Two weeks before the opening of autumn semester, Professor Xavier called his entire adult staff together in his office. After updating everyone on curricula and scheduling, he concluded with the new athletics program announcement.

“The student body is now large enough to add another team sport. We have the space and the numbers to play softball, but first the staff needs to brush up on the game. We’ll have a practice game Friday evening at seven, followed by a barbecue on the terrace. I hope everyone can be there.” Glancing expectantly at the less-than-enthusiastic expressions of a few, he gave one more encouragement. “The students deserve some competitive sports since it’s unlikely at this time we’ll be able to compete with non-mutant teams in the community. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to coach since I’ve had some experience with the game,” Scott piped up.

Jean leaned in and whispered quietly to Logan, “I heard that - stop calling Scott a suck-up.”

“Outta my head, Jeannie.”

“Then stop projecting so loud.”

Scott addressed the group, “Anyone else ever played softball before?”

“Soft... ball?” Kurt questioned Storm, confusion showing in his yellow eyes. Storm shook her head to Scott’s question, then explained.

“It’s like baseball, only the ball is larger and the game is pitched underhand and a little slower. It’s gentler, more suitable for younger people and amateurs. Or, so I’ve gathered.”

“I have not played,” he confirmed in his gutteral German accent. “But I will be glad to learn an American game.”

Scott pinned Logan with his visored eyes. “Logan, have you ever played softball, or do you know anything about the game?”

“Never played it, but I know the five rules,” Scott looked wary as Logan ticked off five fingers. “Throw the ball. Hit the ball. Catch the ball. Keep the bloodletting to a bare minimum. Don’t make an ass of yourself,” with a smile, he added one more finger, “and six - drink lots of beer.”

“Now THAT is a game,” Jean laughed. “I want to be on his team.”

The professor smiled warmly before continuing, “Jean, do you know the game?”

“Somewhat. I played a few afternoons in college, but nothing serious, never on a team.”

“Very good! Then Scott and Jean are our team captains. Choose your teams for Friday evening’s practice game, and recruit older students to fill out your teams’ numbers. I’ll arrange to have the rear lawn prepared and equipment ready by then. That will be all.”

In the hallway, Scott spotted Bobby Drake passing by between classes. Throwing an arm around the younger man’s shoulders, Scott’s voice could be heard by the group as the two walked away, “Iceman, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Jean stopped herself from scanning them both for clues to Bobby’s possible softball skills, but she was very well acquainted with Scott’s competitive nature. Stopping Logan with a hand on his forearm, Jean knew with a big enough smile for him she could get away with anything. “Logan, I want you on my team. Can I recruit you?”

He gave her a lecherous smile in return. “What ya got to offer me, darlin’? I’m open to lots of temptation.”

“Out of the gutter, buddy. I want very badly to win this game Friday. How about alcohol? I’ll keep a cooler on the sidelines for my team, to help ease us through the softball learning experience. Name your poison.”

“Molson. And a fifth of Wild Turkey with my name on it,” he added quickly.

“You’re not a cheap date, I see that right now,” she grinned at him. “Consider it done. You’re my first recruit.”

“I’m not cheap, Jeannie, but I am easy. And, I’ve got some ideas on this ‘team’ thing. I’m on the job.” Logan gave her a sexy wink and turned away. Jean watched his slow, confident strut as he walked away from her, and instinctively knew that nothing about that man could ever be easy.

Logan made a beeline to Rogue’s history class and waited until she came out.

“Do you play softball?”

Rogue blinked twice in surprise, but responded, “Yeah, some. I used to pitch for the neighbor’s kids to practice in the back yard, but I’m not a pro by a long...”

“Good enough,” Logan cut her off. “If Scooter asks you, you’re already taken, got that? You’re on my team. I’ll see ya later.”

He was twenty feet down the hall before Rogue asked, “What team?” Logan reported to Jean they now had a pitcher before he was off on another recruiting mission. With one more recruit down, the Jean team was growing.

When Friday evening arrived, the diamond was laid out on the grassy lawn, bases were arranged, coolers were stocked, and the always-dapper professor took it upon himself to don a barbecue apron and man the gas grill later. Scott and Logan had placed the grill on a lower-level surface of the terrace permitting the professor to work comfortably from his wheelchair. With hot dogs, burgers and condiments tucked safely away on ice, Xavier watched in hopeful amusement at his staff and students getting the hang of the game. Jean’s team showed up with everyone wearing neon-red T-shirts which drove Scott’s visor-vision crazy, while his team were all in white shirts. Every red shirt had “AK24/7" scrawled across the chest in blocky letters by a black laundry marker.

“What does that mean?” Scott muttered to no one in particular, and grimaced as Logan replied in his hard-edged growl.

“Ass kicking, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. What’s with the unbrand tighty-whitey shirts, anyway? Got a generic, no-name team there, Cyke?”

