Ballgame

"C'mon 42! C'mon Tasha!" Aaron yelled.

"Bro, she's catching. She just has to catch," Aaron's friend, Terry, said, rolling his eyes.

"I don't care," Aaron said. In the short time he'd followed the softball time, he'd become obsessed with the thick thighed catcher. She was stouter than many of the players, sure, but she exuded a presence and fierceness that captured the white boy's attention.

Memphis won 3 to 2, with Tasha hitting a single. She was sweaty as she walked to the dugout.

"Great job Tasha!" Aaron cheered. She paused, crooking her head, still wearing the mask and walked over to him.

"Why the fuck you always cheering for me? I don't know you. I ain't the star," she said, looking at him. He averted his eyes.

"I just ... I just like you ... I mean .. I like how you play," Aaron stuttered.

Tasha looked at him, noticing the overt submission by looking away. She'd always wanted someone to match her. Someone to be as strong as she was, as focused as she was, as intense as she was. And the men that really met that threshold -- well, she was too stocky for them. Too sweaty. Too butch. Maybe ... maybe she needed something different.

"Buy me a drink, cracker," she said imperiously. "Since you my biggest fan and all. Joe's, right down the street, twenty minutes."