What a day. What a day, what a day.

I floated to school on cloud nine. Because I got to pitch today. And because of what had happened last night.

I got in the car, started it, and turned on the radio.

U2 was singing. "It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away."

Damn straight. The sun was shining, I was in love, and I got to pitch today.

In love. What a concept. Though I hadn’t actually said it, and neither had he—just that "I’m falling" bit. Which isn’t quite the same thing. But I was done falling and I think he was, too. I almost said it when he dropped me off last night. I’ve only said those words once in my life—and that was that asshole, sophomore year. I don’t give those words away. I knew, deep in my heart, that Mike would never do anything like that to me—but I don’t give those words away.

Sometimes I’m too damn stubborn for my own good.

Anyhow, plenty of time for that. I didn’t see anything happening to this relationship any time soon. Talk about what a concept. I usually spent most of my time in relationships waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not this time.

It really was a beautiful day. And I had no intention of letting it get away.

Of course, the problem was, I had to spend the first seven hours of it in school. I am useless in school on a game day when I’m pitching. Luckily, I do good work the other days, so it’s not all that damaging to my GPA. But I knew I’d be sitting in history thinking about my pitching strategy and not history.

I pulled into the lot, and saw Mike standing there waiting for me, with his little lopsided grin. I felt that wonderful fist-clench in my gut when I saw him.

But that’s when it hit me. Oh, shit. I have to pitch to this guy! I have to stand there on the mound and peer in and get signals from a guy who makes my toes curl. Oh, shit.

Baseball and sexual tension do not mix, "Bull Durham" to the contrary. It’s a damn good thing I was good at focusing.

Luckily, the day flew by. At one point I realized that it was my last day in The Program. And, OK, I didn’t mind the last-day fondles I got. I was just worried I’d get too worked up, but I didn’t. People seemed to leave me alone towards the end of the day. It was common knowledge I had to go out and pitch at 3:30.

Then, finally, we were in the locker room. Mike was taping me up. I put the pads on my nipples myself—Mike chuckled and said he understood why—but he helped me with the ace bandage.

Then the coach came in. "OK, Listen up." He listed off the lineup. I was batting 9^th. Oh, well. At least I was batting. And we did have a very good leadoff batter, Roger Winn, our second baseman.

"OK, you guys. Now, I have a problem with The Program. I’ve pleaded and pleaded with the administration to make some exceptions, but they won’t—even though other schools that run The Program do. They keep saying ‘naked at school activities means naked at school activities’ and I can’t change their mind. For this you should be wearing the uniform, but they won’t listen to me. So, Kirkland, Woodard, be careful. Protect yourself. Woodard, I’ve never had a girl on this team, much less a naked girl, so if you have any problems, you speak up. I can anticipate some of the problems Kirkland might have, but not you. I know you’re not shy, so don’t get that way all of a sudden." I laughed and nodded. "And, both of you: NO SLIDING!" The whole locker room laughed at that. "Jesus. Especially you, Woodard, with your running record. No stolen bases today, got it? And no stretching it. I’d rather have you get a standup single then try to stretch it to a double and rip your you-know-what apart sliding into second."

"I agree with you completely," I said with a mock-wince.

"Good. Now lets go get ‘em!" The team started filing out, when the coach said, "Woodard. A word, please."

We waited until everyone else had left, and he said. "Woodard, I put you on the spot today. I probably shouldn’t have done it. But one thing for sure you showed me yesterday with your little tirade—you’ve got spunk." Then he grinned. "So do me a favor. Prove me wrong. If you go out there today and shut these guys down, I will gladly sit in front of this team and eat a whole pile of crow."

"You got it, Skipper," I grinned. "You can get a side order of crow with that three-hit shutout you ordered."

He actually laughed. "Good. Go get ‘em." And he patted me on the butt. Just like a ballplayer. Even though it was a girl’s butt, and it was naked. I think Coach was learning.

I walked out to the bullpen to warm up. Mikey and I talked in between pitches.