“Bite me, Logan.”

“Lookin’ forward to it, bub.”

“And watch your language, please. Remember, we’ve got some students in this game.”

“You keep ‘em outta the coolers, then.”

Scott looked over his team with satisfaction. Bobby was naturally athletic; Storm was limber and light on her feet; Kitty was small, but had good reflexes; Jubilee was quick-witted and outrageously mouthy, great for hassling and distracting the other team; Piotr was a wall of strength and should be able to hit home-runs easily; John was a study in bored distraction, but at least he’d kept Jean from recruiting the young man, thus lessening their choices by one. With Artie, who was a bit young but dedicated, and the new kid Mike MacKenzie who was street-tough and agile, they were ready to play with a full team of nine.

Jean hadn’t been so lucky. She’d recruited until her hair hurt, but had come up short-handed until a mutual agreement had been reached: no one could use their powers except Kurt, who was allowed to teleport in the outfield and thus play the three positions solo. Logan with his heightened senses and lightning reflexes would be a force to be reckoned with in any game; Rogue had much-needed pitching experience; Remy was a lanky, natural athlete and the epitome of laid-back calm; the twin sisters Ciji and Niji were a bit young, but were enthusiastic about the game and had some team softball experience. The AK24/7 team was rough and tumble, but it was the best she could do.

The first inning was spent getting everyone organized and familiar with the game, and Jean got familiar with the bottle of cranberry vodka iced down in the team’s cooler. Just a few nips would loosen her up and let her play better.

At the beginning of the second inning, the score was 1-0 in the Tighty-Whitey team’s favor. Mike had been the first to score a point. Hank scrawled the score on a chalkboard leaning against a fence and acted as a neutral umpire, referee, and score-keeper as well as first aid team. Mostly, he leaned against the fence, munching Twinkies and sipping lemonade.

Jean noted Kurt had teleported to Storm’s side and was showing her something about the glove he’d been given. She yelled jokingly, “Hey, no fraternizing during the game!” then instinctively stepped back as Kurt bampfed to her side in a cloud of sulphurous smoke.

“It will not fit,” he said as he held his glove toward her. She realized the fielder’s mitt truly did not fit his two-fingered hand, no matter how he stuffed his thick digits into the glove. “It falls off when I take my other hand from it,” Kurt demonstrated by releasing his grip on the glove, which dropped to the ground.

“Hmmm... I think I can remedy that. Wait here.” Signalling for a pause, she ran to the professor. “Can I borrow that barbecue mitt, please?”

With his left hand stuffed inside a striped barbecue mitt, Kurt returned to the outfield with a smile and the extra fielder’s mitt as well. “Ja, I’m ready now.”

Jean heard Logan’s bark of laughter and looked just in time to see Kurt with the fielder’s mitt shoved down the back of his shirt, loping about the outfield yelling ‘Sanctuary!’ in a gritty, deep voice. Storm dropped the bat she had been swinging and collapsed in a giggling fit. Encouraged by the round of laughter, Kurt grabbed a tree branch at the edge of the field and performed a double-somersault as a finale to the applause, before bampfing to Jean’s side to turn in the ill-fitting fielder’s mitt with a sheepish grin.

“Gimme dat mitt, chere. Dis one stinks like mildew,” Remy yelled to her. Throwing his catcher’s mitt aside, the Cajun deftly caught the one she threw to him, adjusted his shades, hitched up the legs of his tight jeans, and squatted. The game was on again.

Scott hit a wicked drive to center-field, whizzing it just above Logan’s reach where he played shortstop. Kurt leaped nimbly into the air and caught it with the barbecue mitt, putting Scott out. Noting Logan’s smirk, Scott jibed, “Next time I’ll aim a little lower, maybe part that thatch you call hair.”

“Part this, Scooter,” Logan shot the middle claw through his glove. Scott smiled indulgently, then strutted confidently off the field.

Rogue’s pitching arm was getting warmed up. She’d spent a few hours every day with Logan, concealed in the deep woods, practicing her pitching and teaching him a few parts of the game he wasn’t clear on. Now he knew the game comfortably well, and she had rocked him up on his heels several times with a consistent string of mean pitches. With a succession of sneaky pitches, she put Jubes out quickly, then gave Kitty a couple of balls before striking her out as well. Switching positions, the AK24/7s were up to bat.

Scott threw a wicked pitch and nearly clipped Remy in the groin. Leaping back, Remy ripped a fast stream of Cajun curses that included references to God and Scott’s mother’s morality, then grabbed the discarded mitt and shoved it down the front of his pants. “You don’ be messin’ wit’ de jewels down ‘dere, homme. Remy got a rep to maintain wit’ de femmes.” Scott laughed and offered an apology.

