Extra Innings: Chapter One - Focus and Friction

 Elena is used to being the observer, the girl safely tucked behind the lens of a Sony A7R. She knows how to curate a "vibe" and edit out the flaws, but no amount of post-production can fix the way Leo Guzman’s glare makes her heart stutter. He’s the league's most immovable force, and today, her lens is fixed squarely on the one man who wants nothing to do with her social media circus.

Chapter One 

Focus and Friction

Guzman

My knees have a vocabulary of their own, and today, they’re screaming in a language that sounds suspiciously like retirement.

Every time I stand up from my locker, there’s a symphony of pops and cracks that reminds me I’ve spent fifteen years crouching behind home plate, absorbing the impact of ninety-five-mile-per-hour fastballs and the weight of a franchise that expects me to be the anchor.

I reach for the bottle of ibuprofen in my locker, shaking out two pills and swallowing them dry. The clubhouse is a hive of chaos. The Philly trip was a mess—not on the scoreboard, we won the series—but in the atmosphere. Finn and Liam are acting like they’ve shared a secret that the rest of us aren't privy to, and as the veteran catcher, it’s my job to manage the battery. It’s hard to manage a battery when the pitcher and the center fielder are vibrating on a frequency that feels like a live wire.

I just want a quiet pre-game. I want my heat rub, my coffee, and my scouting reports. I don't want a "vibe," and I definitely don't want a camera.

"Guzman! My man! Look alive!"

I don't even have to turn around to know who it is. Ricci. The rookie shortstop has enough energy to power the stadium lights, and he’s currently trailing after someone I haven't seen before.

I slowly turn, leaning my hip against my locker. Standing next to Ricci is a woman who looks like she was manufactured out of pure sunlight and caffeine. She’s holding a gimbal with a sleek camera attached to it, a ring light clipped to her phone, and a smile that makes my teeth ache.

"Guzman," Ricci chirps, "This is Elena. She’s the new Social Media Manager. She’s doing a 'Day in the Life' series for the Beacons' TikTok."

Elena steps forward, her eyes bright and observant. She’s younger than me—a lot younger. She has that polished, effortless look of someone who knows exactly how to frame a shot to make it look like a dream. "It’s nice to finally meet the legendary 'Anchor' in person," she says, her voice smooth and surprisingly steady. She doesn't look intimidated by the fact that I’m six-foot-three and currently wearing a scowl that usually scares away most reporters.

"It’s Guzman," I grunt, turning back to my locker. "And the 'Anchor' doesn't do TikToks."

"Oh, I’m not asking for a dance, Mr. Guzman," she says, and I can hear the suppressed amusement in her tone. "I’m asking for authenticity. The fans want to see the grit. The prep. The stuff that makes you the best catcher in the league."

I pull my jersey over my head, the fabric muffled against my ears for a second before I pop through the collar. "The 'grit' isn't for public consumption. It’s for the diamond. Get Ricci to do it. He loves the attention."

"I already got Ricci," she counters, stepping into my peripheral vision. She’s close enough that I can smell her—something bright and citrusy that cuts through the scent of leather and old sweat in the room. "And Ricci isn't the heart of the defense. You are."

I pause, my hand hovering over my catching mitt. I look at her properly then. She isn't just a girl with a camera; she’s a strategist in her own right. She’s trying to play me.

"I have a game to prep for, Elena," I say, using her name for the first time. It feels strange on my tongue—too soft for this room. "Go find someone who isn't busy trying to keep their knees from exploding."

She doesn't flinch. She actually steps closer, tilting her head as she looks at the bottle of ibuprofen still sitting on the shelf of my locker. "Maybe that’s the story," she whispers, her voice dropping so Ricci can't hear. "The veteran who plays through the pain to keep his team on top. That’s more viral than a dance trend, don’t you think?"

I feel a jolt of something that isn't pain. It’s a spark of pure, unadulterated irritation mixed with a curiosity I haven't felt in years. She’s bold. Too bold for her own good.

"Out," I say, pointing toward the door. "Now."

She smiles—a slow, knowing thing that tells me she’s already won this round. She backs away, raising her camera for a split second and clicking a single photo before I can stop her.

