Chapter Text
It's terrible, of course.
The Shoe Thieves shouldn't even be playing anymore. They won. Stu won, and when Esme looks at her she can see the anger and frustration beneath the fear and anguish. A hit pulled from every sports movie, and none of them can celebrate.
Jess is playing the same position she always does. When Esme is up to bat, they meet her eyes. There's nothing there. Her unfocused gaze reminds Esme of a sleepwalker.
It earns them a strike, something they can feel in their chest. They're losing. The scoreboard isn't working but she can tell without counting that the Thieves are on the backfoot (ha). On instinct, she swings, and makes it to first.
And that's the thing, isn't it? This is...indescribable, an experience she'll have nightmares about for years. But as they line themself up to steal second, everything feels right. She's staring down a god and something clicks. This is where she's meant to be.
Later, she tries to explain it and only partly succeeds. It's the end of the world and something in Esme sings with it, she gets out and it feels like burning alive, Games hits a triple and she's grinning, because all that fucking practice finally paid off.
They lose, and Esme plays like shit, and Jess gets an effortless home run to end it all, and it's terrifying, and she wants so badly to do it again.
(She's in the locker room, her friends on their way. Her vision is fading around the edges, but not enough for it to be a problem. She looks at her team, her wonderful teammates, clutching phones or pacing or sitting stock still like their lives depend on it. Esme decides then and there that no matter how much she hungers for it, she won't drag her friends along with her.)
Her hands never stop shaking, even when the addictive feeling of power fades away and she's left sitting in the middle of an empty, destroyed field. Soaked in blood from nobody. Leaving unanswered voicemails.
---
It's wonderful, of course.
In retrospect, Jessica wishes she was in more control. What little she can remember of the game is pure euphoria, and as she sits, bored out of her mind, waiting for a year to pass, she curses how little of the experience she can relive.
(Someone says that this is the plan, with a grin. Keep them benched long enough and they'll be so eager to play that they'll do it for anyone. Well, maybe it works for the rest of them. Even if Jessica could pick team in the leauge, she'd still play for the Pods.)
Really, its her own fault that it took her so long to regain awareness. She got too attached. Made it nearly impossible to let go.
Nearly. Once she hit that home run, staring into Hotdogfinger's terrified eyes, the vindication calls her right back.
Before the field is filled with the screams of Thieves, she hears a cheer from the dugout. Wyatt Quitter. It's the first noise any of the Pods have made.
The two of them are the first to come back to themselves, first to relish the win. The Thieves aren't the best in the leauge, sure, but they put up a decent fight. Both of them decide it's worth a bit of celebration. At least, while they're still alone.
Someone sneaks behind the stadium, after, to tell Wyatt that the Tacos will save them. They laugh so hard it brings tears to their eyes. They don't want to go back to speed running losses any more than Jessica wants to play in Philly.
Which, she doesn't. She's happy here. They all are. Nothing beats playing at your fullest potential with people of your caliber.
(Not that Jessica ever needed help to be incredible. Everyone knows it, she's the best in the leauge.)
Esme keeps calling her. Incessantly. It's hilarious, so she doesn't bother blocking the number.
And after another fucking year of not doing anything, they take the field again, and the crowd goes wild.
(Cheers, screams, does it matter?)
And Jessica has never felt better.