Jubilee yelled from where she squatted as catcher, “Dude, you don’t have THAT much jewelry. You look like you’ve got a salad bowl shoved down there.”

“You don’ be worryin’ ‘bout what Remy got down dere.. You jus’ do your job, lil’ girl.”

Jubilee was pissed. “Kill him, Scott.”

“Coming up,” Scott wound up fast but pitched a slow arc, hoping Remy would be expecting a faster pitch. The Cajun connected and ran toward first base, holding the mildewed catcher’s mitt in place at his crotch, but the bulk slowed him down and he was out at first. Jerking the mitt from his pants, he threw it aside and spat in it’s general direction.

“Damn t’ing is cursed,” he shuffled toward the cooler and grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey.

“Hands off, bub!”

Remy just grinned insolently and swigged a short drink, then stuffed the bottle back.

Kurt took a bat and gingerly tested it’s weight, then waited for a pitch. Scott slid a gentle one to him, but he didn’t swing.

“Strike, I do believe,” Hank commented dryly and scratched on the chalkboard. Scott caught the ball and was about to wind up the next pitch when he noted Logan and Jean whispering over the team’s cooler, and drinking together. His eyes narrowed beneath the visor and he mightily resisted beaning the feral where he stood. Focusing on the game again, he threw a wild pitch. Kurt let out a yelp and bampfed as the ball sailed through the exact spot he’d been a second before, re-appearing behind Jubilee a moment later.

“Kurt, I’m so sorry,” Scott offered sincerely. Kurt nodded, grinned, and returned to home plate.

“Hey, Scooter, you call that pitchin’, or are you just tryin’ to kill us off one at a time?” Logan had his arm around Jean’s shoulders, his hand dangling casually down the front of her shirt. Scott fumed, but bit his lip in front of the students.

Jean stepped away from Logan, all smiles and niceness, “Scott, honey, you want a beer?”

“No, thank you,” he clipped the words to a tight-lipped staccato. Three more pitches and Kurt walked to first. Scott pinched his eyes shut, removed his visor to dust it, talking himself down from the anger that still churned inside him. He knew Logan was a head-gaming weasel and would take every advantage in any situation, so he just needed to focus himself.

Rogue hit a good one to centerfield, bouncing it between Storm and John, who sidestepped and ducked, allowing Storm to chase down and fling the ball at Piotr waiting on first base. Rogue slid into the base underneath his reach, but scraped her hip over an unseen rock.

“OW!”

Logan was instantly alert and Hank started to rise, but she climbed to her feet, rubbing her ass and dusting grass off her trousers, then waved them off, “I’m fine, just bruised.”

“Wanna touch me, darlin'?”

“Nah, wait until afterward if you’re feelin’ frisky. We need you conscious and functional for this game,” she threw him a flirtatious wink and a sweet smile, then took her position, ready to run if Niji got a hit. Bobby was playing second base, but Rogue had a plan.

Grabbing the discarded mitt lying by her feet, she watched Bobby closely, while he studied home plate. Niji missed the first pitch, and the second, got a ball, and just about the time Scott was winding up for the next pitch, Rogue gave a wolf whistle and yelled, “Hey, Bobby baby!” in a sing-song voice.

Bobby looked. Rogue had the discarded mitt shoved down the seat of her pants and was booty-dancing around first base, shaking a lot more than God gave her. Piotr blushed and grinned widely. Too late Bobby heard the crack of the bat and Niji’s hit missed his ear by a half-inch, whistling past him. He turned to see Storm leap for the ball and miss, as it bounded away to the woods edge. Rogue jerked the mitt out of her pants and threw it on the ground as she passed second base. Kurt fled through the bases, still confused but determined, and Niji ran like a madwoman, hands waving in the air, hair flying, and shouting something in Cherokee. Points were scored.

The younger kids got gentler treatment from the older students and staff, and when the fifth inning opened, the score was 3-5 in the AK24/7's favor. The stocked coolers were quickly emptying and Logan noted the amount of vodka Jean had sipped between innings. She had to be feeling woozy by now. He’d drank a good third of the Wild Turkey, but was still stone cold sober as he chased his last swig with a Molson.

They needed a plan to hold their lead.

Logan had a plan.

Scott put Rogue out with ease, and she left the field swearing in her Mississippi accent, which always delighted Logan’s ears. The girl could lose that gloss of southern ladylike refinement when she got righteously pissed off. Niji and Ciji begged off their turns at bat to take a family phone call, moving Logan up in rotation.

Logan grabbed a bat, and let Scott put a ball past him, then swung hard at the next pitch, but missed. The bat cut the air a foot above Jubilee’s head where she squatted with the catcher’s mitt.

“Holy shit! Watch it, Wolvie, I’m back here, remember?” She poked the back of his thigh, then giggled as he stared down at her.