"See you at batting practice, Guzman," she calls out over her shoulder as she disappears into the hallway.

I stare at the space where she was standing, my heart rate doing something it shouldn't be doing an hour before first pitch. I’ve spent my whole career building a wall that no one can get over.

But as I grab my mitt and head for the tunnel, I have a sinking feeling that Elena just found a crack.

The tunnel to the dugout is a concrete throat, cool and damp, and usually, it’s where I find my focus. I count my steps. I adjust my cup. I become the machine the Beacons pay forty million dollars to keep behind the plate.

But today, the "Day in the Life" girl is a ghost in my head.

I emerge into the afternoon sun, the heat of the field hitting me like a physical blow. The stadium is still mostly empty, just the grounds crew and a few early birds in the bleachers, but the air is already thick with the smell of mown grass and popcorn.

"Guzman! Target practice!"

Liam is on the mound, his arm looking loose and lethal. He looks at me, then his eyes flick toward the sidelines. I follow his gaze.

She’s there. Elena. She’s swapped the gimbal for a long-lens camera, crouched near the netting like a hunter. The way she’s positioned—low to the ground, jeans tight over her thighs, hair pulled back into a messy knot—isn't just "sunny." It’s professional. She’s tracking Liam’s delivery with a precision that makes me realize she wasn't kidding about wanting the grit.

I don't go to her. I go to Liam.

"You're high on the release," I mutter as I squat into my stance, the familiar groan of my patellar tendons providing the soundtrack.

"I’m fine, Guz," Liam says, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looks more relaxed than he did in Philly, almost glowing. It’s annoying. "The ball is moving exactly where I want it."

"It’s drifting. Fix it."

I snap my mitt shut on a ninety-eight-mile-per-hour heater, the sound echoing through the quiet park. Usually, that sound—the pop of perfect contact—is the only drug I need. But as I throw the ball back, I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye.

Elena hasn't moved, but her camera is pointed at me now. She’s catching the grit. The sweat rolling down my neck, the way my jaw sets when the pain in my knees flares, the tension in my forearms.

She’s too young to understand what she’s looking at. She sees a story; I see a ticking clock.

I’m thirty-six. In baseball years, that’s ancient. In catcher years, I’m a fossil. She looks like she’s barely twenty-four, all smooth skin and "viral" potential. She belongs in the world of filtered photos and fifteen-second clips. I belong in the dirt.

By the time batting practice ends, I’m fuming. Not because of the game, but because everywhere I turn, she’s there. She’s in the dugout, filming Ricci’s handshake. She’s near the bat rack, catching a candid shot of Finn staring at the scoreboard.

She’s like a summer storm—impossible to ignore and moving too fast to catch.

I’m heading toward the water cooler when she intercepts me. She doesn't have the camera up this time. She has a bottle of electrolyte water—the expensive kind the trainers keep in the back.

"You're dehydrated," she says, holding it out.

I stare at the bottle, then at her. "I have my own water."

"The one you left by the weight rack? It’s room temperature now." She nudges the cold bottle toward my chest. "Take it, Guzman. You’re the Anchor,' remember? If the foundation gets dry, the whole thing crumbles."

I take the bottle, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. Her skin is warm—not the sweaty, desperate heat of the field, but a soft, human warmth that makes me feel suddenly, sharply aware of how cold I’ve been lately.

I pull back, my grip tightening on the plastic. "You think you've got me figured out because you read a media guide?"

"I don't need a media guide to see a man who’s tired," she says softly. The "sunny" mask slips for a second, and I see something in her eyes that isn't for TikTok. It’s empathy. And it’s the last thing I want from her. "I’m not the enemy, Leo."

My birth name. No one calls me Leo. To the fans, I’m the Anchor. To the guys, I’m Guz.

"Don't call me that," I say, my voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that usually ends conversations.

"Why? Because it makes you feel like a person instead of a position?" She doesn't back down. If anything, she steps into my space, challenging me. "I’m here to tell the story of the Boston Beacons. And whether you like it or not, Leo Guzman, you’re the most interesting chapter I’ve found."

She turns and walks away before I can say another word, her ponytail swinging with a rhythm that mocks my lack of a comeback.

