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Scott was a Dodgers fan, born and bred.
His mother had grown up on Dodgers games her whole life, and she had passed her loyalty to her son. Scott’s childhood was filled with Dodgers games playing on the TV, most of his happiest memories centered around those games, for it was one of the few times his father was distracted from tormenting him or his mother. The Dodgers were more than a team to Scott, but college had left Scott only barely following the team.
Stiles was a Cubs fan, born and bred.
The entire Stilinski line, for as far back as the Sheriff cared to trace it, rooted for the Cubs. Stiles’ mother Claudia had never been a huge baseball fan—she was deeply invested in hockey, however—but knew the legacy of the game for the Stilinski family. The games were a time of Stiles running around the room cheering whichever player he had picked as his favorite that game, while John kept track of the game on his scorecard and Claudia did her best to keep track of her son. Some of Stiles’ favorite memories were of Cubs games watched with both his parents.
When both boys went off to college, baseball fell by the wayside in favor of classes and friends. However, Scott was taking History of American Sports to fulfill his history requirement, and it was reigniting his passion for baseball. One night while procrastinating on a paper for said class, he was scrolling through some photos from Spring Training that were posted on the Dodgers’ Facebook page, and came across a picture of a pitcher he didn’t recognize. He made a short little noise of confusion, which caused Stiles to lean over and look at Scott’s screen.
Stiles’ voice sounded strangled, “Who is the hell is that?”
Scott shrugged, “No clue.”
Admitting defeat is never an option for Stiles, and suddenly Scott’s computer had been co-opted by his best friend.
“Well ok, his arm is perfectly obscuring his number, so we can’t just look him up in the roster…” Stiles gnawed at the end of his pen as he tried to will the picture to reveal a name.
“He is seventy something... and right-handed. Hmm…” Stiles started typing different searches into his own computer, while Scott rolled his eyes fondly.
Part of this was definitely the desire to figure this puzzle out, as Stiles so often gets consumed in solving a problem or figuring out a riddle. However, Scott suspected his best friend’s desire to put a name to the face had less to do with the principle of the matter and more to do with the stubble on the man’s face, the clear muscles in his arms and the baseball pants. Stiles is always waxing poetic about the blessing that is baseball pants.
“Okay bro, you can keep looking on your computer, but I have to finish this paper so we can play Call of Duty tonight.” Scott gently eased his computer from Stiles’ hands, his fingers still skimming the keys as the computer was drifting further away.
A look of internal debate momentarily flashed over Stiles’ face before he turned back to is computer and closed out his homework. He pulled up Google and furiously began looking through the Dodgers Roster for the upcoming year.
Two hours later, Scott submitted his half-assed paper ten minutes before the midnight deadline. Duly satisfied, Scott wandered into the kitchen to get food. At some point while Scott was busting out his history paper, Stiles has migrated to the wobbly table in the kitchen. He had the notepad that usually stuck to the fridge next to him, with various names scribbled down, most of which were scratched out.
“Any luck, Stiles?”
Stiles’ head sunk down to slam against the table a few times before he finally looked up at Scott with screen-reddened eyes.
“I have no idea. I have searched for all the Dodgers with a number in the seventies. I’ve read articles, looked at previous games, tried to find different pictures, found the Spring Training photographer on Facebook and I am now considering messaging him to see if he has a clue who this mystery pitcher is.”
“Bro.” Scott crossed his arms and gave Stiles a discouraging look.
“I am desperate, Scotty! I have tried everything I know to figure who the hell the beautiful mystery pitcher is, but I have hit a wall!” Stiles pulled his hair up and away from where it was drooping in his face.
“Look, Stiles that wall you’re hitting probably has to do with the fact that it’s two in the morning. Go to sleep, I’ll send the picture to my mom in the morning and see if she knows who he is, ok?”
With a soft nod, Stiles shut his computer and rolled over in his bunk to go to sleep. Scott smiled and knocked the lights off with his foot before settling in to sleep.
“I know the Dodgers roster better than I know the Cubs roster!” whined Stiles from his bed.
Scott sighed, “Go to sleep, Stiles.”
A noncommittal noise came from the other bunk, but Scott waited to succumb to sleep until he heard Stiles’ odd snuffling snores.
Scott took a screenshot of the mystery player and texted it to his mom.
Good morning, Mom! Stiles and I have been trying to figure out who this is. Any clue? Good luck at work today! x Scott
He almost forgot that he had sent it, after going through two classes without hearing anything back from his mom. Just as he was settling down in one of the couches in the campus coffee shop to eat lunch, his phone vibrated.
