Pam Beesly pulled into a parking space in the lot on the edge of the Scranton Municipal Softball Field and killed the engine. "Here we are," she said.

Jim Halpert looked through the windshield. "Definitely the minor leagues."

The fields were small, cramped. The grass looked worn and tired after a spring and half-summer of constant use and harsh sun. A little breeze kicked up a dust devil at the far edge of the fields.

"Did you remember to bring the bases?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, reaching for the door. "They're in the back."

Pam got out, locked the doors and keyed open the trunk of her car. She leaned in to lift out a cardboard box, turned, and found herself practically in Jim's arms. He reached for the box and their arms met.

"Here, I'll get that," he said. The breeze ruffled the hair peeking out from under his Phillies baseball cap. He smiled down at her. He wore track shoes and navy warm-ups over a white T-shirt.

"I think we're in Field Number Three." Pam reached into the back of the car, tugging at a long, heavy canvas bag. "I've got the bats here."

"Let's switch, then," he said. They shifted burdens, arms touching, hands brushing. Two cars pulled in next to Pam's and she heard voices.

"Pammy! Pammy-Bammy!" Michael Scott's cheerful voice sang out. He came around his Sebring, locking it with his remote.

"Hi, Michael," Jim said.

Pam looked past Michael expectantly. "Isn't Jan with you?"

"Um." Michael looked away. "I had to tell her that she can't play on the team because she's not an employee."

Pam and Jim exchanged a look. "Oh, that's too bad," Pam said. "We need all the women we can get."

"Maybe she can come later," Jim said.

Michael perked up. "That's what she ... no, wait. Never mind." He bounced on the balls of his feet, looking from Jim to Pam with a mischievous look. "So, Jimby, are you guys stuck on third base, or have you made it all the way to home plate yet?" He burst out with a self-congratulatory laugh.

Pam's cheeks turned pink, but Jim just raised an eyebrow. "Hey, are those golf shoes?"

Michael looked down at the loafer-style shoes and brought one ankle across his knee. "You said to wear spikes."

"Yeah, on running shoes. Are you going to be able to run in those?" Pam asked. She shut the trunk of the car, hefting a box.

"Hey, Pam. Hi, Jim." Toby Flenderson walked up, carrying an ice chest.

Michael saw Toby and his face fell. "Does he have to be here?"

Toby looked at him patiently. "Michael, as long as the company is sponsoring this team, Corporate requires an HR member be onsite --"

Michael waved his hands as if shooing a fly. "What. Ever. Just... sit in the stands, will you?"

"He can't," Jim said. "Toby's playing centerfield."

"Says who?"

"Says me," said Jim, slinging a large equipment bag over his shoulder. "You made me team manager, remember?"

"Assistant team manager. That doesn't mean you get to say who plays!" Michael protested. His windbreaker flapped open, revealing a Phillies jersey. It looked brand new.

"What did you think a team manager did?" Jim said, amusement flickering in his hazel eyes. His gaze shifted to meet Pam's, then back to Michael. "Toby played centerfield in high school. We need him in the outfield."

Michael opened his mouth to protest. Pam headed him off. "Michael, aren't you going to wear the team jersey? The one you made me order for the entire office?"

Michael looked down. "Oh. This is my lucky jersey."

"It still has the price tag on it," she said, pointing to the white tag dangling out of his coat sleeve.

"Yeah. That's my, uh, lucky tag."

A van roared into the parking lot and screeched to a stop. Loud rock music blared from it before the motor died, dieseling with a hut-hut-hut sound. "Hey!" Meredith called from inside. "Somebody help me with this crap."

Jim and Michael went over to help Meredith and Creed and Kevin unload catcher's mitts and other protective gear. Pam watched Jim as he walked away, his lanky stride outdistancing Michael's easily. The wind tousled his hair.

"Better get this stuff over to the field," Toby said. He was watching her watch Jim.

"Yes," she said. Pam reached into the back seat for her art kit and hurried after Toby. She glanced back, hearing a roar, and saw Darryl and Lonny pull into the lot in Darryl's truck. Lonny waved at her.

Sunken spots dotted the infield, where water from last night's rain had collected. They reflected the serene blue sky as Pam lugged the last of the equipment to the area behind the backstop. The backstop itself sagged, but it wasn't rusty and it did look like it would stop a foul ball, so she couldn't complain. A huge old oak spread its branches over a patch of damp earth and a dilapidated picnic table.

By the time all the equipment had been unloaded and the bases placed more or less where they were supposed to go, Darryl and Lonny were tossing a softball back and forth. Oscar and Creed were lining up bats against the backstop, ready for the players. Andy and Dwight argued over the position of the picnic table behind the backstop, shoving it back and forth. She saw Angela's car arrive in the parking lot. A motorcycle roared into the parking lot and she knew Madge from the warehouse had arrived.

"Hey, Pam," Michael said. He stood behind the backstop doing some exaggerated form of warm-up she'd never seen before. "Don't forget to warm up! Gotta stretch the old thigh muscles. You don't want that caboose of yours to get any fatter. And speaking of which, where's Phyllis? She's late."

"She'll be along later," Jim said from behind Pam. She turned just as he tugged his warmup jacket over his head, leaving him in a tight white T-shirt.

"We can't wait," Michael said. "We'll have to start without her." He started running in place exuberantly, then winced. "Ow! My ankle!" He hobbled off to the picnic bench.

"You haven't told him?" Jim said in a low voice. He leaned close. She saw he hadn't shaved that morning; his jaw was dark with stubble.

"No," she answered. "I'm too chicken. Do you want to tell him about Phyllis?"

"Nah," Jim said, stretching his arms up over his head and yawning. "I should. But I won't." He grinned. "I'm going to take a turn around the outfield. Come with?"

"And give up this nice sunny spot? No way."

"Slacker."

"Jock."

He grinned wider and took off. She watched him as he ran past first base, waving at his teammates, and headed out to the far fences at a loose, easy mile-eating pace. It was a delight to watch him run.

Pam picked up Jim's discarded warmup jacket and folded it. It smelled of him. She hugged it to herself as she sat on the picnic table, her feet on the bench. She noticed that no one except Dwight was wearing the team jersey. She thought the logo -- a stick figure with a Dunder Mifflin logo box for a head, designed by Michael himself -- had something to do with that. She herself wore a pink sweatshirt and olive drab warm-up pants. She was amused by the wild variety of outfits: Meredith's no-nonsense gray sweat pants and hoodie, Oscar's green pants and yellow polo shirt. 

Pam counted in her head; almost the whole team was here. She knew that Stanley had refused to join the team, so she wasn't surprised at his absence. Of course Ryan wasn't really part of the office team now that he was in New York. Then again, Pam was surprised this many had showed up anyway. Maybe everyone just needed an excuse to get out of the house as summer ripened. She watched Darryl, Oscar and Lonny tossing softballs around; their easy expertise spoke of hours on a ball field together. She remembered sitting on the bleachers in high school during spring practice, watching Roy throw home from the outfield and hit line drives that put the fear of God into pitchers. That was a long time ago, she reminded herself. She wondered where Roy was today, what he was doing, and felt a little sad.

Toby ambled over and joined in. Soon the men were throwing the ball around, laughing as Lonny snagged one out of the air. She envied the automatic camaraderie of men playing sports. No matter what other issues men might have, everything dissolved in the spirit of the game. But then she remembered a hard-fought basketball game a few years ago and thought maybe that wasn't always true.

Jim jogged back to the backstop and took his seat beside Pam on the table, feet on the bench. He was breathing a little heavier, but wasn't winded. Good heart condition, Pam thought. Good heart.

Michael called for a team meeting, but no one paid any attention until Jim cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "DunderHeads! Team meeting!"

Everyone gathered at the picnic table. Angela was setting up her first aid kit and lining up paper cups filled with ice. Kevin stood beside her sneaking potato chips out of a big bowl. Beside him, his grill and a huge grocery bag full of hot dogs and buns cluttered the ground.

"Okay," Michael said. "Remember, the whole point here is to have fun. And to win. Mostly to win." He frowned. "Especially against Vance Refrigeration. Those guys are pussies. Oh, sorry, ladies," he said, glancing at Pam. Meredith glared at the back of his head.

"Michael, we need to get the batting order straightened out," Oscar said.

"I should referee," Dwight said fiercely.

"I agree," said Angela. "I'm sure he'd play by the rules."

"It's not about rules, Angela," Dwight snarled at her. "It's about winning. Weren't you listening to Michael? If I'm the referee, I'll make sure we win."

Angela glared back at him. Pam looked from Angela to Dwight and wondered what the hell was going on. Because there was more there than met the eye. Were they breaking up?