"How you doing?" he asked.

"Raring to go."

"Stands are filling up—a lot, for us."

"Must be that new beaver shot concession," I said impishly. He laughed. "I just wish my parents were able to make it."

"Yeah, that sucks. Mom and Marina are here, though, if that helps."

"It does." I threw a few more. "Seems like we’ve attracted a lot of interest, eh? Everyone seems to be looking down here at the bullpen," I grinned.

"You’re pretty comfortable with this, aren’t you?"

"Mentally, emotionally, yes. Physically, we’ll see. I’m rather exposed—and, by that, I mean to the elements. I have sunscreen on all over."

"Yeah, I do too," he laughed. "But you don’t mind showing off your body."

"No, I don’t. They can get looks at my pussy all they want. Only you get to go past the no-trespassing sign."

He laughed as he threw the ball back. "Hey, don’t break my concentration."

"Wouldn’t dream of it. We can go, I’m all warmed up." We walked back to the dugout.

"Now, remember, I know most of these batters, you don’t. So trust your catcher."

"Already do," I grinned.

We made it back to the dugout, and sat there. I took my cap—I could wear that, but not pants, go figure—and piled my hair underneath it. The cap was purple. I looked around at my teammates in their new white unis, with purple writing and gold trim. I wish I could wear one, I thought. No, like I said, I didn’t really mind being nude—but this would be the first time in years I took the mound without that 45 on my back. That actually made me feel more naked than actually being naked.

The stands were packed. There were plenty of leering guys, of course—and plenty of guys who booed me as I took the mound, resentful. What I really heard were the girls. My age and younger, gaggles of them, screaming as I took the mound. A bunch of girls my sister’s age, 11 or so, sitting on the third base side, had even made up a "GO LILY!" sign. That was really cool.

I finished my warm-ups, and took the ball. I stood on the mound, waiting for things to get underway. The PA announcer intoned, "Pitching for Westport today, number 45, Lily Woodard." That was good. Even though I wasn’t wearing it, that’s how they announced me. Number 45. That made me feel better.

Of course, some wag in the opposing dugout hit right on it. " Number 45? What number? We don’t see no number!"

I couldn’t resist. I just couldn’t. I stood with my hands on my hips and shouted at their dugout, "It’s tattooed on the inside of my pussy! And, no, you can’t see it!" Mostly laughter. A few gasps. Probably from the parents of those 11 year old girls. Ah, well.

To their credit, the guys in the opposing dugout were laughing their ass off. And Mikey laughed so hard he just about gave himself a concussion, his mask was bouncing around so much.

Enough merriment. It was time to pitch.

The first batter got in the box. Mikey had already told me that this guy was a first-ball fastball hitter—so I wasn’t surprised when he called for the changeup. Whiff. Strike one. A couple curves and sliders later, and I had my first K.

Breezed right through the first inning, and the second. No baserunners.

By the third inning, I knew—I was feeling it. Everything was doing what I wanted it to, and those guys were helpless. You have games like that. And I found that pitching in the nude, in a game situation, was actually liberating and freeing. Pitching’s a physical activity. Your body has to be into it. My body was really into it. I felt the breeze going through my pussy on my leg-kick—and it wasn’t stimulating, it just made me feel alive. The sun hitting my legs. The sweat gathering on my ass. The way I could feel the skin on my shoulders stretch out when I came out of my windup and threw. It was so liberating.

And I had this catcher, see, and we were in tune. Just a little pitch and catch. He put the signal down, placed his mitt, and I hit it. Simple as that. After four innings, I was riding the wave and hadn’t allowed a baserunner.

The problem was, we couldn’t do much with their guy, either. And that includes me—I hit a weak grounder in the third. We got a little rally going in the 4^th, but it got snuffed out.

Then, on the mound in the 5^th, I got the downside to naked coed pitching. I got two quick outs, and the next batter hit a shot back up through the box. Went right through my legs, hitting the mound as it went. We got the guy—Roger, the second baseman, made a great play—but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that, when the ball hit the ground, it kicked up all kinds of dirt.

Right between my legs.

I walked very gingerly back to the dugout, sat down, and stared down at myself. This was an emergency—the last thing I needed was to try to pitch with dirt in my pussy. So I yelled, "I need a squeeze bottle, one of the ones with the long straws, filled with lukewarm water. Now, please." After about a minute, someone handed me one, and I pulled up my leg, bent down, and proceeded to irrigate my nether regions.

I happened to look up, and saw every member of the team looking at me, in absolute horrified shock. "Hey, that shot through the mound kicked dirt up," I shrugged. "You guys think The Program is all fun and games. You try sand in your pussy. Ow." And I kept up watering myself. Mike and Eddie cracked up laughing, but most of the rest of the guys abruptly turned away. "Look at all these he-men ballplayers, squeamish at a little feminine hygiene," I teased. I got a few sheepish grins for my trouble. I finished up, and casually placed the water bottle next to me. The trainer came over, grabbed it, wrote "LILY" on it in huge letters, and put it back down. I had to laugh. I mean, God forbid anyone else use it by accident, after it had been down there, right?

Of course, Mike’d use it. That made me giggle to myself.

Here’s a conversation you won’t often hear on the mound. Happened in the sixth inning.

Mike: How are you?

Me: My pussy itches.

Ed: So scratch it

Mike: Wouldn’t that be a foreign substance?

Ed: You mean, like a spitball? We’d have a pussyball?

Me: How about I just ignore it and throw the fastball instead.

Ed: Or, you could let Mike scratch it.

After that, I even managed to somehow get the next guy out. Like I said, I was cruising.

When I went back to the dugout after the sixth, I saw another problem. Yes, the ol’ no-no game. Don’t talk to the pitcher throwing the no-hitter, because that’s bad luck. I was on one end of the dugout bench, and the whole rest of the team seemed to be huddled at the other end. Even Mike.

"OK," I announced. "First of all, I am not at all superstitious. Second of all, I’m a complete stat-head and know exactly how many hits I haven’t given up. Third of all, I threw two no-hitters last year and it’s no big deal. So could you please all stop treating me like I have the plague?" They laughed, and stopped.

Alas, it was not meant to be. I got the first guy in the seventh, but I hung a slider to the next guy, and he ripped a single. I was so pissed off at myself that the first pitch to the next guy was a feeble excuse for a fastball, and he hit that for a single. I went from throwing a no-hitter to having guys on first and third with only one out. Shit.

Mike came out to the mound. I was quickly learning that he liked having Ed out there with him. "Get yourself together," Mike said. "Don’t lose focus."

"Yeah, yeah," I said.

"Take a deep breath and bear down," he said.

"And we’ll get two," Eddie asserted.

They did. The next guy hit a one-hopper to Eddie. 5-4-3 double play, end of inning. "Thank you God!" I yelled. "You’re welcome!" answered Eddie.

I cruised through the eight, and led off the bottom of the inning. We had still gotten nothing going with the bat. Zero-zero ties are an antacid maker’s dream, I’ll tell you. Anyhow, I got up there, and finally got good wood on one. Single, right up the middle.

At first, it looked like it was going to get wasted again. Roger struck out. Frankie hit a weak pop-up. Two outs, I’m still stuck on first, and it was all up to a certain catcher.

And damn if my sweetie didn’t rip a double into the gap! I was running like the wind on the crack of the bat, telling myself "I can score from first on a double. I can score from first on a double." But their right fielder hit the cut-off man perfectly, and he fired a bullet to the plate. I saw the ball coming in as I sped towards the plate, and the on-deck hitter, Ty—not thinking—gave me the ‘slide’ sign.

I slid. It was a really, really stupid thing to do.

