, even though, he's the one on the team of five, Cannoli." You brought the bat up and over your shoulder once you saw Vince, the pitcher, take a stance.

The ball was thrown, but you never swung. The catcher caught the ball with ease, cackling at you before throwing it back to Vince at the mound. He was still laughing when you spun on your heel to face the man, holding the bat in a suggestive manner, and then the laughter stopped. He wasn't wearing the typical mask a catcher would wear, so there was nothing to actually protect his face, but based upon the look you giving him, it looked as though you might actually hit him with the bat.

"Y/N," you heard in the distance, and your look of evil instantly deflated into a look of guilt.

You turned your head to look at your older sister who had to be wearing the most ridiculous outfit you'd ever seen. While you called it a wet suit, your older sister used a bunch of big and scientific words to describe the intricate fibers and how it's very useful for movement, and you don't really know where or even how your sister finds these outfits. Frankly, you could care less. After an exchange of glances, you kicked the dirt at your feet, not saying another word.

"You owe me ten bucks," and if looks could kill, the catcher would be dead.

"I don't owe you shit. I never agreed on that bet." You took your stance again, the bat going back over your shoulder. You let out a huff, waiting for Vince to throw the ball. You licked your lips, so sure that you were going to hit the ball this time and really shove the "I told you so" up your partner's ass.