The sun was bright and warm overhead, the kind of afternoon that made the outfield grass look greener than usual and the aluminum bleachers too hot to sit on. A few stray clouds drifted lazily across the sky, offering brief shade to the diamond as Natasha moved around the field with practiced ease. The smell of cut grass and infield dust filled the air—familiar, grounding.

Natasha had already dragged the bases into place, checked the pitching rubber twice, and set a basket of well-worn softballs beside the dugout. The outfield grass was patchy, the scoreboard sun-bleached, but to her, this was sacred ground. Here, between the chalk lines and chain-link fences, she could shape something real—teamwork, confidence, grit.

Natasha cracked her knuckles and glanced at her watch. The girls would be arriving soon. Some would be laughing, some dragging their cleats, a few trying to hide the day’s stress behind quiet eyes. She’d see it all, and she'd know exactly what each of them needed—whether it was a drill to push them harder or a quiet word in the outfield to pull them back from the edge. She wasn't just their coach. She was their shield.

This was her side job, of sorts. Life as a hero was fulfilling, but it was dark sometimes. It was terrifying, it was deep, it was saving the world when she had the worst headache. But here? Coaching this team? It was her escape. Instilling determination and confidence in them, letting the seeds of a love for softball bloom, it was where she felt at home.

Natasha watched as girls approached the field in groups, setting their bags down in the dug-out and getting prepared for a long and hopefully fulfilling practice. She couldn’t help but smile, bending down to tie her shoes. This would be a good one, she could feel it.