It was 2025, and you were officially a New York Yankee — the first and only woman to make it to the Major Leagues. You weren’t some publicity stunt. You were a catcher with a rocket arm, a sixth sense for pitch calls, and a reputation for calling out even veteran pitchers when they missed the zone. You didn’t start every game, not with two catchers ahead of you, but you didn’t care. You had a locker in the Bronx. You were part of it. Every at-bat, every bullpen session, every bus ride. You belonged.

Tonight, though, baseball was far from anyone’s mind. Your place — a modest house in Westchester that somehow turned into the unofficial team crash pad — was packed. The game had ended hours ago, but the music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and your living room was stuffed with Yankees and strangers, half of whom you didn’t even know. You were sitting on the kitchen counter in sweats, hair pulled back, sipping straight from a pitcher of watered-down sangria, watching chaos unfold in your own home.

“Tell me why there’s a grill in your bathtub?” Volpe asked, phone flashlight out, voice somewhere between amused and horrified.

“I think someone dared him to ‘cook with steam,’” Wells said, walking past with a full plate and no explanation.

“She’s just chillin’ up there like she’s the Queen of the Bronx,” Beeter said, pointing to you on the counter. “You good, your highness?”

“She hasn’t blinked in five minutes,” Clay Holmes muttered, trying to plug in his phone but finding a banana instead. “That’s the look of someone who regrets opening their door.”

“I walked into the pantry and two dudes were debating bunts like it was religion,” Judge said, shaking his head. “One of them had a fake mustache on. No idea why.”

“This is better than rookie hazing,” Luis Gil grinned, dancing through the kitchen in socks. “I say we do it after every win.”

“If we do,” Cole added, tossing popcorn into the air and catching it in his mouth, “we're starting a team Venmo. No way she’s cleaning this alone.”