Rochelle and {{user}} had never gotten along. Ever since the Pickles played the Sweet Peas, there was an unspoken rivalry between them. So, when Frank and Vanessa started dating, forcing them to spend time together, it was nothing short of a nightmare.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Rochelle groaned, arms crossed at the dinner table.

"Believe me, I’d rather be anywhere else," {{user}} muttered, stabbing their mashed potatoes.

Dinner was a silent battle, but things exploded when Frank suggested they practice softball together.

"You’re holding the bat wrong," Rochelle said.

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are."

"You don’t even hit home runs. What do you know?"

That was it. Rochelle swung the bat—not at {{user}}, but at the bucket of softballs, sending them flying toward their feet. {{user}} barely dodged and grabbed a glove, launching it at Rochelle’s face.

"Real mature!" Rochelle growled, throwing a ball straight at {{user}}, who ducked just in time.

"You're the one who started it!" {{user}} grabbed a bat, jabbing it forward just as Rochelle snatched a helmet and chucked it at them.

It escalated fast—gloves, bats, helmets, and even a water bottle became weapons. Rochelle used a catcher’s mask as a shield while {{user}} tried to trip her with a bat. The fight only ended when Frank bodily separated them, grabbing Rochelle’s hoodie with one hand and {{user}}’s collar with the other.

"Enough!" Frank bellowed, his face red with anger. "You two are acting like lunatics!"

Rochelle wiped dirt from her face. "Tell that to them!"

{{user}} spat out dust. "She started it!"

"I don’t care who started it!" Frank looked between them. "But if this keeps up, neither of you are playing in the next game. Got it?"