There had been too much conflict. Too much ill feeling. Dwight's resignation and return, Andy's meltdown, the whole Roy thing, and then Karen and Ryan leaving -- no one had been more pleased than she was when Michael decided to form a softball team. But now she wondered if this bickering bunch could play together.

She looked up and met Jim's eyes and he lifted an eyebrow at her. Look at this bunch of losers, it said.

She lifted an eyebrow back. As usual, he'd read her mind.

"Kevin should be umpire," Michael said.

Jim shook his head. "Can't do that," he said. He looked at Toby. "Tobe?"

Toby spoke up in his soft voice. "The City League rules say we have to have one of their umpires. I called them Friday and they said he'd be here at eleven."

"That's just ... unfair," Michael said angrily. "How can an outsider call our game?"

"Uh, that's the whole point, Michael," Toby explained. "And if we want this game to count in League play -- "

"No! I will not have some stranger butting in--"

"Look, we don't need an umpire for batting practice," Jim said. "Michael, could you just lead the warm-ups while I figure out the lineup? Maybe show the others some batting tips?"

Andy stood. "Michael, didn't you tell me you hit .250 in the Y League?"

Dwight perked up. "You were in a league, Michael?"

"Yes, I was. I was the best hitter," Michael said brightly.

"Wasn't that Little League?" Darryl asked. Lonny snickered.

"Then I would be honored if you would show me your secrets," Andy said smoothly.

"Of course," Michael said, beaming. "Come on, Dwight. You can pitch."

"I can hit, too, Michael," Dwight said. "I once hit a five pound beet over the barn."

Michael waved him silent. "Pitch, Dwight. And try to get it over the plate, okay?"

The three walked off toward home plate. Jim turned to the rest of the group, letting out a sigh of relief.

"Okay, I want first base. Anyone object?"

Kevin stopped munching. Crumbs were scattered across his chest. "I wanna play right field."

Darryl looked at him. "Are you kidding me? Can you even run that fast?"

Kevin reached for more chips. "I might surprise you."

Jim turned to Creed. "What position do you want to play?"

"Wide receiver," Creed said.

"Just don't let the girls pitch," Lonny spoke up. "I didn't give up my Saturday to spend the day in the outfield watching the girls play catch."

Darryl snorted. "Yeah, we ain't here to play pussy ball."

"Fuck you," Madge said genially. She slammed a softball into her well-used glove. Her T-shirt had had the sleeves ripped off and her biceps looked almost as big as a man's. "I'll play short, Jim."

Darryl and Lonny groaned.

"The women are supposed to alternate batting with the men," Angela put in. "Those are the rules."

Jim ran his hand through his hair. "Okay, guys, settle down. I'll figure it out. Who has the form?" Toby silently passed him the official form. "Anybody got a pencil?" Jim asked.

Pam dug a pencil out of her art kit and silently handed it to him. He shot her a grateful look, put his leg up on the picnic bench and balanced it on his knee. The movement drew his sweatpants taut against his thigh and Pam saw long muscle flexing under the fabric. She watched him as he hastily wrote up the batting order.

1. Michael, right field

2. Madge, short stop

3. Lonny, 2nd base

4. Pam, catcher

5. Jim, 1st base

6. Meredith, pitcher

7. Darryl, 3rd base

8. Kelly, left field

9. Toby, centerfield

"Okay," he said to the group. "Everyone got equipment?"

"I thought I called right field," Creed said.

"I have to put Michael in the lineup," Jim explained patiently. "And he'll do the least damage in right field. The farther out, the better."

"I don't even want to play," Kelly said. "Can't I just stay by the table?"

"We're a co-ed team. Rules say we need four women in the lineup," Jim said. "Come on, I know you can do it."

"What the hell, Jim? You put me after Meredith?" Darryl said. "I should be leadoff."

"We'll switch later," Jim said wearily. "This is just preliminary. Let's get some practice in before the other team gets here. Remember to rotate your positions after someone bats."

The others drifted away, still arguing, spreading out around the infield for batting practice. Jim looked around. He and Pam were alone. "Hey," he said.

"I notice that you kept Dwight off that lineup," Pam said.

He grinned at her. "Hell, yes. Listen, are you sure your knees are up to this? Catchers spend most of the game squatting."

"I can handle it," she said. "Roy and I used to play a lot of catch."

Jim looked away. "Um. Okay. Let me know if you need Oscar to step in."

"Okay."

He dug into a pocket. "Oh, hey. I got these for you. You know, for when it's your turn to bat." He pulled out a pair of fingerless batter's gloves. "You don't want to ruin your hands. Might make it hard for you to draw."

"Thanks," she said. She pulled them on; they fit perfectly. "How did you know what size to get?"

He looked away from her, reached for a bat among the half dozen lined up along the bench. "I know what your hands feel like," he said in a low voice. Before she could reply, he handed her a bat. "Here. I think you can handle a thirty ounce."

She took the bat and he walked away, swinging two bats easily in one hand. She hefted the bat, took a tentative swing or two. He was right; thirty ounces was perfect. It was heavy enough to put some power into her swing, light enough she could get some speed on it. He knows me so well, she thought.

Despite Dwight's awful pitching, they managed to get in half an hour's batting practice. Michael argued with every call, and wound up taking two turns at bat. Kelly giggled so much when Jim tried to show her how to hold a bat that Pam stepped in to take over. Kelly struck out on three pitches. Toby hit a slider to left field and Jim's swing sent a softball into the grass at the far edge of the field for a home run. He jogged around the bases, high-fiving Darryl and Lonny as he passed them. When he sat down on the picnic bench next to Pam, sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead and he was grinning.

"Sweet, even if I do say so myself."

"Don't get cocky," she warned him.

He laughed. "Hard not to, with Dwight pitching."

"Can we get him to play for the other team?"

She smiled, and his eyes met hers, and they were alone in their shared bubble of laughter. She was acutely aware of his shoulder touching hers. He handed her the bottle of water, and she drank from it without wiping the rim.

Andy strode up, a serious look on his face. "Come on, Tuna. Gimme a break. You going to keep me on the bench?"

"Andy, I forgot, do you bat right or left?" Jim asked.

"Either way," Andy said boastfully.

"You're a switch hitter?" Pam asked with a straight face.

"Yeah," Andy said. Pam repressed a smile and knew Jim was fighting to keep a poker face.

"So you probably like it straight up the middle, huh?" Jim said nonchalantly.

"Yes," Andy said, looking puzzled.

"Don't you get a lot of popups that way?" Pam said, choking with suppressed laughter.

"Huh?" Andy said. His expression said he thought he might be being teased, but wasn't sure.

Pam turned away, shoulders shaking.

"Okay. We'll see," Jim said. "I might rotate you in on third base."

"Thanks, Big T." Andy walked away and Pam dissolved in giggles.

"Pam, honestly!" Jim said in fake exasperation. "You're thirteen. Maybe twelve." Her giggles didn't faze him. He stood up and dusted off his pants. "I'm going to talk to Toby." He strode off.

Michael chose this moment to walk over to the ice chest and start rummaging through it.

"Those are for later," Angela said sharply.

"This is later," he said. He stood up with a soda in his hand and caught sight of Pam. "Miss Pammy! All set for our game?"

He hoisted himself up beside her on the table and popped the top. Soda spurted all over his pants and he leaped up. "Oh, no!" He grabbed a folded tablecloth and started dabbing at his crotch. "Pam, help me! Get some napkins!"

Angela looked at Michael with disgust. "I can't use that tablecloth now. It's been all over your ... " She gestured vaguely and turned away, scowling.

Pam handed Michael a handful of paper napkins but he handed them back, gesturing at his crotch. "You do it. It's soaking in."

"Michael, I am not going to rub your pants."

"Pam!"

"No." Pam marched off towards the backstop before Michael could press her further.

In the infield, Darryl yelled and pointed at the parking lot. A Vance Refrigeration truck was pulling into the lot, followed by two more vans. Their opponents had arrived.

It took the Vance Refrigeration Victors team half as much time to get ready. While Bob Vance of Vance Refrigeration argued with Michael about who was home team and who was visitor, the Vance team set up two portable picnic tables with food, water and equipment on the other side of the oak tree. The team all wore matching team jerseys and dispersed to their batting practice without discussion. Soon their batters were hitting softballs into the outfield with monotonous regularity.

Jim finally wandered back and sat down beside Pam, chewing on the end of the pencil and frowning over the lineup. Pam saw Darryl and Lonny looking at one another and shaking their heads.

"They're probably wondering if they can switch sides," Pam said.

