August 1996

She was defiant in her defeat, chin jutted out, brows furrowed, arms crossed tightly at her chest.  She clenched her hands so tightly he wondered if her knuckles would come bursting right through her skin.  Her father placed a placating hand upon her shoulder that probably took all of her effort not to shrug off, her back beam-like against the cheering going on behind her.

For some reason, though, Japan’s victory over the United States wasn’t as sweet as Takeshiro Inoue had thought it would be.

Of course, there had been little doubt who would win this match.  Baseball might have started in the States, but the Japanese had perfected it.  And perhaps Cuba, if he were to be fair.  But Lydia Holmes had adamantly declared an American victory considering they’d already stomped Japan into the ground earlier in the rounds and Japan had lost twice before to the United States’ none.

“Today is a new day,” Takeshiro had said simply.  Her responding smirk had brought a small grin to his face in return.

She hadn’t let up her “smack talk” even after Japan had gotten to a six-run to nil lead, and had really started crowing when the Americans had earned two runs in the bottom of a heretofore scoreless sixth inning.

“We’re comin’ for ya!” she’d predicted, fists pumping into the air, and the hem of the American baseball jersey her father had procured for her flapped about her thighs because it’d been too large to tuck into her pants.  His brother Masaru watched her with a smirk, not because he had confidence in his ancestral baseball team (he actually couldn’t care less about the sport) but rather because he’d just turned thirteen and he was at that age where the different anatomical structures girls possessed required undivided observation.

And not even an overlarge jersey could hide Lydia’s.

Takeshiro supposed it was a blessing and a curse she was too old for Masaru and too young for him, being fifteen years old.  He’d just graduated from high school and had just signed a contract to play baseball in Japan, but Atlanta Braves were still interested even though he’d deferred their draft option. So here he was, in the skybox at Fulton-County Stadium, paying more attention to the Braves’ Director of Scouting’s daughter instead of hobnobbing as he should have been doing.

That was what agents were for, anyway.

“We won!  We won!”

Takeshiro grinned at his youngest brother Kenshin jumping up and down and slapping hands with the Japanese contingent in the room.  Curiosity and something else he didn’t really want to name compelled Takeshiro to look at Lydia.  Her mouth was stretched into a half grin and her eyes were amused as she watched the eight year old frolic about the room.  It was good to see she wasn’t so down that the second grader’s exuberance couldn’t touch her.  Then her father whispered something into her ear and the scowl immediately returned.

“You promised,” Mr. Holmes said, squeezing her shoulder gently.

Lydia huffed and threw her head back, one of the pigtails falling behind her shoulders.  The pout she gave her father was endearing; so was the gentle smile that appeared on her face when her father kissed her forehead.

“Fine,” the teenager groaned, then straightened up and strode directly to him.  “Want to play catch?”

They ended up in the home bullpen, Kenshin and Masaru sitting in the stands above where he and Lydia were throwing.  She was pitching as if the gold medal were on the line, which meant he had to catch as if he felt the same.  And her arm was good.  Really good; so good he audibly hissed and winced after the first few catches, to the relish of Masaru.  It was all he could do not to hurl the baseball at his head.

Or shake his arm and demand five minutes’ recovery time between each pitch.

He’d worked with some unbelievable pitchers while in high school.  In fact, his teammate had just gotten a scholarship to pitch at Arizona State.  And he couldn’t wait to play in the pros and improve his skills.  But none of them had thrown or would throw with the determination Lydia Holmes did.  He could tell she had an awful lot to prove; it was such a shame her gender meant she probably never would.

“Are you gonna play professionally too?” Kenshin asked after she made another pitch.  A fastball.  A strike.  Didn’t need an umpire to call that.

“Can’t, bakamono,” Masaru said, shoving him slightly.  “Because she’s a girl.”

“Hey, don’t call him stupid,” Takeshiro said, glaring at Masaru.  Masaru rolled his eyes and ignored his youngest brother’s furious pout.

“Idiota—watch it!” Masaru yelled when the ball whizzed over his head.  All three Inoue brothers eyed each other on the brink of an all-out war when a loud scoff broke the standoff.

“And this is why I’m glad I’m an only child,” Lydia muttered.

“I envy you that,” Takeshiro deadpanned.

She snickered, but her gaze softened when she regarded Kenshin’s turbulent face.  “Then again, I wouldn’t mind a baby brother like yours.”

Kenshin beamed while Masaru pouted.  “I’m a much better baby brother!”

“Definitely a better baby,” Takeshiro agreed.

Everyone laughed except Masaru, who plopped back into one of the chairs and grumped it up like a champion.  Then Lydia turned the full power of her smile onto Takeshiro and he forgot why they were even laughing, but he hoped the reason would never stop.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her smile this day.  She’d cheered, even cackled, with glee all over her face at various points during the game.  But the fondness with which she smiled this time had Takeshiro’s palm getting sweaty inside his catcher’s glove and forced him to wipe his other palm on his trousers.

Lydia could be adorable, but he also suspected she would grow up to be stunning as well.  With a smile that wide and that open, he feared for her future boyfriends.

And that thought immediately brought a glower upon his face.

“You all right?”

Her quiet and genuine inquiry drew his eyes back to her.  He didn’t answer her straight away, wondering how someone so tiny could be so…overwhelming.  When they’d first been introduced, he’d noted the way he’d towered over her, and how unfazed she had been about his height or his athletic brawn.  Then again, she was around baseball players all the time.  It probably took a lot to impress her, even at her young age.

