Out of My League

Chapter 2 (Noah)

The weather in Los Angeles in the middle of May is subpar, at best.

It's sticky, humid, and you never know if you're going to get a beautiful, eighty-five degree day or a day that could be classified as the most disgusting in history.

Today, luckily, God chose a nice, crisp May day.

It's around seventy-degrees, give or take a couple, and not too hot. The wind is stirring just enough to keep me from sweating profusely on this practice day.

"One more bucket," my hitting partner, and best friend, Connor, says to me, "And then we'll pack it in for the afternoon."

"I'm just getting started," I grunt, swinging at the soft toss he'd just sent towards me.

The ball cracks into my wooden bat, sailing into the net, which softens its blow just as another one is coming in.

Connor never gives me a break, his shock of red hair bounces as he tosses ball after ball after ball at me.

When the bucket finishes out, I'm left sweating and panting, stopping myself before I double over.

"Why?" I ask with a quiet, breathless laugh, "What do you gain by doing that?"

"Finally seeing you out of shape, man," he stands, poking me in the chest with the barrel of his bat, "You're never winded on the bases, never winded while batting or stealing. I've got to see it every once in awhile. It remind me that you're not a monster made inside of a lab."

"Yeah?" I ask with a laugh, "Keep it up and you'll see me winded while I beat you up-"

"Oh, is that right?" He laughs, "Because I don't think you'd even try."

He's right.

At six-feet, one-inch, I'm not on the short end of the spectrum for baseball players, but Connor is slightly more of an over-achiever in the height department at a whopping six-feet, three-inches, two-hundred pounds.

Plus, he's slightly more muscular; I'm more lean and fast than strong. Bulking up in the gym had never really been my style.

Crouching down on the turf, I pull the bucket towards myself and begin to toss the baseballs to him.

Unlike what he'd done, I'm fair in my pitching, giving him time to breathe in between sets rather than force him into exhaustion.

He doesn't even thank me for it.

When we're finished, I stand, dumping the balls from the net back into the bucket, tugging it off of the turf, and carrying it in with the two of us.

Today's practice was open, which, to put it simply, means the members of the team can come in whenever they want, work on whatever they want, and leave whenever they want.

It's also voluntary, which almost prevented me from coming, but if you don't put in the work, you can't expect things to change.

I need things to change; my batting is below average this year and I'm not happy about it.

I'd only joined the major leagues almost two years ago and I'm not too keen on them cutting me already.

"I'll see you later?" Connor prompts, to which I shoot him a confused look.

"It's Friday," he questions, a quirk to his abnormally-thick eyebrow, "Wing night-"

"Yeah, I got it," I sigh, already mentally cancelling my plans with Emmy. Her mother is not going to be happy.

"I'll order the food," I continue before he can respond, accuse me of forgetting again, "You just show up and eat like you always do."

He takes my head in the crook of his arm, ruffling my hair before releasing me and laughing, "You'll regret making fun of me one of these days."