Jim shrugged, and she felt his shoulder move against hers. She could feel the heat of his body through her sweatshirt. "Too late now," he said. He looked sideways at her. "Besides, they don't know about our secret weapon."

Pam grinned. "You haven't told anyone?"

"Pam, you wound me. I wouldn't blow this surprise for anything." Jim looked past her. "Who's this? Oh, I don't believe it!"

Pam looked where he was looking. "That should be our League umpire. He ... oh, no. You're kidding!"

Others had caught sight of the newcomer. "Devon?" Meredith said in disbelief.

The tall, sandy haired man strode up, carrying an equipment bag on his shoulder. "Hi, guys."

"Wow," Jim said. He stepped forward, extending a hand. "Good to see you, man."

Others crowded around to greet their former co-worker. Pam glanced over to where Michael was still arguing with Bob Vance.

"This is going to be interesting," Jim said in her ear. She turned her head and found his face inches from hers.

"Yeah," she said softly.

"He'll be standing over you for most of the game," Jim said. "You still want to catch?"

Pam shrugged. "There's no one else to do it," she said.

Jim clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Michael's coming. Here we go."

She was very aware of the warmth of Jim's hand on her shoulder. Michael and Bob Vance, Vance Refrigeration walked up.

"Okay, guys, Vance Refrigeration is -- hey! What are you doing here?" Michael did a double take on sighting Devon.

Devon grinned evilly at his former boss. "Hello, Michael."

"This is all wrong! He can't referee this game!" Michael said loudly.

"Why not?" Bob Vance said, looking from Devon to Michael with a puzzled expression. "He umpired our game last week against Cuggino's."

"Because he used to work for us!" Michael said.

Dwight, coming up behind Michael, glared at Devon. "That's right. Michael fired him. He won't be objective."

"Oh, come on," Bob Vance said, clearly annoyed. "It's too late to get another umpire."

"Can't we switch with another game?" Andy said. He nodded at the next ball field, where an all-men's game was setting up.

"Different division," Devon said smugly. "And if you think I'll throw a game because of you, Michael Scott, you're crazy. It's me or nobody. How about the rest of you?" He looked around.

Dwight scowled at him but most of the DunderHeads shrugged.

"He's fine with me," Bob Vance said. "Can we get this game on?"

"We will not play if he's the umpire," Michael said.

"Then we forfeit," Jim said patiently.

"Fine! We'll just ... we can play anyway."

"No, we can't. Michael--" Darryl started.

"If you don't use me, it won't be an official league game," Devon said. He pulled out a small notebook and turned pages. "You want me to log this as a forfeit?"

A chorus of denials from the DunderHeads stopped him.

"Come on, Michael, we all came out today for this," Darryl said angrily. "If this game ain't gonna count, I'm outta here."

Michael glowered and looked at the ground. "Fine," he said in a barely audible mutter.

Bob Vance clapped his hands. "Good. Let's play ball!" Without waiting for an answer, he turned and strode back to his team.

Devon grinned and swung his equipment bag off his shoulder. "Who's got the lineup?"

It took another quarter hour to calm Michael down while the teams set up for the game. The Vance Refrigeration team were to lead off the inning. They lounged in place behind the backstop, joking and laughing while Team Dunder was still organizing themselves.

Pam was searching through a pile of equipment for her face mask when Phyllis Vance walked up, smiling uncertainly. "Hi, Pam."

"Hey," Pam said.

Michael blinked when he saw the Vance Victors jersey on Phyllis. "Phyllis? Oh, no! You can't be playing for them! We're your team!" he said in dismay.

"Oh, I can't play against Bobby," Phyllis said.

"But he's the enemy!"

"He's my husband, Michael," Phyllis said, stone-faced.

"But--"

Jim took Michael by one arm. "Time to take the field," he said. "You're in right field, okay?" He steered a still protesting Michael to right field.

"This is going to be a fast game," Devon said to Pam as she walked up to home plate.

"Not necessarily," she said. She had never really known Devon well, and didn't like his smug attitude now. "We might surprise you."

"Sure," Devon snickered.

Pam slipped the catcher's mask over her face. Meredith walked up and dropped a pitcher's mitt onto the ground in front of her. She started stretching and grunting. "Been a while," she said. She nodded to Devon, then looked at Pam. "You ready for this?"

"Absolutely I am," Pam said, squatting down.

"Okay, then." Meredith grunted as she touched her toes.

A tall man with big shoulders in a Vance's Victors jersey strode up to the plate. "We ready?" he said.

Devon pulled his mask down onto his face. "Play ball."

Meredith winked at Pam, picked up her glove and strode out to the mound. She turned, held up her glove. Devon tossed her a fat softball. Meredith caught it easily and faced the plate.

The Vance player spat into the dirt, stepped into the box, and hoisted the bat to his shoulder.

Pam nodded to her pitcher. Meredith nodded back, drew herself up, and fired an underhand pitch at Pam so fast the ball hit her glove before she could move it. The batter never moved.

"Whoa!" Andy said from behind the backstop. "Smokin'!"

"Strike one!" Devon yelled. Whistles and catcalls from Darryl and Lonny.

"What the hell?" the batter said, amazed.

Jim yelled, "Way to go, Meredith!"

Meredith nodded at Pam's signal, drew herself up, and shot a fastball past the batter to land in Pam's glove like it had never left.

"Strike two!" called Devon.

"No way!" the batter yelled. "That was below my knees!"

"Not the way I saw it," Devon said.

"Jesus Christ!" Pam heard Lonny say behind her. "Did you see that pitch?"

"Don't swear," Angela said.

Pam smiled and shifted her stance a bit. She glanced over a first base. Jim was leaning forward, hair in his eyes, hands on his knees, watching her. He nodded at her. Even sixty feet away, she could see his white teeth gleaming.

Meredith nodded to show she was ready, went into her windup, and threw an underhand pitch that looked like it was headed straight for the batter's knees. He yelped and stepped back just as the ball crossed the plate and landed in Pam's glove.

"Strike three!" Devon yelled. "You're out!"

The outfield erupted into cheers and yells.

"Wow!" Lonny yelled.

"What the hell?" Devon said, as the disgusted batter went back behind the backstop. "Since when can Meredith pitch?"

"Since she won the Tri-State Women's Softball Slow-Pitch Championship in high school," Pam said.

Devon chuckled. "Does Michael know?"

"No," Pam said.

"Sweet," Devon said.

Meredith struck out the next batter, a tall athletic looking woman, on three pitches.

Lonny whistled. Darryl applauded wildly. "Hey, Meredith! You go, girl!"

Meredith lifted an eyebrow, tossed the ball in the air, caught it and shrugged. "Just playin' pussy ball here, guys."

Pam heard Jim's laughter all the way at home plate.

The next Vance Refrigeration batter hit two foul balls and flied out to centerfield as Toby loped over to make the catch. Pam chuckled to hear the groans from Vance's Refrigeration. Clearly, they'd been counting on a quick victory.

It was time for Dunder-Mifflin to bat. Jim met her behind the backstop, as the team piled their gloves in a heap and took up their bats. He gave her a conspiratorial glance. "That was great."

"Yeah." Pam glanced around at Meredith, now surrounded by astonished and appreciative teammates. "I'm glad we could talk her into this."

"As long as we can keep her sober, we'll be all right," Jim mused.

Pam glanced over at Darryl and Lonny. "Did you talk to them?"

Jim looked uncomfortable. "Uh. Yeah, but. Well, it's kind of a guy thing, you know? Beer at a softball game? It's pretty much a requirement."

Pam sighed. "Okay, but that means you guys get to flip for who drives her home."

Jim grimaced. They sat in companionable silence, watching Michael gear up. He put on and took off three different hats before deciding which one was his "lucky" hat. Then he tried every single bat leaning against the bench. He tied and retied his shoes, until finally Devon threatened to penalize him if he didn't get in the batter's box.

"Good luck, Michael," Andy called heartily.

"Yes," Dwight said immediately. "Good luck, Michael!"

Michael ignored all of them as he strode into the batter's box and squatted almost halfway to the ground, bat on his shoulder.

"What the heck is that?" Pam heard Lonny say.

Pam glanced around and found Darryl and Lonny standing behind the table. Lonny was drinking a soda.

"I think he thinks it's a major league stance," Darryl said. He chuckled and picked up a power bar.

Angela shot him a dirty look. "Those are for later," she said.

Darryl stared at her as he unwrapped the bar.

"Batter up!" Devon called.

Michael struck out on three pitches, all of which were over his head.

"Jesus," Darryl said.

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," Angela said primly.

"Shut up," he answered genially.