“I didn’t even come close to yer noggin, yellow. Toughen up, kid. And don’t call me that,” Logan turned to glare at Scott who stood there grinning smugly, tossing the ball in his right hand. Snarling one lip, Logan took position again and waited.

Scott deftly switched hands and lobbed a quick left-handed pitch past him. Strike two. Baring teeth, Logan snarled, “Goddamn show-boatin’ son of a bi...”

“Language!” Scott yelled back. The next pitch was too easy, and Scott knew it as soon as it left his hand. Logan swung hard and downward, and the ball bounced past Scott’s feet, sailed between Bobby’s knees who cupped himself and jumped a foot in the air, and Logan was on first before Artie could scoop the ball up and toss it to the baseman.

Logan casually dusted a little smudge off one boot, hitched up his jeans, adjusted himself, and smiled angelically at Scott.

Bastard, Scott thought to himself. Jean was next up to bat, and she wobbled slightly as she crouched into position.

Two strikes, two balls, then the twins returned to the game, took inspiration and started shouting at each other in Greek, which no one understood. Logan tried to steal a base but backpedaled to safety before Scott called a break and tried to settle the incomprehensible sibling dispute. Kurt joined the dialogue, trying to translate the few Greek words he’d picked up into German and on to English. Then they called Piotr in to try translating the handful of words that Ciji was practicing in Russian. Somewhere in the middle of the multilingual, babbling conversation, it was determined that one of their cousins was coming to visit. Before it was all settled, Scott developed a headache.

Back in the game, Jean nailed a slow pitch and dashed for first, while Logan easily loped to second, and they stood their bases. Remy was next up to bat.

Wiggling his ass and adjusting his jeans, Remy took time to wink at Jubes, throw a kiss to Storm, and ask Scott how his day was going.

“Just play ball, will you? Focus instead of flirting for a change.”

“Homme, I t’ought softball was de traditional American game, ya know, all laid back an’ easy. Remy’s laid back an’ easy, too.”

“Yeah, he’s easy, all right,” Jubes snarked and poked the Cajun in the back of the thigh, too, then added, “Ooooh, tender meat!”

“You jus’ watch ‘dem hands, chere. Remy be workin’ here....” He crouched slightly and held the bat aloft, waiting. Logan reached for the discarded mitt laying on the ground and held it unobtrusively against his leg.

The Cajun nailed the first pitch and flew toward first with his mop of auburn hair flying wildly behind him. Jean gave a whoop of joy, threw both hands in the air, and raced toward second, while Logan grabbed third easily as John again ducked the ball and let Storm snatch it from the ground.

“John, are you even in this game?” Storm asked as she tossed the ball back to Scott.

“Nah, not enough incentives. I got short-changed. I’m just killing time until the barbecue starts,” he remarked with sarcasm. “I didn’t have lunch today.” He patted his stomach. Storm rolled her eyes and arranged herself in the center of the area they should have shared.

Kurt stepped up to bat, and Scott’s concentration was once again broken by whoops of laughter from behind him. Turning, he scanned the bases, from first where Remy slouched casually grinning and scratching his chest, to second where Jean was laughing so hard she had to hold her ribs, to third where Logan was waddling around on his long legs with one hand pressed against the small of his back, and his other hand supporting a rounded lump showing distinctly beneath his t-shirt over his formerly flat belly. He looked convincingly pregnant.

Scott rested his forehead in the palm of his free hand.

“Don’t look at me,” Rogue yelled, “‘cause I am NOT responsible!”

Kurt was laying on the ground, laughing, and Kitty let out an unladylike snort before collapsing against him.

“Who’s the mother, Logan?” Storm shouted, laughing at the normally-taciturn man’s antics.

“HER!” Logan pointed at Jean where she stood swaying at second base. “It’s Jeannie’s fault I’m in this condition.”

“I demand a maternity fest! Test! I mean a maternity twist! Shit, I’m drunk. WHOOPS!” Jean slapped both hands over her mouth, not having intended to use coarse language in front of the students.

Amid the roaring laughter and provocative banter, Scott quietly laid his glove and ball on the ground, and walked silently off the field. He fired the gas grill and started laying out the prepared food for the Professor to cook. Darkness was gathering and the terrace lights were coming on, so the game would have needed to be called off anyway.

“I tried, sir, but I cannot deal with that level of maturity.”

“Don’t worry, Scott. It was quite entertaining to watch. You had a significant challenge in teaching them the game, and I believe they have the gist of it now. Perhaps strategy and gamesmanship need some fine-tuning for future games, though. Just enjoy yourself for the rest of the evening.”

Scott stood and watched as Hank updated the scoreboard. Jean’s team of drunkards, misfits and psych-out experts had trounced his carefully assembled team of hand-chosen athletic recruits. Logan had been the main instigator, as usual.

There would be hell to pay.