Hi honey, hope you got that paper done in time. Looks like Derek Hale, #71? I can check when I get home. x Mom
Scott grinned and told her not to worry about it, and opened his laptop to check into it.
The first article that popped up showed a man without stubble, but clicking through some pictures of him playing in the minor leagues made it seem like his mom had found exactly who they were looking for.
Stiles plopped down next to his best friend on the couch, wielding two coffee cups.
“Here is your sugar-infested cup of almost-caffeine, enjoy.”
“I found your mystery man.” blurted Scott, without even waiting for Stiles to finish his first sip of his black-as-death coffee.
Coughing, Stiles shot him a look. Scott turned his laptop to show him Derek Hale’s stats page and it was all Stiles could do to land his coffee on a flat surface before pulling the laptop from Scott’s lap.
He scrolled through the photos and looked up at Scott with a pained look.
“I want to go to a Dodgers game.” He uttered with look of disgust.
Patting his best friend on the back, Scott held in his laughter and told Stiles that he was going to have to be the one to tell his dad. Stiles could only hang his head in shame.
That summer, both boys were back in Beacon Hills and were taking advantage of the extensive free time that they now possessed. They alternated taking over each other’s houses, watching movies, playing video games all the way through, and doing everything but responsible things (read: jobs).
One day, the boys were watching all of the Star Wars movies in one sitting when Melissa came home from her shift at the hospital with the biggest grin on her face.
“You boys owe me big time.” She beamed.
“Always, Mom. What did we do this time?” Scott paused the movie and looked over at her with his puppy-dog eyes in an attempt to lessen the punishment.
“I got us tickets to go see the Dodgers this weekend!” She pulled out four tickets from behind her back and Scott jumped up from the couch to meet her.
He pulled her into a tight hug, “You are amazing, Mom!”
Stiles dragged himself up off the couch and rubbed his neck, “Melissa, that’s wonderful but you know I’m a Cubs fan…”
She nodded in understanding but her smirk never left her face. “Yes, but these tickets are right at the dugout, so you will be able to see number 71 without straining yourself.”
Stiles spluttered and tried to argue, but Melissa just smiled and walked upstairs to change out of her scrubs.
With a chuckle, Scott nudged Stiles back over to the couch to resume Star Wars.
“Why exactly am I at a Dodgers game, again?” John Stilinski grumbled as they walked through security at Dodger Stadium
“Because I asked and you, ever the gentleman, didn’t want me to be stuck with both my son and your son for hours.” Melissa patted him on the arm, willing herself to ignore the muscles that were easily felt beneath the thin fabric.
The older man grumbled, but Stiles was oddly quiet. He hadn’t complained since they got in the car to drive down to Los Angeles, but Scott figured it was just because he didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
They wandered down to their section, only to have the usher direct them to the front row, which bumped into the dugout. They set their food and drinks down on top of the dugout and were able to watch players pop in and out of the cement dugout.
It just so happened that the Dodgers were playing the Cardinals, John’s least favorite baseball team in existence, so the entire group ended up invested in the game for one reason or another.
Stiles finally spotted #71, Hale, out on the field warming up with a few of his teammates. He didn’t realize how caught up he was in staring at the man until Scott nudged him with a bemused smile.
Stiles offered to get up and get everyone Dodger dogs instead of just popcorn, as a way of drawing attention to himself as the players started to jog back into the dugout. It was a bit pathetic, but Stiles had had many a fantasy of the pitcher seeing him and realizing he was more than just a fan. But that was nonsense, so he would settle for catching the man’s eye at least once this game.
It was a tough game, with neither side scoring a run until the bottom of the fifth inning. Hale only pitched for the first inning, since he was the rookie pitcher on the team…as Stiles had discovered after thoroughly stalking the pitcher who had no forms of social media, but a rather extensive wiki page.
When Hale jogged off the mound after the first inning, he glanced up and made momentary eye contact with Stiles before ducking into the dugout to his teammates clapping him on the back. Stiles could die happy.
Hale came up to bat in the seventh inning, and hit a foul ball right to the dugout, which Scott gracefully plucked before the man with a beer gut behind them could catch it. He handed it to Stiles with a smirk, to which Stiles rolled his eyes, and carefully cradled the ball in his lap. John was muttering something about losing a good Cubs fan, but Stiles was more focused on the player that was striking out.