Jim stood. "Uh-oh. Michael is about to get himself thrown out of the game," he said. Sure enough, Michael was arguing loudly with Devon about the last call. Bob Vance was walking in from the outfield, shaking his head. Jim sighed. "I'd better go head this off." He handed Pam his glove. "Hang onto this for me?"

While she watched Jim talk Michael down, she slipped her hand inside Jim's glove. It was warm from his hand and smelled of leather. She smiled.

She couldn't hear what Jim said to Michael, but Michael and Devon laughed and then Michael was slapping Jim on the back. He walked back behind the backstop, swinging his bat dangerously close to Oscar's knees.

Jim sat down next to her. He saw the glove on her hand, but didn't ask for it back. He gestured at Madge. "You're up!"

Madge missed two pitches for two strikes, then flied out to right. She jogged back behind the backstop, flinging her bat to the dirt with disgust. "Lonny, you're next!" she called.

Lonny stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Andy. "Hey, man, you have my bat," he said.

"I do not." Andy was holding a red and black aluminum bat with dirty gray tape on the handle. He swung it to and fro nonchalantly.

"That's my stick," Lonny said. He pointed to the handle. "See? That's my friction tape."

"I got this bat at the used sporting goods store," Andy said. "Who knows who put that there?"

"Come on," Lonny said impatiently. "That's mine."

"What's holding up the game?" Devon said, striding over.

"Andy's got my bat," Lonny said.

"Give him his bat, Andy." Dwight said immediately.

"It's mine," Andy said.

"You forgot to bring a bat, didn't you?" Dwight said, getting up in Andy's face. "You can't steal someone else's bat just because you forgot yours."

"He's right," Angela said. She glanced between Dwight and Lonny. "Give him his bat back."

"No," Andy said stubbornly. "It's mine."

Dwight grabbed for the bat and Andy stepped back, holding on. He stepped on Angela's foot. "Ow!" she cried.

Dwight took a menacing step towards Andy, who shrank back. Lonny snatched the bat out of his hands easily, glaring at him.

Angela sat down on the picnic bench, rubbing her foot. "I'll be okay." No one was looking at her.

Lonny shot a disgusted look at Andy and strode back to home plate. The pitcher fired a strike at him, and Lonny snarled and hit his bat against the plate. The pitcher wound up for the next pitch, Lonny's shoulders flexed, and Pam heard the WHANG of the aluminum bat and saw the ball sailing to right. The first baseman took off running, Lonny lumbered down the path like a buffalo, and the right fielder dropped the ball. Team Dunder erupted into cheers as Lonny hit the base well ahead of the throw.

"Base hit!" Michael whooped. "Score one!"

Kevin looked at Michael. "That's not a run. It's just a base."

"This is softball, not baseball," Michael retorted. "The rules are different! Especially on a co-ed team."

Kevin looked at Michael blankly. "No, they're not."

"Your turn, Pam," Jim said.

She pulled on her batter's gloves and turned to pick up her bat, but Jim was already there, holding it out to her. "Good luck," he said. His eyes were smiling at her.

She swung for a strike on the first pitch. Damn, she thought, as she heard the ball hit the catcher's glove. Too nervous, she reminded herself. Relax.

The pitcher, a tall red headed woman named Veronica, looked at her stonily as she set up again.

"Don't choke up on the handle, Pam," Jim called to her. She loosened her grip a little, dug her toes in.

This time Pam saw it coming. She thought it was out of the strike zone but went with her intuition and swung on it anyway. She connected just as the ball crossed the plate at mid-chest height. THOK! Her bat shuddered in her hands and she felt the shock clear up to her shoulders, but stood watching as the white softball lofted up, up and over the pitcher's head. She saw the second baseman leaping for it and missing.

"Run, Pam!" Jim yelled.

She took off, tossing the bat to her right, pounding down the first base path. The first baseman crouched behind the base, poised to catch the ball, but when her foot hit the bag his glove was still empty and the outfield was scrambling and she heard Jim laughing, back behind home plate. Lonny rounded second and slid into third to a chorus of whistles and applause from the Dunder Mifflin team.

"Nice play," the Vance Refrigeration first baseman said to her. He winked at her.

Pam leaned forward with her hands on her knees, watching Jim step up to the batter's box. He held up a hand for a time out, knocked imaginary dirt off his shoes, and stepped back in wearing a determined expression. He settled his cap more firmly on his head. Pam watched the muscles in his arms flex as he swung the bat up. He bounced it on his wide shoulders once or twice. With his long arms, the bat looked almost too short. He nodded to Devon.

Pam watched Veronica's windup, thought the ball was too high, then watched as Jim's bat hit the ball with a mighty WHACK and the ball sailed in a long high arc to centerfield. She reached the third base bag laughing and glanced over to see Lonny crossing home plate to score. Kelly jumped up and down, squealing and laughing, as the others lined up to high-five Lonny. Pam looked at second base and found Jim grinning from ear to ear at her. He gave her an "air" high-five and she gave him one back.

Meredith stepped into the batter's box carrying a well-worn wooden bat on her shoulder. She tossed her red hair out of her eyes and squinted at the pitcher. Pam felt a prickle of apprehension; standing on second base, Jim was in the direct line of fire if Meredith hit a line drive...

But then Veronica was lofting an underhanded pitch at home plate and Meredith swung too soon and Devon called "Strike one!" Pam saw Meredith cursing under her breath, shrugging her shoulders. Then Devon said something and she laughed, and the catcher signaled the pitcher and there was the ball again. Meredith swung and the ball popped straight up and the catcher jumped up, ran to catch it and Devon called "Out!" Inning over.

Pam sat down on the picnic bench behind the backstop to fasten her chest protector. Jim sat down next to her, smelling of sweat. She liked the smell--it was a clean, athletic smell. He ran his hand over his face, adjusted his cap. "Good work, Beesly," he said. He nodded at Meredith. "Think she'll last?"

"At least three innings," Pam said. 

"I'll step in for her any time," he said. "I pitched a little in college."

"I doubt you're in her league," Pam said.

"Whoa! You trash talking me, Pam?"

"Truth, not trash," she fired back, grinning. He grinned back and she felt warm all the way to her toes.

Bob Vance was standing next to Devon with a bat on his shoulder as Pam walked up. He eyed her. "You're pretty short for a catcher," he said.

Pam grinned. "Bring it on."

Bob laughed. "Yeah, Phyllis warned me about you."

"Tell her we changed all the signals, so her spying didn't do her any good," Pam laughed.

Bob snorted and stepped into the batter's box. Pam signaled to Meredith she was ready. Meredith nodded, went into her windup, and threw. Bob swung at the ball and missed. Pam felt it hit the center of her mitt and grinned.

"Strike one!" Devon said.

"Son of a -- wow!" Bob said admiringly. "Nice pitching for a girl."

"Pussy ball," Pam said quietly. Devon chuckled behind her.

Pam nodded to Meredith, crouched down waiting for the pitch. Bob swung and missed again.

"Strike two!"

Bob Vance muttered a curse under his breath. "I'll be ... Okay, this is for real this time," he said.

Pam grinned under her mask. Meredith shot her an underhanded pitch that never rose above Bob's knee level.

"Ball one!" Devon said. Then chuckled.

"Oh, come on," Bob said impatiently.

In short order, Meredith delivered two more balls. Pam could almost feel the impatience simmering in Bob. His body was tense, poised to connect with the ball, but Meredith kept lobbing obvious ground balls at him. With a full count on Vance, Pam signaled to Meredith. Time to put this guy away, she thought.

Meredith nodded, fired the softball at Bob's head. He swung, missed, and Devon called him out. He threw the bat on the ground to a chorus of groans from his employees. He glared at Meredith, then at Pam. Then his scowl broke into a grin. "Damn," he said. He tipped his hat at Meredith and walked back to his team's bench. In the outfield, Toby and Michael were whooping.

Veronica, the pitcher for Vance Refrigeration, was next. Veronica hit the next pitch over Darryl's head into the outfield. She ran like hell and slid into second base.

Pam jogged out to the pitcher's mound. "Sorry," Meredith puffed. "Can't strike 'em all out," she said.

"Don't worry about it," Pam said. "You're doing great. Your arm okay?"

"Yeah," Meredith said.

Meredith gave up two balls to the next batter before striking him out, and then an older, gray haired lady came up to bat. She was wearing kneepads and a worn batting helmet. Uh-oh, Pam thought. This one's been around a few bases. She signaled for a curve ball, and the woman swung and missed.

"Stee-rike!" Devon sang out. The woman looked down at Pam, squinting.

"Tell that Amazon on the mound to duck," she said.

