LCIH: Not as crack-filled as the ones before, but still pretty cracky! LOL, enjoy.
Yamamoto belonged to both the baseball club and Namimori's baseball team. The sport was his passion, his love, his obsession. He breathed, lived, ate, and smelled baseball. It was practically all that ran through his mind. So it made sense that he would be involved in both the club and team.
He regularly had after-school practice every other day.
But this practice was different.
(Y/n) would be there.
He grinned to himself as he stretched out his hamstrings and other various leg muscles. It was an arrangement that had no holes so far. Plenty of girls liked to sit in the stands and watch the baseball practice. There were some good-looking upperclassmen on the team, but the majority came for Yamamoto. And although he liked the attention, it was sort of overwhelming at times.
Earlier in the day, he'd sought out a couple of (y/n)'s friends. He shared classes with quite a few of them. Given a few minutes to spare, he had approached the girls and asked if they'd like to stay and watch the afternoon practice.
He decided to bring the big guns out: a flash of a smile and a friendly tilt of his head and they had agreed.
During math, he'd thought about stopping at (y/n)'s desk and personally inviting her to the practice, but he couldn't work up the nerve. So in the end, he asked another couple of her friends and subtly mentioned (y/n); they'd agreed to bring the girl along.
Finishing with his stretches, Yamamoto got to his feet. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Sweat had already started plastering his hair to his neck. It was an extremely hot day: the sun shone like it had a personal grudge, the wind barely stirred up a breeze, and although he enjoyed the sunshine and all, it wouldn't have hurt for the fiery ball hanging in the sky to back down a little.
The coach had arrived, and the team was gathering around him. As Yamamoto headed on over, he glanced up at the stands. The girls were all there, sitting in a big clump. They had taken the time to make posters, which they waved about wildly. A handful was still dressed in the standard Namimori blouse, but most of them had changed into casual clothes.
Right at the edge of the group was (y/n).
She had done a compromise on the clothing: her plaid skirt was still on, but her blouse had been swapped with a (f/c) tube top. Her tie had been threaded around her hips like a belt. The heat hadn't gotten to her yet: her hair framed her face in ringlets and she looked comfortable.
Unlike her friends, she had no handmade sign. She was actually reading a thick, dog-eared book.
Yamamoto admired her passion for reading. It was attractive, in a sexy student sort of way.
The girls noticed Yamamoto and they began cheering his name loudly, waving their hands and signs in the air like crazy. (Y/n) did not join in; she didn't even look up. Yamamoto waved, admiring her concentration.
But as the practice progressed, he began to curse that concentration.
(Y/n) didn't bother to watch more than five minutes. She clearly didn't want to be there, underneath the sweltering sun. Obviously her friends had dragged her there, courtesy of a certain raven-haired swordsman. She kept to her book, giving Yamamoto a true picture of what an avid reader looked like.
The only time she did take a break from the literature world was when the team had been in the middle of a scrimmage. Yamamoto knew that was his chance to show off, to win her heart, but he'd been in the hole and unable to do anything.
Even when he took to the bat and smashed a curveball for a home run, she didn't look up.
Soon the temperature became an uncomfortable factor. The boys were sweating through their baseball uniforms. Yamamoto's clung to his chest like a second skin. Sweat poured down his face, and every so often he had to stop and scrub the back of his palm over his forehead.
The onlookers were affected as well. The girls were using the sings as paper fans, frantically waving them in front of their face in an attempt to generate a cool breeze.
Practice neared its end, and Yamamoto had just about given up. He hadn't been able to even hold your attention on him. The plan was a bust.
"Hey, Coach!" a fellow teammate called out. "It's too freaking hot!"
"What can I do about it?" he hollered back.
"Can we take off our uniforms?" someone else yelled.
The man considered. Then he shrugged. "Eh, sure. Why not."
All around Yamamoto, the guys grasped the hems of their uniforms and ripped them over their heads. He followed suit, pulling his off and tossing it to reveal a lean torso with a perfectly toned abdomen and lightly corded arms.
Immediately, the girls began screaming in pure fangirlish joy.
It was a relief to have his shirt off. Yamamoto decided to forget trying to show off. He would focus on the game from this point on.
And he did. Without (y/n) on his mind to distract him, Yamamoto was all game. He tore up the bases. He ate every ball hurled his way. His throws were spot-on, and he didn't miss a single catch.
In the final inning of the scrimmage, the coach put Yamamoto as shortstop. This wasn't a particular favorite position for Yamamoto, so he kept his eye on the batter's box, awaiting the contact. He would need to stay on top of his game for this.
The batter choked up on the bat, gearing up for the pitch.
The pitcher wound his arm back and prepared to throw.
Yamamoto leaned forward, ready.
Something caught his eye.
He craned his neck over towards the bleachers to see (y/n) stand up. She'd put her book down and she was now slipping her shirt over her head. He could see that the tube top was becoming drenched in sweat, and the girl was only planning to air it out quickly while no one was looking.
Not too long ago, he'd seen her body. Yet this was more sinful than that time—and it was possibly due to one of two things. She wore a flimsy, black lace bra. The thing was nothing more than a collection of strings. And it looked like it belonged on a sultry temptress or an exotic dancer; it was that alluring.
And a thin sheen of sweat had overtaken her skin, giving it a glossed appearance. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and she was all hot and sweaty. Yamamoto couldn't help but think that she was delicious, like she had just had the best sex of her life and—
Desire, wild and buzzing, flowed through his veins.
And then pain cracked across his face, and he went down.
Next thing he knew, he was looking up at a circle of his teammate's friends, their expressions ranging from worried to exhausted to downright amused. "Oh, man!" one of them exclaimed. "You okay, Yamamoto?"
He sat up, dazed, knowing immediately what had happened. The batter had hit a drive ball, and it had come straight down the line toward him. It should've been an easy catch for a shortstop.
But he'd been preoccupied with watching you and it had smashed into his cheek, leaving the one side of his face entirely red.
"That hurt," he groaned, laughing weakly as he gingerly touched his smarting cheek.
Something warm trickled into his mouth, and his guess was confirmed when someone said, "Your nose is bleeding!"
Yamamoto climbed to his feet, spitting out a bloody wad into the dirt. "Yeah, it caught my nose a little," he lied, and he tilted his head forward and pinched his nose shut. "It's not a big deal. I'm fine."
Of course, the nosebleed hadn't been from the ball.
As the players repositioned themselves to continue the scrimmage, Yamamoto walked back over to the dugout. "Get some ice, champ," the coach said, with a pat to his back. Yamamoto nodded in agreement.
He headed over to the icebox, but he stopped and stole a look over at the bleachers.
(Y/n) had put her top back on. She was seated and reading again.
Yamamoto couldn't stop an aggravated groan. He'd gone through all that trouble, and he had taken a ball to his face, and she still hadn't noticed him.
All in all, it was a huge upset for him. He hadn't won her affections, he'd made a complete fool out of himself with that slip, and he now had a bloody nose and a swollen cheek.
Attempt Three: Showing off while playing baseball.
Result: Double Fail.