“Fine,” he said, clearing his throat.  “Are you feeling better?”

She pulled a face that was adorably juvenile but sighed.  “Those Japanese batters…I coulda taken ’em.”

“I’m sure,” Takeshiro agreed, and he wasn’t being the least bit patronizing.  If she’d been pitching and he’d been catching, the chances of a no-hitter would’ve been highly probable.  It was a shame she couldn’t play at the higher level she was due.

At least not in the States.

“I wish the Negro Leagues were still around,” she mused allowed, bouncing the baseball around in her hand while worrying the dirt of the mound with her feet.  The pigtail draped over her shoulder again and she bit the bottom of one full lip.  “I coulda played.”

Takeshiro let the wistfulness of that statement get caught up in the light breeze that came into the bullpen.  Even Masaru and Kenshin had enough respect for that wish not to mock it.

“Shoulda been a boy—”

“No,” Takeshiro said.  “You’re exactly who you need to be.”

She peered at him through her lashes then grinned, her lip still caught between her teeth.  He grinned back.

“Think I could be the next Peanut Johnson?” she asked after awhile, looking up into the stands.

“Who’s that?” Kenshin asked, hanging over the rail with a curious expression.

Her eyes widened with a bit of hero worship.  “One of the baddest pitchers to ever play the game; was with the Indianapolis Clowns.  Killer record.  Thirty-three wins to eight losses.  That’s ridiculous!  Not bad as a hitter, either.”  She smiled a little.  “My papa calls me Peanut, but that was my mama’s nickname for me.  She was the one who really got me loving baseball.”

The group fell into another silence for a while, with Lydia and Takeshiro eventually returning to their catching drills.  He noticed she favored some sliders and even knuckleballs this go round.  It definitely kept him active, and he liked the way his heart was pumping during the unexpected workout.  The knuckleball was obviously the weakest of the throws she’d been trying during this session, but it wasn’t the worst Takeshiro had ever seen, either.

“Was he short or something?” Masaru asked suddenly.

Both Takeshiro and Lydia frowned, but she answered.  “Who short?”

“Peanut.  Or did he like peanuts?” Masaru asked.  He was tossing the ball Takeshiro had thrown at him earlier.

Lydia grinned and shook her head.  “She was short.  And awesome.  First female pitcher in the Negro Leagues.  Apparently my mama wasn’t born too far from her hometown in South Carolina, either!  Man, woulda been cool to meet her.”

“She’s dead?” Masaru asked.

Lydia shook her head and shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I really hope not, because then that would’ve meant nobody cared or remembered.”

Takeshiro immediately wanted to go home and start doing research on this “Peanut Johnson” just because of the reverence with which Lydia spoke about her.

“Were there any other girls in the Negro Leagues?” Kenshin asked.

“Yep!  Toni Stone and Connie Morgan.  Toni Stone was first—she actually took over Hank Aaron’s position on the Clowns and got a hit off Satchel Paige!  And then Connie took over for her.”  She threw a pitch and shook her head.  “Man, I wish I had been around back then!  And that’s saying something considering there was segregation and being a woman was even less of a walk in the park than it is now!  Stupid Major Leagues and their stupid rules…”

Takeshiro stood and approached her.  She kept her head bowed until his body blocked the sun from her, and then she lifted her face.  He suddenly wanted to touch it, to see if her skin was really as soft as it seemed even though it was the color of the hard wenge wood his mother had pleaded with their father for months use when remodeling their kitchen.  Even the acne on her chin couldn’t mar how cute she was.

Lydia dropped her eyes and pulled her hands behind her back, starting to shift and look everywhere but at him.  He grinned and held out the ball, amused by the way she suddenly relaxed again.  She held out her hand for it.

“Don’t stop playing,” he said, pressing the ball into her palm.

She nodded and ended up squeezing his hand along with the ball.  “I’ll figure something out.  Or my dad will.  One of the perks of being an exec’s kid.”

His fingertips grazed the heel of her palm when he slid his hand from hers, and the little catch in her throat had him stifling a groan.  Right now, she was too young for him to be entertaining thoughts of how her lips would feel under his, and his brothers were already gathering too much ammunition with which to badger him on the plane ride back to San Francisco.

Their names were called, and Takeshiro looked up to see his agent, her father, and his coming down the stadium steps.  When he looked back toward Lydia, she was no longer there.

“Shiro’s got a crush!” Masaru sang in Portuguese.

Takeshiro ignored him.  He didn’t have a crush; he barely knew the girl.  He was, however, intrigued.

He felt eyes on him and realized they belonged to Lydia.  She grinned at him again, and his mouth automatically moved into one as well.  He let his brothers snicker (he would handle them later) when he went up the stadium steps to where Lydia had caught up with her father and the other executives.  They all stared at him curiously as he handed her a formerly discarded lineup card he’d found in the bullpen; and even more so when she giggled slightly and ripped the card in half, scribbling on one and handing it back to him.

He grinned and bowed.  “Arigatougozaimasu, Lydia.”

Her brown eyes went wide, but she mimicked his bow and replied in kind.  “Arigatougozaimasu, Takeshiro.”

He pretended not to see the way some of the executives from the Japanese team winced at her very American pronunciation of “thank you” in Japanese, especially when their English was far from flawless.  They were probably even muttering to themselves about him addressing her as if she were a superior when she was a woman, younger, and cheered for a defeated American team.  But Lydia Holmes had earned and commanded his respect, and he would give her nothing less than that.

And maybe a “nice to have met you” electronic card since they had just exchanged e-mail addresses.