Pam ignored her, signaled for a pitch. Meredith fired back a beautiful, textbook slow pitch--right into the path of the woman's bat. WHAM! Pam saw the fat softball slam into the plate, bounce high over her head, and dibble towards third. She lunged for it but the batter was already halfway to first base. She grabbed the ball--and dropped it. Damn.

Whistles and catcalls from the Vance Refrigeration bench, and she looked up to see Veronica on third base, ready to score.

Michael bounded in from right field, yelling. "Hey! That was a foul ball!"

Pam stood, dusting herself off. "Michael, don't' do that."

Devon stood to confront Michael, hands on hips. "You're not the manager, Michael. Get off the plate."

Michael wasn't listening. "She totally cheated, man! You should call that a strike!"

"Now it's a strike? I thought you said it was a foul." Devon hawked, spat a wad that landed between Michael's feet. "Get back in the outfield."

"It was a foulstrike," Michael said heatedly. "It's a special kind of ball in co-ed softball. Australian rules."

Devon jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Get out."

"What?"

"I'm tossing your ass for interfering with play," Devon said, a smug smile on his face. "Get behind the backstop."

Boos and catcalls erupted from the Vance Refrigeration bench. Pam saw Michael's face flame red.

"You're fired! I'm firing you as umpire!"

Devon waved Jim in from first base. Jim jogged in, frowning. "What's up?"

"I'm throwing Michael out. I need you to substitute a player," Devon said.

Jim pulled his roster out of his back pocket. "Uh. I guess we can use Oscar."

"You can't throw me out! This is my team!" Michael said loudly.

"Michael, you have to go back to the bench," Pam said, putting a hand on his arm. "You'll make us forfeit if you don't."

"But it's not fair!"

"I know," she said in a low voice, glancing at Devon. "But that's softball."

"I won't go!"

"Then we'll lose," she said. She nodded at Bob Vance, who was arguing loudly with Dwight. "Do you want them to win by default?"

Michael scowled and dug his foot into the dirt. "It's not fair," he said sullenly.

"Wasn't fair to can my ass, either," Devon said, grinning.

Michael glared at him. Pam tugged on his arm. "Michael, please."

Michael shrugged and walked slowly back to the Dunder Mifflin bench. He slumped on the bench and hung his head in his hands. Andy hovered, talking. Pam couldn't hear him and didn't want to. Oscar walked past her, pulling his glove on, and nodded to her on his way out to right field. Jim slapped hands with him on his way back to first.

"Let's go," Devon said, pulling his face mask down.

Meredith set up. The Vance refrigeration guy stepped into the box. Pam crouched, focused, caught a fast ball and a strike on the outside. And then Meredith threw a slow one and the guy swung and that ball was gone, gone, gone. Kelly was yelling, running backwards, frantically scanning the sky for the ball. By the way her shoulders were hunched, Pam figured Kelly had never caught a ball; her hands weren't even up. It didn't matter, as the ball landed between her and Toby, rolling to a stop near the edge of the grass.

Pam simmered in frustration as she watched Toby race to pick it up and throw the ball to Lonny, who threw it to her. It hit her glove like a flying brick but by that time Veronica had already crossed the plate.

The score was tied.

The day had warmed up considerably, so by the time Devon called a half-hour lunch break at the end of the fifth inning, Pam was perspiring heavily in her sweatshirt. Pam was glad for the break; Kevin had been grilling hot dogs (over Angela's objections) for the last half hour and the smell was making her mouth water. She walked back behind the backstop and found the rest of the DunderHeads crowded around the ice chest. She tugged at the stubborn straps of her chest protector.

"Here, let me help." Jim walked up, holding a paper cup. "Drink this." He handed her the cup.

It was lemonade: cool, sweet and refreshing. Jim's long fingers worked the buckles of the straps and soon he was pulling it off of her. Pam thought about Jim taking any article of clothing off of her... She repressed that thought immediately. Keep your head in the game.

"You're catching a great game," Jim said, reaching over Kelly's head for another cup of lemonade. "Too bad we're not getting the hits to back it up."

Pam shrugged. She looked around for some place to sit but the rest of the team had taken up both picnic benches, and were now busy digging through bags of chips and pretzels. "It's going better than I expected," she said.

Jim reached one long arm past Kevin and snagged two hot dogs off the platter. "Hungry?"

"Yeah!" Pam perked up.

Jim handed her both hot dogs; she juggled them in one hand. "Those are yours." He reached again and came back with three hot dogs in his big hand. He ate one of them in two bites.

Pam laughed to see his cheeks distended. "You look like a squirrel hoarding nuts," she said.

He grinned, mouth full, and waggled his eyebrows at her. His eyes had gone from hazel green to hazel brown. He jerked his head towards the tree a few yards behind the picnic table. Pam followed him. They settled onto the hard ground under the tree, backs against the trunk. Pam practically inhaled her first hot dog, while Jim made short work of his last two. They swapped the cup of lemonade back and forth in affable silence. Jim shifted, and his shoulder touched Pam's, and they watched Andy and Dwight squabble over the potato salad.

"Want some?" Jim asked, nodding towards the salad.

"Not if Michael brought it."

"Good call. I think he ages it like wine."

"Ewww."

"Yeah. Hey, are you gonna finish that other hot dog?" He looked hopefully at her.

She smiled and handed him her hot dog. He took a bite out of it and closed his eyes. "Man, these are good. All beef, I think."

"The lemonade is good, too. Angela really knows how to pack a picnic," Pam agreed. "Who knew?" She reached and took the hot dog from his fingers, took a bite, and returned it. Sweat trickled down her temple. She stuck a finger in the neck of her sweatshirt, pulled it out for some air circulation. A peculiar feeling made her look up, and caught Jim looking away. Had he been peeking down her front? The thought of him being reticent about that amused her.

"Hotter than I expected it to be today," Jim said neutrally. He waved a hand at the field. "Gonna get hotter before we're done."

"Yes," Pam said regretfully. "I wish I'd known. I'd have brought a T-shirt. I'd forgotten how hot it gets in that catcher's outfit."

Jim looked down at her. "I've got a spare T-shirt, if you want."

Pam pursed her lips. "I don't know. Does it smell like a locker room?"

"Nah. I wash it once a year, whether it needs it or not."

"Good to know. Does it have the name of some weird indie band on it?"

"Alas, no."

"Deal."

"Be right back." He unfolded himself and walked back to the picnic table. Pam watched him go, long legs scissoring across the grass. Jim came back bearing lemonade and three more hot dogs, with a faded grey T-shirt over one arm. "Here you go."

Pam stood and took the T-shirt. "Thanks," she said. She looked at the three hot dogs. "Still hungry?"

Jim grinned and bit into another hot dog. "I'm a growing boy."

Pam laughed. "You are anything but a boy."

Jim grinned. "So. You gonna change into that T-shirt now?" he asked.

"Not out in public."

"Oh, don't mind me."

"It's not you I'm worried about," she said. "Creed's watching." She walked off towards the field house and the bathrooms.

In the women's room, Pam splashed cold water on her face to cool it off, then tugged her sweatshirt off over her head. She held out Jim's shirt, and realized it was the same Scranton High T-shirt he'd worn in that long-ago basketball game. She slid it on and smelled laundry detergent, fabric softener...and him. That same masculine smell, the same one she caught sitting next to him. It spoke of muscles, a big body in motion, of testosterone and adrenaline. She felt a shiver go over her as the fabric settled around her, several sizes too large. Pam decided she didn't care about the fit.

On the way back to the oak tree, she stopped and collected her art kit. Jim had slumped down against the trunk of the tree, cap pulled forward over his eyes. She sat down beside him, intending to get a few quick sketches of her teammates in action. But when she glanced over, she saw his eyes were closed. She could not resist; she turned sideways, opened her sketchbook, and started drawing his profile. Long lashes and all, she thought. Maybe I'll even show it to him when I'm done.

She had finished her first sketch and started one of his hands (big, loosely clasped over his chest, so sensitive and strong) when a breeze suddenly ruffled the pages of her notebook loudly. Jim opened his eyes and sat up, blinking. Pam quietly closed her sketchbook.

"Hey," she said.

Jim yawned. "We ready to finish this?"

She looked back at her teammates. Andy and Devon were talking, Angela and Dwight were huddled, whispering. The rest were scattered around, eating and talking. "Doesn't look like anyone's in a hurry."

Pam looked around for her chest protector. Jim reached to his left and picked it up. "I adjusted this middle strap for you," he said. "I think it's too tight."

"Thanks," Pam said, reaching for the lemonade.

"Listen, we can rotate the roster a little," Jim said. "Kevin said he'd catch for awhile, if you want to change." He handed her the protector, then stood and helped her to her feet.