The game ended up 3-2, Dodgers, so John took them all out to a restaurant a few minutes away from the ballpark before they headed back to Beacon Hills. They sat at a booth with a view of the TVs that were playing other baseball games that were still in progress.
“So tell us, Stiles, was number 71 everything you had dreamed?” Melissa batted her eyelashes before devolving into light laughter. John’s face slid into a smirk, which he carefully hid behind his menu. However, Scott seemed very interested in his answer, so Stiles sighed and talked to his best friend.
“He’s got the flaws of any pitcher, and the body of a Greek. I bet he’s a bag of dicks, though. He’s too pretty to be nice.” Stiles shrugged and looked down at his menu.
The door to the restaurant swung open and stayed open, letting in some of the chilly air. Scott glanced up to see why no one had shut the door, but it was just a large party filing in. Deciding they were unimportant, Scott looked down at his menu before realization struck him. He carefully and slowly peeled his eyes away from the menu and towards the party now seated at a large round table in the center of their section of the restaurant.
Number 71 was sitting right there, along with a couple of his teammates, Boyd and Lahey. A few women sat with them at the table, but Scott saw nothing but live Dodgers, sitting mere feet away from him. He whispered his discovery to the table, and guiltily watched Stiles’ face turn a vibrant red.
As their waitress came over, John declared, “They deserve a round of drinks on me, for defeating the damn Cardinals!”
Stiles may have actually internally combusted at that comment. His father was actually trying to kill him, the little smirk dancing across his father’s face was all the proof he needed.
The waitress smiled and went off the relay the goodwill to Hale and his teammates. They all turned to smile and wave politely at the generous table. Hale’s gaze quickly narrowed in on Stiles however, forcing Stiles into a minor panic in which he darted his eyes to every other table in the place, except Hale’s.
A pair of feet appeared in Stiles’ vision, from where he was having a long interaction with the floorboards beneath his table. He followed the feet up to the glorious face of none other than #71, Mr. Hale.
“We just wanted to send our thanks for being so generous to us.” Hale’s voice was nothing like Stiles’ imagined, but he was more thrown by the kind words that immediately spilled from the man’s mouth. No, no he was not allowed to be beautiful and kind, that hardly seemed fair to the rest of the world.
“Nonsense, son. You all played well tonight, you deserve some thanks for taking the Cardinals down a peg.” John smiled kindly up at the man.
“Just playing the game as best we can,” His ears turned red! Deep, deep red! “Besides, we are all rookies, so we just wanted to say thank you for your kindness.”
Hale nodded briskly and turned to walk away. He got a few steps away, before turning back to face the table and looking down while the red in his ears spread to his face. He ran his hand over his face and through his hair, muttering, “I can’t believe I’m going to do this…”
Oh—Oh! Suddenly Stiles had a whole lot of Hale staring at him intensely.
“You’re kind of beautiful and you should come to more games so I can take you out after games. Oh, my name is Derek, this napkin has my phone number, and wait until I’m 10 paces away from your table before you laugh so Boyd will win the bet, not Isaac.”
Derek quickly stalked off from the table, while Stiles was left to (attempt to) process what in the hell just happened.
The napkin!
Stiles grabbed for it as quickly as possible, and pulled his phone out. Quickly typing in the number, Stiles hurriedly texted Derek. That was very smooth, Romeo. If you have a home game this weekend, I would love to watch and go out afterwards.
He looked up to see Derek searching the ceiling for life’s answers and sent a follow-up text: Was that really so hard?
Derek’s head shot down to the table where his phone vibrated, and immediately he looked over at Stiles with a questioning look. Stiles nodded back, to confirm that the unknown number was him.
I have no idea what your name is. We play the Rockies next weekend, and it IS a home game. And yes, it was incredibly hard. Your family is intimidating, and my friends are overdramatic. I was almost traumatized.
Stiles snorted and responded: It’s Stiles. Sooo, does this mean you’re taking me out to the ballgame?
With a snicker to himself, Stiles realized that he really wanted to see Derek’s face while he read the text, so he snapped his attention to the man across the restaurant. The man looked up slowly from his phone and leveled a light glare at him from across the room.
All of a sudden, Stiles remembered that he was not eating alone, so he whipped around to rejoin the table, only to find he was surrounded by smirks. With a sigh, he passed his phone to Scott, and looked up to greet his dad.
“So, I’ve got a date with Derek Hale.”
John shook his head lightly, “Today, we lost a good Cubs fan. All my work as a father has been ripped asunder by a man in tight white pants.”