The only thing I had the presence of mind to do was slide tilted over to my right side, with my legs tight together, so I wouldn’t tear up the ol’ cunny. But that’s all. And that made the slide more awkward. I hit the ground hard, and at an awkward angle, and I probably would’ve been bruised even if I had been wearing pants. But I wasn’t. And I found myself sliding along with nothing to protect my skin from the dirt and sand and gravel. And I was a girl, I had soft skin. Sure, I had calluses on my pitching hand, but on my butt and hip and thigh, that skin was quite soft.

And I was shredding it.

The pain was so bad I fell backwards mid-slide, which just spread the damage. I felt like knives were dragging from my right knee to the ace bandage around my torso.

Then, the ump yelled, "SAFE!" At least that was something.

The trainer started to come out, but, before he did, I managed to get up. I was walking off this field. By myself. But, oh, jeez, my right hip and thigh and the edge of my ass were just a mass of bloody, torn skin. And my hip was already turning into a purple bruise. Jesus.

"Jesus, Woodard, I told you not to slide!" Coach exclaimed.

"You know what, Coach? You were right," I replied with a wince.

"Muggsy, who we got in the pen?"

"No," I said. "No bullpen. I’ll finish this game."

"Lily, you’re hurt."

"Not that hurt. Bandage me up. I’ll finish the game." He gave me a look. "OK, look. Get the pen up, get them ready. But let me try this. Please."

He relented.

The trainer stuck some bandages on the more bloody scrapes, but that was just a patch job. I grabbed the water bottle and did a little irrigation—I didn’t cut that, thank goodness, but there was more dirt down there. Meanwhile, I realized my ace bandage was shredded. I tore it off. "I need another one of these," I said. A mad scramble was on to find one. But the inning was over. I had to go warm up. And there weren’t any ace bandages handy that were big enough.

"Lily, we don’t see one and we have no time," Coach said.

"Fine," I pulled the patches off my nipples. "Then I go out there like this." And I did. I walked out there, and the crowd didn’t know whether or not to cheer, or gasp. If I had seen myself walk out there like this, I probably would’ve gasped myself. But I was going to at least try to do this.

I was left on second, so, when the inning ended, I had to go back to the dugout and put on my stuff. Brady would warm up the pitcher—what I thought would be a new pitcher. But, nope, Lily was out there. She was crazy. She looked like she had gotten run over by a truck. And her boobs were out—the ace bandage must have been ruined. I finished putting on the gear, and trotted out to her.

"How you feel?" I asked.

"Like shit."

"You sure you can do this?"

"Hell, no, but I’m going to try."

"What about the boobs?"

"I’ll deal with them."

"All right then. Throw strikes. We’ll take care of the rest."

"Thanks," she said.

"For what?"

"For, right at this moment, being my catcher and not my boyfriend."

"I’m always your boyfriend. On the field, I’m your catcher; so, on the field, I’m both."

"Boyfriends get all protective."

I looked at her. "Protective? What would I be trying to protect you from—your will to win? What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I did that?" I trotted back behind the plate, turned—and saw the smile. Hey, I meant it. If she had to do this, then she had to do this.

Which isn’t to say that I wasn’t worried, mind you.

Anyhow, I got into my crouch, and gave her the sign. She threw. In pain, and it was visible on her face. But she threw the ball, and made short order of the first guy.

The second guy came up and hit a little dribbler, in between the mound and the third-base line. Eddie wasn’t going to get to it in time, and neither was I. It was all up to Lily, and she came off the mound, pounced on it like a cat, and came up firing to first. Two outs.

But, boy oh boy, that effort cost her.

She stood there for a minute, after throwing the ball, hands on her knees, trying to breathe. She straightened up, with a visible effort, then gingerly walked back on the mound. Then she stood on the mound, and looked at me.

And I was gobsmacked. For the second time in two days.

I saw the wince of pain in her eyes, but I also saw the fire. Her hair had come out from under the cap, and was blowing in the breeze. Her boobs were glistening with sweat. She was filthy. Her whole lower right side was a big purple bruise, except for the parts that were covered in blood. She was a bloody, dirty, battered, completely naked mess.