"I'm good," she said. "I can finish the game." She slipped into the protector and turned to fasten a buckle, but Jim's swift fingers were ahead of her. She could feel his breath on her cheek as he leaned in to fasten it. She looked up, and his eyes were so close she could count his eyelashes if she'd wanted. "Thanks," she breathed.

He was smiling, and then his eyes dropped to her mouth.

He wants to kiss me.

I want him to.

But then Michael yelled something and Jim's eyes went to the others and back to hers and the moment was gone. Too public. "Back to the game," he said in a heavy, fake-jolly voice.

They walked back in silence, only to find a crisis awaiting. Kelly was in full rebellion. "I will not play on that stupid grassy field any more," she said. She held out the tail of her shirt in both hands. "Look at that! Grass stains! On silk! I quit!" Kelly yelled, slamming down her glove. "Oh, look what that stupid glove has done to my nails!"

Michael frowned. "You can't quit, Kelly. We have to have four women on this team."

"Or we forfeit," Kevin rumbled.

Lonny shrugged. "Big deal. We're tied anyway."

"Yeah, there's no way we can score another goal in the time we have left," Creed said. Everyone looked at him for a moment.

"Well, I'm not giving up!" Dwight said fiercely. He turned to Angela. "We have one woman left who hasn't played yet."

"Dwight, I can't play this game," Angela said steadily. "I don't know how."

"Let me take her place," Andy said eagerly.

"No problem," Jim said patiently. "But you'll have to wear a dress. We can only replace a woman with a woman."

Dwight snorted. "That should be no problem for Drew."

Andy started to retort but Pam cut him off, turning to Angela. "I know you don't want to let the team down, Angela," she said.

Angela looked at her. "I'm not a tomboy like you," she said. "I have some idea of what a woman's place is."

Pam blinked. "Really? I --"

"Angela, we need you," Dwight cut in. He looked intensely at the tiny woman. "I need you. Please."

Angela's gaze settled on Dwight. "Will you ... can you show me how?"

Dwight smiled. "Of course."

Oscar groaned. "We're screwed."

"Shut up," Meredith said. She flexed her right arm, rubbed her shoulder. "Let's get back in the game before my arm cramps up."

A cell phone started chirping. Everyone checked their pockets. Darryl was the winner. He walked away from the group, talking.

Michael slapped his hands together. "Come on, Team. Let's go smash these guys!"

Lonny smirked. "Yeah, right. Not unless we get more hits."

"Isn't anyone going to help me clean up this stuff?" Angela said, gesturing at the discarded napkins, paper plates and cups. Everyone looked around at everyone else, no one volunteering. Finally, Pam picked up a paper plate and the rest reluctantly followed suit.

Darryl strode back, closing his cell phone. "Gotta go," he said tersely. "I got to get home right now."

"What? No, you can't!" Michael said. "You're our best player!"

"No, he isn't," Kevin said.

"Sorry, Michael, I gotta go. Lonny, can you get a ride home?"

"Sure, man," Lonny said easily.

Darryl nodded at the group, picked up his equipment, and stalked off towards his truck.

"Damn," Jim muttered under his breath. "Okay, I guess we need a new third baseman."

"Put me in there, and I'll get you a home run," Andy said loudly.

Jim got a panicked look on his face. Pam knew exactly what he was thinking. With Andy on the team, there was no telling what would happen.

"Hey, man, isn't it my turn?" Creed said.

Jim smiled with relief. "Yeah, I forgot. I promised you a chance earlier."

"Hey!" Andy said.

"No, we have to be fair," Jim said solemnly. "Creed spoke up first. Creed, you're on third base."

"Great," Creed said. "Who's my caddy?"

Oscar laughed and Andy shook his head in disgust. Pam got a sinking feeling. Andy might be a better choice after all. But Devon was calling from home plate, and the Vance Refrigeration Victors were lining up behind the backstop in batting order, so it was too late. She exchanged looks of mock despair with Jim, and trotted back to her place at home plate. This was going to be a disaster.

All her worst fears were fulfilled when Meredith gave up a hit on the first pitch to Bob Vance himself. Vance sent the ball directly to Angela in right field--who cringed, squealed, and missed it entirely. Bob slid into second base to the sound of cheers from Vance's Victors.

Devon laughed and Pam sighed. We're here for fun, she told herself. Not to win. But she wanted to win.

Phyllis was up to bat next. She held the bat uncertainly, bending her knees self-consciously.

"Traitor," Pam hissed.

"Oh, dear," Phyllis said. "Pam, you don't--"

Meredith fired the fastball right past Phyllis, to land in Pam's glove with a thunk.

"Steee-rike!" Devon yelled.

"Why, Pam! You deliberately distracted me!" Phyllis looked down at her with surprise.

Pam grinned. "All's fair in love and baseball," she said.

"Come on, ladies," Devon said. "Focus."

Meredith went into her windup and threw. Phyllis swung at the ball so hard she swung around and stumbled out of the batter's box.

"Stee-rike two!"

"Oh, Pam, that's not fair. That was too low!"

"Then you shouldn't have swung at it," Pam said.

"Come on, honey, you can do it!" Bob Vance yelled.

Phyllis bit her lip, frowned, and set herself for another pitch. This one came high and wide, but she swung on it anyway and Devon yelled, "Strike three! You're out!"

"Boo!" yelled Bob Vance.

Phyllis walked back behind the backstop, shaking her head.

A tall, beefy man with a grey ponytail was next into the box. He swung the bat once or twice, missing Pam by millimeters. She stayed put, refusing to be intimidated. Meredith wound up, fired--

--and Ponytail Guy hit it like a pro. WHANG! went the bat, and the ball sailed up, up and outta there.

"Home run!" screamed a woman behind the backstop, and Pam looked on with resignation as first Bob Vance, and then Ponytail Guy crossed the plate. Vance Refrigeration was ahead by two runs.

"That's cheating!" Michael yelled. "We get a do-over!"

Devon chuckled. "Can't take it, can he?"

Pam wiped her brow. She was so glad she'd changed into Jim's T-shirt; she felt much lighter and cooler. It gave her a funny, jumpy feeling in her stomach to know she was wearing his shirt, that his skin had touched this same fabric.

"Batter up!" Devon yelled.

Meredith struck out the next batter, a mousy woman with short blonde hair, but Pam could tell she was tiring. Her pitches were wobbling so dangerously low that some of them should have been called balls. But Devon called them strikes and Pam wasn't going to argue.

Sure enough, the next guy at the plate was the tall, rangy batter who led off the Victors' batting order. "Hey," she said.

He spat, said nothing, swung the bat to his shoulder. He caught just enough of the next pitch to send it bouncing to third base. Creed dove for it, caught it, and cocked his hand to throw it to Meredith. But Meredith, misjudging the ball, had dropped back to the track between second and third. Pam took off running for the mound, holding her glove up. Creed fired the ball at Pam. She felt it sock into her glove, and in one motion turned and threw it to first base. She didn't look, didn't aim, didn't think: she knew Jim was there. And he was. He stretched one long arm up and to his right, caught the ball and swept it down just as the runner hit the base.

"Out!" Devon yelled, and cheers erupted from the DunderHeads.

Jim jogged up to her as the runner walked slowly back to the backstop. "Good shootin', Beesly."

Pam nodded, too breathless to answer. Meredith walked up, cussing a blue streak.

"I'm gettin' old."

Jim slapped the ball into Meredith's glove. "You're doing fine. Watch this next girl, though. She's a thief."

"Right."

"You gonna be okay?" Jim asked.

Meredith was panting, wiping her forehead. "Guess so. Haven't pitched like this in a long time."

Jim clapped her on the shoulder. "Okay. Let me know if you need a break."

The next batter hit a fly to centerfield, and Toby caught it easily for the third out. Pam was grateful; her knees were starting to ache from the constant squatting behind the plate. She limped back behind the backstop.

"Doing all right?" Jim asked. He rummaged through the ice chest, which now was full of half-melted ice. Pam peeked over his arm, spotted a grape soda, and sneaked her hand in past his. "Hey! That was the last one!"

She popped the top and took a sip. "Yeah, it was," she deadpanned. She took another swig and handed it to him.

She watched his Adam's apple bob as he finished the soda in one long gulp. "Faker," he said. "Wait til--"

The pain hit her like she'd been shot--a sharp, agonizing jolt in the calf of her right leg. She gasped and bent over, hands grabbing her leg. Overbalanced, she hit the ground on her left side, crying out.

"Pam?" Jim dropped to one knee. "Pam, what's wrong?"

