Six weeks after the Branstead scrimmage, the qualifiers are finally here.

Well. Almost here.

Our first game is tomorrow, which means Coach Duncan has banned anything resembling an unscheduled practice. No batting, no running drills, and absolutely no “light session” that somehow turns into two hours. Eat properly, prepare our equipment, and get enough sleep.

Very logical advice.

I am following most of it.

Ren is allowed one short, reduced-effort bullpen to keep his arm loose. Ten pitches, no more. Yesterday, he said I could catch the last few in case Coach needs me behind the plate during the qualifiers. Morgan will be there to watch his location, which is probably the only reason Coach agreed.

That should make this feel perfectly routine. It does not. There is far too much nervous energy under my skin for routine.

So here I am, standing outside my teammates’ home with my gear bag over one shoulder.

Their house is… larger than I expected, though it doesn’t feel grand. It looks lived in. After taking it in for a moment, I reach for the door and knock.

Knock, knock!

Nothing happens.

I knock again, slightly harder. Footsteps move inside, and a moment later, the door swings open.

The person greeting me is neither of the people I came for.

He looks around our age, perhaps a little older at first glance, though that may only be the way he carries himself. His hair is silver-black with faint pastel-pink undertones. Two upright rabbit ears, gray at the tips, rise from his head, while a thick canine tail rests low behind him.

“Rabbit ears and a canine’s tail… huh.”

I look from one to the other before remembering that staring at somebody’s inherited features is a poor first impression.

“So this must be another brother.”

Maybe everyone in this family is some sort of hybrid. Morgan has canine traits and those faint panther markings. This one appears to have been assembled from the opposite ends of two entirely different forests.

I was already nervous about tomorrow’s game. Now I’m nervous about meeting one of Morgan’s brothers while dressed for practice I’m technically not supposed to be doing.

“Hi! Sorry to drop by. Are Morgan and Ren here?”

He gives me an easy smile. “They are, actually. Who’s asking?”

Wow.

His voice catches me off guard. He sounds polished without sounding stiff, like he has spent his life talking to important people and has never once panicked afterward about whether he said something strange.

“I’m Jade. Jade Chandlers. I’m one of their teammates, a reserve catcher.”

“Ah.” He extends a hand toward me. “Nice to meet you, Jade. I’m Leon.”

I shift my gear bag out of the way and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you too.”

“Morgan and Ren are in the fi—”

“Leon?” a woman calls from deeper inside the house. It was a voice so light and sweet, coming from somewhere to his right. “Who is it?”

Leon glances over his shoulder. “Mama, one of Morgan and Ren’s teammates came to visit. Her name’s Jade.”

“Really? Well, don’t leave her standing outside! She can come through the house to reach the practice field.”

“Practice field?”

I thought Ren meant they had enough space behind their home for throwing. A patch of dirt, perhaps. Or a homemade mound.

Apparently, I underestimated what this family considers a backyard.

Leon turns back to me. “Mama would like you to come inside. The quickest way to the field is through the rear door.”

“Oh. Sure.” I nod and return his smile. “Thank you.”

He steps aside, and I enter.

The moment I step inside, the scent of butter, sugar, and warm pastry catches me. The front room opens into a wide living space scattered with proof that far too many people live here: folded blankets, books left in stacks, a half-finished wooden model on one table, and several family portraits crowding the walls. I barely have time to take any of it in before Leon closes the door behind me.

“Hello there, Jade!”

I turn toward the voice.

A rabbit-folk woman stands near the kitchen entrance, drying her hands on an apron. Her pastel-pink hair is tied neatly into twin tails with short rabbit ears on top. Her violet eyes brighten when she sees me, and her smile is so immediately welcoming that I feel as though she has been expecting me all afternoon.

Is this… one of Morgan and Ren’s mothers?

She is shorter than either of them, and Leon towers over her too. With her well-rounded figure and bright smile, she looks less like the mother of seven teenagers and more like another sibling of theirs.

“This cannot possibly be Morgan’s mother. She’s way too cute. Morgan looks more like a girl who hates the world the moment she was born.”

The woman’s ears perk as she approaches us.

“So you must be the catcher that my Ren mentioned!”

That catches me off-guard. “He mentioned me?”

“Mm, yes! And Morgan too.”

“And Morgan talks about me? Wow.”

I know Morgan talks. I’ve heard her call games, give orders, deliver criticism, and assemble the occasional sentence designed to make another person feel foolish without technically insulting them. I just never pictured her sitting at home and mentioning people from the team.

Ren, sure. Once he relaxes, he’ll tell you which teammate said what at practice and who ran headfirst into a fence.

But Morgan? That’s really hard to imagine.

“Oh.” I say as I blush anyway. “I-I see! I’m glad to hear that.”

A wonderfully normal answer.

No one could possibly guess I’m standing here trying to imagine what Morgan said about me and whether it was flattering, insulting, or one of those terrifying combinations she seems to enjoy.

Her mother either doesn’t notice my embarrassment or is kind enough to leave it alone. “Would you like some tea before you join them? I made a little cake this morning too. It should still be fresh.”

For half a second, I consider abandoning baseball entirely and accepting both. But alas, I must decline.

“I’d better take it easy on the sugar before dinner,” I say. “Thank you for the offer, though.”

“That’s perfectly okay!” She nods approvingly, then looks toward Leon. “Leon, dear, would you take Jade to the practice field?”

“Of course, Mama.”

He gestures for me to follow. “This way, Jade.”

I give his mother a quick smile and wave as I follow Leon. “It was nice meeting you!”

“You too, Jade. Come back through when you’re finished. I may offer the cake again!”

For some reason, that sounds less like an offer and more like a warning.

Leon leads me deeper into the house, past the kitchen and through a broad dining room. I try not to stare, which becomes difficult when nearly every wall gives me something new to look at. There are family portraits, framed drawings, and shelves with little wooden animals. A violin case rests beneath one window. Someone has left a pile of polished stones on a sideboard beside what appears to be a handmade ribbon display.

Seven children live here. I can tell without being told. The whole place has that crowded, comfortable feeling of a home where every available surface eventually gets claimed by somebody’s hobby.

Leon opens a door at the rear of the house, and the afternoon air rolls in.

“So,” he says as we step onto a covered back porch, “how long have you been playing baseball?”

“My uncle showed me the game when I was little. I joined our local Junior League after that, so… quite a while, I guess.”

“No kidding.” Leon gives a small laugh. “Morgan and Ren started together too. They were the first two of us to turn a childhood interest into something that serious.”

“The first two?”

“We all tried baseball with them at some point. Most of us moved on. Those two didn’t.”

“What did you play?”

“Whatever position needed another body.”

“That sounds vague.”

“It was vague. My baseball knowledge began with ‘stand there’ and ended with ‘try not to get hit.’”

I laugh as we cross the porch and follow a stone path behind the house.

Leon continues, “At first, none of us knew whether baseball was another interest they’d actually commit to or drop after a month. Papa bought them one ball and two mitts, then waited to see what happened.”

“And let me guess: they stuck with it.”

“They became obsessed with it. There’s a difference. Then they joined Cloveshire’s community Junior League team and somehow went from playing catch in our yard to winning the championship.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard about that,” I say, adjusting my gear bag higher on my shoulder. “People still talk about the championship Cloveshire’s youth team won that year—especially when Ren’s pitching or Morgan’s game-calling comes up.”

“They’ve been baseball-brained ever since.” Leon smiles to himself. “Morgan needed to understand the whole field. Ren wanted to see how hard he could throw. Somehow, that became a championship.”

“Morgan needed to understand the whole field? Yeah. That sounds like her.”

The path bends around a line of trees, and then the yard opens ahead of us. I stop at the sight waiting beyond them.

“Whoa.”

Just beyond the trees sits a proper practice diamond, tucked into the land as if someone lifted a small community field and set it into the countryside. Packed dirt defines the infield, the grass is trimmed short and even, and a sturdy backstop rises behind the plate. Netting runs down both sides to catch wild throws and foul balls.

Even at a glance, I can tell the outfield falls short of regulation depth; the fence curves inward much sooner than it would at an official sporting ground. There is still more than enough room for batting drills, throws between bases, and proper fielding practice.

There’s even a bullpen mound off to one side.

Unbelievable… I’ve practiced on official town fields that receive less care than this.

“How do you just… have one of these?”

Leon looks pleased by my reaction. “It didn’t actually start like this.”

He points toward the infield. “That used to be an open patch of ground. Papa marked the first throwing distance himself and flattened a place for Morgan to catch. Then he added the backstop, the bases, and a better mound. He just kept making improvements whenever he could.”

“Your father did all this by himself?”

“Whenever he had time. Papa studied the measurements that mattered for their age divisions. Pitching distance, base paths, batter’s boxes, safe space behind the plate. He couldn’t fit a full regulation field here, so he made the important parts as accurate as he could.”

I look over the field again, taking in the smooth dirt, the painted foul lines, the sturdy wooden benches near the backstop. It’s all amazing.

Leon folds his arms. “He’d be happy to tell you every part was his work.”

“Would he?”

“On second thought, probably not. He’d probably say the ground was already here.”

Before I can answer, a familiar voice yells across the field.

“Reduced effort! Inside edge!”

There they are.

Ren stands on the mound in practice clothes, the ball tucked inside his glove as he peers toward home. Morgan crouches behind the plate in her catcher’s gear, mitt raised. Beyond the backstop, her equipment bag rests beside a bench.

Ren begins his windup. His front leg rises. His body turns. Even holding back, the ball leaves his hand so fast that my eyes barely catch it.

WHAM!

The ball lands in Morgan’s mitt with a loud cracking sound that goes straight through me.

There are ordinary catches, and then there’s Ren throwing into Morgan’s glove. It’s like a sharp, heavy sound that makes every catcher within hearing distance worry about Morgan’s fingers, and then about their own.

Morgan holds the mitt in place for a moment.

“Too much plate,” she calls.

Ren lowers his glove. “It clipped the inside edge.”

“Barely. But you know that a good hitter would turn that into a souvenir.”

“At least you caught it.”

“I’m a catcher, doofus. Catching it isn’t the grading standard.”

“Ugh!” Ren groans. “You always say that.”

“Because you keep giving hitters presents. Same effort, one ball farther inside.”

“Coach said ten pitches.”

“And you’ve wasted three of them. Take this seriously, bozo.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing too loudly.

“Wait.” Ren spots us near the edge of the field and raises an arm. “Oh, hey Jade! You came!”

Morgan straightens behind the plate. Her head turns toward us, following his voice first, then the sound of our footsteps on the path.

“Hey, sibs. Sorry to interrupt.” Leon lifts a hand in greeting before gesturing toward me.

“Your catcher has arrived.”