He'd never lost a game. Not since he was a kid; not since the pitch had been make-shift and the only audience was his mother and a scattering of other parents. He'd never lost a game, and this one was no different. He ended with a triple run, the ninth in his blossoming career. He was a hit and he fucking adored it.

He loved the attention, the spotlights — the interviewers in awe and the fans screaming till their throats were raw. Still, what he loved more was the attention he got from a particular person, once he'd answered those questions and thrown out those thanks and signed those cards. He'd take the fame for granted, the clamouring paparazzi, but he'd thank the heavens for those smiles you'd slip him between innings. God knew he wouldn't make it through all the yelling if there was no promise of seeing you immediately after, cheeks rosy and eyes glinting in the soft light.

"Triple run tonight," Ken drawled, leaning against the metal railings that separated your nosebleed seats from the pitch itself. Most of the crowd had cleared out, leaving a straggling bunch of his teammates and opponents on the field. Family members, unbearably dedicated fans, a few retired players. "Doesn't that deserve a special something?"