"Cramp," she gasped. "Leg--"

"Here," he said, pushing her hands away. "Let me." He wrapped his big hands around the calf of her leg and squeezed.

Pam shut her eyes against the pain, feeling the tears behind her eyelids. The excruciating pain exploding in her leg was her whole universe. She fought back a moan. Then she felt the pressure, the rhythm of Jim's hands on her leg, the heat from his palms as he massaged her calf.

"Is something wrong?" a severe voice asked. Dwight.

Pam kept her lips shut, afraid that if she opened them, she would start crying. She didn't want to cry.

"Charley horse in her calf," Jim said.

"I'll get some ice," Dwight said. "Since Angela is batting, I am temporary Safety Officer."

"No, that's okay," Jim said quickly. "The best treatment is massage and stretching the muscle. Here, Pam. Can you stretch your foot? Like this?"

She felt his hand move to her foot, felt it press against the ball of her foot. The gentle stretch eased the pain a little, and she nodded.

"I can do that," Dwight said primly. "As a volunteer sheriff's deputy, I have extensive training in first aid."

"No," Pam said, gasping. "I want Jim to do it."

"Very well. I will get you some Gatorade, Pam. Muscle cramps are often a result of dehydration."

Dwight walked away, his feet making crunching noises in the gravel.

Pam lay on the ground, her whole attention focused on the pain in her calf, Jim's hands massaging her. She felt an almost electrical contact from his hands. Distantly, she heard the conversation of the other players but tuned it out.

Crunching footsteps. "Here," Dwight said. Something cold and wet was pressed into her hand. "Gatorade."

The pain in her calf was ebbing. She opened her eyes, focused on the green plastic bottle. "Thanks," she said, and drank thirstily.

"You should always drink lots of fluids during exercise," Dwight said.

Pam felt Jim's hands still on her calf, massaging firmly. Big hands. Flexible fingers.  She didn't look at him. "Thanks, Dwight," she said. "I'll remember."

"Do you want some aspirin?"

Pam flexed her foot cautiously. Less pain. "No, I think I'll be all right."

"Next time remember to maintain your electrolytic balance." Dwight walked away.

Pam finally looked at Jim, and found his anxious eyes on her face. "Thanks," she said softly.

"Better?"

She nodded. The pain was swiftly fading. "Guess I should have stretched more."

Jim's hands stopped moving, but stayed on her calf. So warm. "I shouldn't have let you catch the whole game. I'll get Oscar to take over."

She shook her head. "No, I want to finish. There's only one more inning." She hoisted her Gatorade. "This will help. And ... and thanks."

He looked down, saw his hands still on her leg, withdrew them. He nodded and stood, reaching a hand down to her. She grabbed it and he pulled her up, carefully. She hung onto his hand while she tested her weight on her leg. "I'll be all right," she said finally.

"Good."

"I've got some sports cream in my bag," Jim said, nodding towards his equipment. "It won't smell great, but it helps."

She smiled, nodding. "Sure. Thanks."

Without looking at her, he strode over to his equipment bag, came back with a white tube in one hand. Pam hoisted herself onto the picnic table, stretching her leg, rotating her foot, flexing it. The pain was almost gone. She looked up at Jim standing uncertainly with the tube in his hand. She reached for it and he handed it to her. "I appreciate it," she said. She pushed up her pants leg, rubbed cream onto her calf. The warm, tingly glow felt good.

Jim hovered. "I can do that," he said.

"I know," she said. "But I doubt we'd ever get back to the game."

His eyes met hers. Laughter, warmth, and something deeper. A loud chorus of groans from the Dunder-Mifflin crew interrupted them. They looked over to home plate just in time to see Angela stamp her foot, fling a bat down, and stomp off the field.

"Struck out?" Pam asked.

Jim nodded. "Pretty much what you'd expect. Ah, here's Toby."

But Toby popped up an infield fly. And Lonny swung on every pitch the Victors' pitcher threw, and went down on three strikes.

Jim picked up the empty grape soda can and tossed it at the trash can. "Well, that was a short inning." He bent and picked up his glove.

"Let's go, Dunder-Mifflin!" Devon yelled. "This game has to end before five o'clock!"

The next inning was the last of the game. Pam struggled to catch some of Meredith's pitches, which were increasingly off target. Meredith was tiring visibly. She threw a fastball at Vance Refrigeration's top hitter, and the runner was on second base before Toby could field it. The next batter up bunted and Meredith was too slow off the mound, and now there were two men on and only one out, and Meredith waved to Pam. Pam and Jim jogged out to the mound.

Meredith's shoulders slumped. "I'm done," she said. She lifted her glove wearily. "I'm sorry guys. I'm just..."

Jim touched her glove with his. "It's okay. You pitched a hell of a game."

Meredith looked at him. "Jim, we're losing."

He grinned. "Yeah, but we're having fun, right?"

Meredith shook her head, but there was a small smile on her face. "What now? We don't have enough women for you to replace me."

Jim pursed his mouth, looking down. "Yeah."

Pam looked from Jim to Meredith. "Meredith, do you think you could work first base?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess."

"Fine. Jim, can you pitch?"

He looked at her, startled. "Me? Yeah, I guess. Hmm. Okay, Meredith, if you're up to it, we can switch you to first."

"Works for me," the older woman said. She trotted off to first base, looking happier.

"I'll let you tell Devon about the rotation," Jim said. He looked down at Pam. "You still wanna catch?"

"Yeah."

"Your leg okay?"

"Healed by your magic touch," she said, joking.

The look in his eyes was part humor, part something else. Pam felt a shiver go over her. She walked back to home plate with a spring in her step.

Pam told Devon about the position change, watched him write it in his log, and settled behind home plate. Through the bars of her face mask, Jim looked twice as tall as Meredith. He winked at her, then his expression turned serious as the new Vance Refrigeration batter stepped up. It was the tall, older woman who had called Meredith an Amazon.

"Bring it," she said to Pam.

"Will do," Pam said cheerfully.

Jim looked like a windmill, as he circled his arm twice and threw the ball. It wobbled so much Pam was sure it would fall to the ground midway between the mound and home plate, but to her surprise it crossed home just barely within the strike zone, while the blonde batter stood with her bat on her shoulder.

"Steee-rike!" called Devon. "Nice. You guys been practicing?"

"No," she said shortly, and fired the ball back to Jim. It was too high, over his head, but he plucked it out of the air without even moving his feet. She crouched down and waited. Jim was already in his windup. Just as Jim loosed the ball, she knew where he was aiming and moved into position. The ball crossed the plate into her glove and the batter swung and missed and Devon sang out "Strike two!"

I already knew where he was going to throw, Pam thought. Like ESP or something. Or more likely, just knowing Jim.

In quick succession, working like two halves of the same player, they struck out the rest of the Vance Refrigeration batters, stranding their runners on base. Jim trotted up and high-fived her. "Way to go, Pam!"

Meredith caught up with her as they left the field. "You guys read each other really well."

"Yeah," Pam said. This is a great game, she thought. Even if it is the bottom of the last inning and we're losing by two.

She sat on the picnic bench next to Jim, unbuckling her chest protector. He reached over without asking and helped with the buckles. She felt his fingers at her waist and shivered.

"Ticklish, Beesly?"

She turned her head and looked him in the eye. "Don't even, Jim."

He grinned and raised his eyebrows. "Something to bear in mind, though."

"Seriously. Don't." She tried to keep her face straight. Her pulse was speeding up at the thought of his fingers on her skin.

"Seriously. Yes," he said, and his voice dropped into that low register he reserved for her and her alone. Intimate, warm, familiar.

She watched, shoulder to shoulder with Jim, very aware of his breathing, as Lonny planted his feet wide in the batter's box. The pitcher loosed a fastball, and it slammed home in the Vance Refrigeration catcher's mitt.

"Strike!" yelled Devon.

Jim groaned. Pam leaned forward, elbows on her knees, watching. "Five bucks says this game is over in fifteen minutes," she said quietly to Jim.

"You're on," he said. "I say ten minutes."

"Hey, Madge is up next," Pam said. "You never know--"

From the batter's box, they heard a mighty WHAM!

"Whoa!" Jim cried, leaping to his feet. Pam looked up in time to see Lonny lumbering down the first base line, and the Vance Refrigeration outfield scrambling. "Go, Lonny!"

Pam jumped up, watching anxiously as the Victors threw from the outfield to second to first--but not in time. Lonny stopped on the base, puffing heavily, before the first baseman fielded the throw from second. Cheers and clapping erupted from the DunderHeads. She and Jim sat down again on the picnic table, feet on the bench, shoulder to shoulder.

