𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 - 𝙰 𝚁𝚢𝚊𝚗 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚢/𝙺𝙹 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢

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📍 Concord, NC

June 23rd, 2025

The game had ended twenty minutes ago, but the field still buzzed like it didn't want to let go. Kids sprinted across the grass, their cleats carving up old baselines. Parents lingered near the fence with half-melted snow cones, chatting about plays they barely understood. The sun dipped lower, throwing gold across the dugouts, shadows stretching long over the diamond.

Ryan sat under a yellow canopy near third base, his leg stretched out, ankle resting on the edge of a cooler. The steady throb in his knee reminded him he'd stood too long earlier, but for once, he wasn't counting the minutes until he could go home. He'd actually watched the game. Not just stared at it — watched it. More accurately, he'd watched him.

Third base had belonged to the guy in the backward cap, the one with too much swagger and too much talent to back it up. Ryan hadn't caught his name at first, but the jersey made it easy enough: "K. JACKSON, 4". He played like he was born on dirt, sliding, dancing, cracking jokes with the fans between innings. Everything about him felt loose and alive.

When he'd turned a double play with a no-look behind-the-back flip in the fifth, Ryan had almost stood up. Almost. Now, the field was winding down. And Jackson — KJ, someone had shouted — was walking toward the dugout, glove in hand, cap hanging from his fingers. His yellow jersey was streaked with dirt. He looked exhausted and completely unbothered.

Ryan let his eyes drift, then turned away. But KJ spotted him. He slowed just a few feet away, eyebrow lifting slightly as he took Ryan in — the hoodie, the ballcap, the leg brace barely visible beneath the bench.

"You didn't clap," he said.

Ryan blinked. "What?"

"During the game. You didn't clap. Not once. I keep tabs on the tough crowd."

Ryan stared at him, caught off guard by the directness. "I don't clap for circus acts."

KJ's face lit with a grin, crooked and sharp. "Ah. A purist."

"I used to think so."

"Well," KJ said, glancing toward the infield, "it might not be traditional, but I'd argue it's a hell of a lot more fun."

Ryan shrugged. "Can't argue with that."

KJ nodded once, then looked back at him. "You a coach or something?"

"Do I look like a coach?"

"You've got the posture of someone who's either recovering from a surgery or planning a hostile takeover of a minor league team."

Ryan smirked, despite himself. "Closer to the first one."

KJ's eyes narrowed with recognition — not of who Ryan was, but of what he was dealing with. Pain, maybe. Restlessness. The unmistakable look of a guy whose body had betrayed him.

"Fair," KJ said, tone softer now. "I've been there."

Ryan gave him a curious look, but didn't ask. Instead, he offered, "Ryan."

"KJ," the guy replied, adjusting his cap before extending a hand.

Ryan took it. Firm shake. No fanboy enthusiasm. No pity. Just a handshake like it mattered.

"You sticking around?" KJ asked.

"Maybe."

"Good. There's a post-game thing. Dunk tank. I'm not in it, but I heckle. You look like you've got good heckling energy."

Ryan let out something like a laugh — short, rusty, but real. "We'll see."

KJ backed away a few steps, walking backward toward the dugout now. "You ever change your mind about the circus, third base is always open."

Ryan watched him go. Watched the way he carried himself — effortless, but grounded. Someone who played for the joy, not the paycheck. It felt... foreign. But refreshing. And for the first time in months, Ryan wasn't thinking about what he'd lost.

He was wondering what the hell might come next.