A lot of people might think she didn’t look very "feminine" right then. Fuck that. She was primal. All blood and guts and passion and fire—she was absolutely primal. She was the utter essence of female, without all the surface giltz and glamour.

She was the fucking Indomitable Amazon Warrior Princess.

And she was…magnificent.

However, we still had a game to win here. And even indomitable amazon warrior princesses need a bit of support. I called time, and trotted out to give her some. Not quite sure if I could speak, I called Eddie over with me.

"Hey, Pedro, how are they hanging?" Eddie asked. Good ol’ Eddie.

Lily let out a snort of laughter, and then said, "Boys—I got nothin’."

"You want me to tell the skipper?" I asked.

"One out. One goddamn out. I can get one out, right?" she said.

"OK," I said. "Ed, be ready."

"Always am."

"Mike?" she said. "Changeups and curves, that’s all I got left."

I nodded, turned, lowered my mask, and walked back behind the plate.

I called for a change. It wasn’t anywhere near the plate. So I switched to the curveball. She fooled him with the first one, but not with the next two. Three balls, one strike.

I knew I had to end this, and now. She didn’t have another batter in her. I didn’t even know if she had another pitch in her—though she was going to have to throw one. I had to end it now, one way or the other.

I put down the number one. Fastball.

She shook me off. I put it down again. She shook me off more vehemently, obviously pissed I was calling a pitch she didn’t have at the moment. I made a little "trust me" motion with my mitt. And I put the number one down.

She sighed, nodded yes, and wound up.

As I anticipated, it was probably the weakest, most sorry-ass excuse for a fastball that she had ever thrown in her life. It was like one of Gutierrez’s dying quails. As I had also anticipated, the batter—after watching her 90 mph heaters whiz by all day—pounced on it.

However, as I had also anticipated, he was too eager. And got out in front of it. And pulled it. So the line shot he hit, went—as I had planned—right at the best third baseman in the state.

Well, not right at. Ed had to extend a little to get it. But extend he did, and snare it he did. SLAP! Third out. Game over.

Thank God.

And my warrior princess followed the flight of the ball, saw Ed snare it, shook her fist two times in a moment of triumph—and collapsed on the grass behind the mound.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LILY

Oh, God, I hurt.

But I did it. I fucking did it. I even exceeded my boast to the Coach—that was a two hit shutout.

Watching the guys run in was funny. They obviously wanted to run in and congratulate me, tackle me, throw me around in victory. Not advisable at the moment. So, they all came streaming in towards me in delight, stopped short—and contented themselves with patting me on the head with their gloves. It really was amusing.

My catcher sat down next to me. My third baseman sat down on the other side of me.

"Nice pitching, Pedro," Ed said.

"Nice glove, Brooks Robinson," I replied. "You planned that, didn’t you?" I said to Mike.

"Yeah, I did. You didn’t have another batter in you. So I figured if you served one up, they’d get overeager and hit it to Ed."

"And Ed would catch it, as he always does," Ed said.

"Yes you did," I grinned. Ed got up and told us he’d see us in the clubhouse.

We were still sitting on the infield grass. The crowd was dispersing, and it was only the two of us on the field. He turned to me and said, "That was unbelievable."

"Told you I could pitch," I grinned.

"Oh, that’s not what I’m talking about. Your pitching was fantastic, perfect, marvelous. But it wasn’t unbelievable. I knew you could pitch—I believed every minute." I grinned at him, and he went on. "What was unbelievable was how you looked up on that mound in the ninth inning."

"Yeah, an unbelievable mess," I laughed.

"The most glorious, most beautiful mess I’ve ever seen in my life. You looked like some kind of Celtic pagan goddess of sex and baseball. It was amazing."

Damn. Oh, Damn. A Celtic pagan goddess of sex and baseball? I had never told him. I had never told him that—in my wildest fantasies, in my mind’s eye—that’s how I saw myself. That was my idealized fantasy version of myself—a wild, primitive princess; her very likeness just screaming "sex!"—and with a baseball glove in her hand.