Oscar leaned over towards Jim. "Five bucks says Madge strikes out on three pitches."

"I'll take that," Pam said quickly. "I have a feeling she's due."

Oscar snorted. Pam thought her money was gone when Madge swung and missed on the first two pitches. She was wondering if Oscar could give her change for a twenty when she paid off their bet, but then Madge connected on an outside pitch and the ball sailed to the left.

Dwight jumped up and down in front of Pam, yelling, "Stay fair! Stay fair!"

Sure enough, the ball hit the grass just inside the foul line, rolling fair, and Madge pounded into first base well ahead of the throw. Lonny cheered and waved at her from second base.

"Damn," Jim muttered. "Madge is actually the tying run. And we don't even have an out yet."

"Don't get your hopes up," Pam said.

Jim cocked an eyebrow. "Is there any reason for hope? They're ahead and likely to stay that way."

"There's always hope, Jim," she said. "Never, ever, ever give up."

His face changed, flashing a dozen expressions across his face. Among them she saw surprise, pleasure, hope, and sadness. She didn't know how he did that, wondered if he knew how easy he was to read.

Oscar nudged him. "Hey, Halpert! Five bucks says Creed holds the bat by the wrong end," he said, eyes on the game.

Kevin spoke up from Oscar's other side. "I'll take that!"

"I have faith in Creed," Jim said solemnly. He looked away from Pam.

"Ten bucks says he gets on base," Pam said.

"Oh, hey, if you're just going to give me your money..." Oscar said.

"I can't believe you're betting against your own teammate," Angela hissed from behind them. She was packing up the picnic supplies. "You disgust me."

"Whatever," Oscar said.

Then Creed was stepping into the batter's box, swinging a big wooden bat.

Jim leaned over to speak into Pam's ear. "Isn't this Creed's first at-bat?"

"Yeah." She turned her head and found herself almost lip to lip with him. She could feel his breath on her mouth and a soft feeling went all through her. "I don't think he even took a turn at batting practice."

His eyes were on her mouth. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Strike one!" Devon yelled.

Pam wrenched her gaze back to the game, her heart pounding in her chest. The DunderHeads were groaning in disappointment.

"Double or nothing?" Oscar said to Jim. Jim shook his head.

Pam felt giddy. "I'll take that." She felt invincible, light, effervescent.

"Are you sure?" Jim asked, looking at her quizzically.

"Bring it on, Oscar," Pam said firmly.

"Done," Oscar said, chuckling.

In the batter's box, Creed tapped the plate a couple of times with his bat, getting his distance. He put the bat on his shoulder and nodded to the pitcher.

"Even if he got a hit," Kevin said. "I don't know if he even knows where first base is--"

And at that moment, Creed swung on an inside pitch and connected and the ball lofted up, up up.

"Go, Creed!" Pam yelled, and was echoed by a dozen voices screaming in unison. She watched anxiously as the ball dropped lazily out of the sky--into the weeds at the far end of the field.

"Home run!" Jim yelled, jumping to his feet. The rest of Team Dunder screamed with him, yelling and jumping as Creed trotted easily around the bases, finally following Lonny and Madge across home plate. "We win!"

"Hey, Pam, I'll pay you Monday!" Oscar yelled, jogging past her to high-five Creed.

Devon yelled, "Game over!" and signaled the Vance Refrigeration pitcher in.

Everyone was celebrating. Pam felt arms go around her, felt herself crushed against a broad chest, and found herself in Jim's arms. He and Andy and Kevin were chanting Creed's name, he wasn't even looking at her.

Creed disappeared in a sea of hugs, high-fives, and slaps on the back. No one was looking at Jim and Pam. She felt the change in him as he realized he was holding her. She looked up at him, and he was looking at her with a sweet, happy expression. Almost against his will, against her will, she was leaning up and he was leaning down, faces close--

"Where's my Number Two?" Michael ran up. "Hey, Jim, let's start loading the car! Was that a great game or what? Teamwork! That's what management is all about! Great managers make great scorer-ers!"

Jim blinked, dropped his arms from around her, and stepped back. His eyes remained on her face. "Sure, Michael. I'll ... I'll get the bats." Michael turned away, and Jim bent down, his face next to her ear. "Later," he whispered.

Bob and Phyllis Vance came over to congratulate everyone. Bob was even gracious under Andy's annoying teasing. He was halfway through an offer to buy beer when his wife touched his arm, whispered in his ear, and he darted a glance at Meredith. He cleared his throat and said, "Well, hey, Michael, tell you what. On Monday, you guys come down to Vance Refrigeration and we'll have ice cream for everybody, what do you say?"

"I'm allergic to milk," Meredith said, sounding disappointed.

"Oh," said Bob Vance. He looked at Phyllis.

Phyllis looked back at him, then said, "I think Bobby can manage a small cake, too, can't you, Bobby?"

Bob Vance looked relieved as he hugged his wife. "Good idea, honey. Is it a deal?"

The DunderHeads assured him it was. Devon got Jim and Bob to sign the official game scorecard, shook hands all around, and departed. Bob and Phyllis walked away, and people started packing up. Pam helped Jim pull up the bases, put away her face mask and shin guards and chest protector. She and Jim made several trips to her car; every time they got to the parking lot there were fewer cars. The sun was setting rapidly by the time the last of the equipment was put away. Meredith's van roared out of the lot in a cloud of black smoke; Madge's motorcycle was right behind her. The Vance Refrigeration team made short work of their equipment. Soon only Jim, Pam, Michael and Toby were left.

"This was a great idea," Michael said, basking in his own praise. "Just what we needed."

Jim stuck his hands in the pockets of his sweat pants. "Yeah, Michael, it was," he said. He sounded surprised.

"See you all bright and early Monday," Michael said. "Nobody better call in with injuries, either! Jim, make sure you get plenty of rest--you played two different positions today!"

"See you guys later," Toby said. "I have to pick up Sasha at the babysitter's. Michael, can you help me with the ice chest?"

Grudgingly, Michael picked up one side of the ice chest. He and Toby marched away.

Pam pulled her remote out of her pocket and unlocked her car. She swung her bag into the back seat. Jim lingered at the trunk of Pam's car, re-arranging equipment bags and the ice chest. Finally Toby followed Michael's Sebring out of the lot and quiet settled in.

And it was just the two of them in the parking lot now, with late afternoon sunlight and the distant sounds of games winding up on the other softball diamonds. Jim slammed the trunk shut and came around the car.

"Good game," he said lightly, leaning with one hand on the roof of her car. "Just one question, though. How long have you known Creed Bratton could hit like that?"

Pam grinned at him. "Since he told me he used to play for the corporate team back in the Nineties."

"Aha. You'd make a hell of a scout, you know that?" He reached for her, pulled her against him, an arm around her waist.

Pam glanced around, but he put a hand on her chin. "Nobody's looking, Pam," he said quietly, just before his mouth came down on hers. He tasted of lemonade and bubblegum, and for some reason this struck her as funny. She laughed. Jim pulled away, mock outrage on his face.

"Pam, it's impossible to kiss a laughing woman."

She giggled harder. "Then stop making me laugh."

He grinned and she rested her head against his chest. "When do I get my shirt back?" he said teasingly.

"Oh, I'll have to wash it first," she said. "It's got girl cooties all over it now."

"I like girl cooties," he said, laughing. "Come on, let's have it."

"Mind if I wait until we get home?" She felt him go still and looked up into his face.

"Home?" he said, sudden tension in his voice. "You mean your place."

She slid her arms around his waist. "Jim, your toothbrush is at 'my place'. Your best suit is at 'my place'. Your shoes are under 'my' bed, the bed has your imprint in the left side. Do you even remember the last time you spent the night in your own bed? You call it 'my place', but isn't it our place?" She held her breath. What had made her say this now? Was she really saying this?

He smiled a slow, wide smile. "I guess you're right. So are you saying..."

"I'm saying we should make it official," she said. "Cancel your lease, Jim. Tell Mark goodbye, pack your bags, and move in." She held her breath; was she moving too fast? Was he ready for this? Was she?

"I don't know," he said slowly. "Do you really want this? I mean, I might have some deep, dark secrets--"

"If you're referring to your porn collection, I already know all about it from Mark."

"That bastard," Jim said, laughing. "I don't have a porn collection. It's a Pez collection."

"A Pez collection? Oh, that's different," Pam said. "In that case, I withdraw my --"

His mouth stopped her again. When he finished, she was breathless and flushed and tingly all over.

"Wow," she said softly. "So. Do I take it that's a yes?"

He pulled her head under his chin and wrapped his long arms around her. "Let's go home, Pam."

THE END