The Oakland Athletics were on the way to 20 consecutive wins, a record that did not go unnoticed by the baseball community. Billy was seen as crazy—fetching a new and unheard way to set up his roster but now he was seen as this genius.

With the help of Peter Brand—the assistant GM that just so happened to be the smartest man he's met— he might just be able to win the World Series. The kid might've had limited knowledge on baseball in comparison to the other experienced people that worked for him... but Pete had a mindset like no other, his way of looking at the game made total sense through math.

Who would've known, math actually worked?

Billy still couldn't believe the head on Pete's shoulders, the kid could crunch numbers in an instant. Percentage this, fractions this—hell, Billy might've actually found the key to the problem he's been having. His team was absolute dog shit before all of this and yet he somehow continued to win over and over with less then a million dollars per game.

He also started to talk to his players, getting involved in their training and how to go about the game—basically being and extra coach they never knew they needed. Billy knew his shit and with a nerd like Pete by his side, he was bound to make his players even better. They might've been less than favourable players... but he made it work.

However, the one thing he had been avoiding had came crashing on him the moment he allowed himself to open up to the team; he had fallen for a damn player. It was weird, he was the GM, it was unprofessional and he most definitely wasn't supposed to get involved like that—he should be able to easily let players go or trade them. But fuck, it was hard with someone like him.

Billy used to be a baseball player and he played in this exact team, making an absolute fool out of himself by messing up the littlest of plays. He still had that locker room mentality, he still felt the urge to play and get back into the shit he worked so hard for. He worked out all the time, kept in good shape for the simple reason that it reminded him how much of an athlete he was.

Currently, Billy was making his way to the area where players would practice their swing, improve their arm movements and work on hand-eye coordination. He immediately noticed him, his eyes focused on the player, taking in his perfect form and how fluid his movements were whenever he hit the ball. "Hey," Billy called out, watching him turn to face him.

Billy almost wished the black mesh wasn't between them, but it somehow served as a makeshift metaphorical wall the he shouldn't cross. "You're the oldest player on the team and I expect more from you." He spoke clearly, his hands resting comfortably in the pockets of his track pants. The player was in his mid to late thirties which was considered "old" in the eyes of the league.

He then seen the shift in his demeanour and he immediately felt bad, he knew what it was like to be in that position—he'd been through it. "You've been around in the league longer than the others... you have to set an example for em'."

Billy sounded like a coach—which he wasn't—but he could tell that he needed a little more encouragement than just lectures from his actual coach. "I want you to play like you god damn mean it. I know you still have some good games left in you." He tried not to mentally cringe, he was making it sound as if he was ancient, yet Billy was the one that was older, he was 44 years old for Pete's sake.

It was difficult to look at the other man in the eyes for longer than a couple seconds, he was wearing a compression shirt that caressed his muscles in a way that showed off his amazing physique. "Well?" Billy cleared his throat, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he fought the strange feeling of butterflies in his stomach.