That was it. We were meant for each other. We were fucking meant for each other. No more hiding away the words. Not any more.

"Mike? I love you, from the bottom of my heart," I said.

"I love you, too, from the bottom of my heart," he returned.

I suppose it was fitting. We had first made love in the outfield. We first declared it in the infield.

"Let’s get you up," he said. He did, and helped me hobble through the dugout into the clubhouse.

We got in, and the trainer immediately started taking off my bandages. "You need to clean these cuts, after coach is done," he said, and I nodded. I could tell the guys wanted to cheer or something—but coach had a strict rule, even after a win—no noise in the clubhouse until he got there. He was in his office—something I was told he always did.

Then he walked in. "Good game. Nice to beat these guys, eh?" Then everybody cheered.

"First things first. I usually talk to my co-captains and such about the game ball. I don’t think that’s needed today. Woodard." I looked up, and he flipped me the game ball. "First of many, I hope." Then he got a big grin, and said, "If you’d like to spoon out some of that crow, I’ll be glad to eat it."

I grinned back. "I’ll give you a pass."

"Woodard," he went on, "I’ve been coaching for 15 years. That’s the finest performance by one player in one game I’ve ever seen. And, in the ninth inning, the most damn courageous."

The clubhouse went nuts. All I could do was mouth "thanks".

"One more thing. Bauer, what’s the rules on the jackets?"

"You get one after your first complete year on the team." Ed said.

"Any exceptions to that?" Coach asked.

"Coach’s discretion. Exceptional performance in the first year, or exceptional contribution to the team during part of that first year."

"Right, you got yours early last year, correct?"

"Yeah," Eddie said. "After I had that 3-dinger game against East Warren. And Mike got his early, too, halfway through, just for general contributions."

"Right. But this is the first time I’ve ever given one out on the first day of the season. The trainer’s been sewing the name in for me. Here he comes."

I didn’t know what they were talking about—until I saw the trainer with it. And he brought it over to me. "Woodard, here you go. You deserve it." It was my Westport High letterman’s jacket.

I was stunned. It was beautiful. Purple, with a gold W on the front, and two crossed bats on the other side of the front. On the sleeve, in gold, was stitched "Lily 45".

I almost wanted to cry. Until Eddie yelled, "Hey, coach. Is that the first time you ever gave out a jacket before you gave out the uniform?"

Everybody cracked up at that. Even Coach had to chuckle, when he said "Bauer, you’re a wiseass."

"Now, Woodard, we need to find you a place to take a shower, you need to clean up those cuts."

"Shower’s right there," I smiled.

"You didn’t have a separate shower at your old school?" Coach asked.

"Yeah, I did, but that was before I went into The Program. These guys have seen all I’ve got, and they’ve seen it all week. So now they’re going to see it soapy. Big deal. I’ll shower with my teammates. Besides which, I could use some help cleaning out the cuts."

"Hey," Eddie yelled, "is that in a catcher’s job description?"

"Why not?" Mike grinned.

"Not if I ever cut myself up, it’s not," said Frankie Gutierrez.

"That’s OK, Frankie, we’ll find one of those community-property chicks for you," I grinned at him. "Preferably one trained in nursing."

"Well, I hope I never need it, because I’ll tell you one thing," Frankie went on, "if I ever get in the program, you will not see me slide. Ever. I’ll take the L. Jesus, Lily, that was painful to watch."

"Yeah, and it was my fault," Ty said.

"Bullshit, Ty, no it wasn’t," I told him.

"I gave you the slide sign."

"I know you did, but that was just good baseball instinct, wasn’t it?" He nodded. "It was my choice. You didn’t push me down in the dirt. My choice, my cuts, not your fault."

"Thanks," he smiled slightly. "God, I did not enjoy watching that."

"I didn’t enjoy doing it much," I grinned at him. "Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson."

--End of part five--