I unscrew the cap and take a long, cold pull of the water. It tastes like citrus and defiance.

I look toward the center field scoreboard. Three hours until first pitch. Three hours to get my head back in the game and out of the media office.

But as I watch her disappear into the tunnel, I know I’m in trouble. Because for the first time in fifteen years, I’m not thinking about the count. I’m thinking about the girl.

I find a corner of the dugout that’s relatively shadowed, a rare pocket of peace as the stadium speakers begin their pre-game thump. I’m wrapping my wrists, the athletic tape biting into my skin with a familiar, grounding pressure.

"The light is perfect in here."

I don't even look up. "Are you a ghost, or do you just enjoy haunting me?"

Elena doesn't answer with words. Instead, I hear the soft click-whirr of her camera lens adjusting. I look up then, catching her through the viewfinder. She’s leaning against the railing, her back to the field where the grounds crew is finishing the chalk lines. The stadium lights have just kicked on, humming to life and casting long, cinematic shadows across the concrete.

"I’m a storyteller, Leo. And right now, the story is the calm before the storm." She lowers the camera, letting it hang by its strap. "You look like a gladiator preparing for the arena."

"I’m a man putting on tape so my joints don't fail," I grumble, though the 'gladiator' comment hits a chord of vanity I usually keep buried. "Go take pictures of the rookies. They actually want to be seen."

"Everyone wants to be seen," she says, her voice barely audible over the growing crowd noise. She walks over, sitting on the bench a few feet away. She’s close enough that I can see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose and the way her eyes aren't just brown—they’re the color of expensive bourbon. "Some people just want to be seen for the right things."

I stop winding the tape. "And what do you think I want to be seen for?"

"The weight," she says simply. "The fact that you carry this entire pitching staff on your shoulders and you never ask for a break. You’re thirty-six, and you’re still the first one in the dirt and the last one out. I think you’re afraid that if people see the man behind the mask, they’ll realize you’re human. And if you’re human, you can be replaced."

The air in my lungs feels suddenly thin. She’s too sharp. She’s a decade younger than me, living in a world of digital filters, yet she just stripped me down to the bone with one observation.

"You're overstepping," I say, my voice like gravel.

"Maybe," she whispers. She stands up, smoothing her hands over her jeans. "Or maybe I'm the only one in this stadium who isn't looking at your stats. Good luck tonight, Anchor. Don't forget to breathe."

She disappears toward the camera well before I can respond, leaving behind that citrus scent and a silence that feels louder than the fans.

Five minutes later, the national anthem begins.

I stand on the top step of the dugout, my hat over my heart. The anthem usually acts as my mental trigger—the moment Leo Guzman dies and 'The Anchor takes over. I scan the field. I see Finn in center field, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. I see Liam on the mound, staring at the rubber with a cold, terrifying focus.

And then I see her.

She’s crouched behind the backstop, her long lens pointed toward the plate. She isn't looking at the flag; she’s looking at me through the glass.

Play ball.

The umpire’s call cuts through the air, and I trot out to the plate. The walk feels different tonight. My knees still ache, and the weight of the chest protector feels heavy, but there’s a new kind of electricity under my skin.

I drop into my crouch, the dirt puffing up around my cleats. Liam looks in, waiting for the sign. I hold up one finger—the fastball. I want to feel the sting of it. I want the world to be simple again.

But as Liam winds up and the first pitch of the game screams toward my mitt, I don't see the ball. For a split second, I see a flash of blonde hair and a knowing smile in the front row.

Thwack.

The ball hits my mitt with a sound like a gunshot. The umpire yells "Strike!" and the crowd goes wild.

I throw the ball back to the mound, my movements mechanical and perfect. But inside, I'm shaking. I’m the veteran. I’m the one in control.

But as I hunker down for the next pitch, I realize I’m not just playing a game anymore. I’m being watched. And for the first time in my career, I’m terrified of what she’s going to see.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Outro: And just like that, the "Sunshine" girl and the grumpy "Anchor" have officially collided. I wanted to establish that visceral tension early on—the kind of friction that you can feel through the screen. Elena is playing with fire, and Leo looks like he’s ready to let it burn. What did you think of that first look?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix