The following days were torture: boredom, procrastination, empty headed conversations, class ignored, bus stops missed, meals uneaten, sleep useless and ruthless and toothless. The world felt like a copy made three times over, thin, insubstantial. Nothing seemed to compare with my experience that night, nothing even seemed real. I folded my thoughts back onto themselves, worrying about obsessing too much, being too entangled, succumbing too early to a one-date crush. Still though, I could not stop thinking about her.

            Tuesday at five o'clock exactly, I stood in front of Rachel's door, feeling again that instinctual desire to hit the eject button. Not this time though, not after Saturday. I rapped with my knuckles and she quickly appeared in the threshold.

            “Hey!” She smiled, immediately putting me at peace, that easy grin both the infecting agent and the antibiotic.

            “Hey.” I tried to play it cool, but I was probably blushing.

            “Come on in, I'm just watching TV.” She led me inside.

            “Cool, cool. Do you do stretches or warmups or anything before a game?” I asked.

            “Usually when I get there, with the rest of the team.” She sat in her chair and put her feet up on the desk, dusty this time, but not muddy like the last.

            “Ah, makes sense.” I said, finding my previous spot on the corner of her bed. The television was chattering away with some syndicated sitcom I couldn't be bothered to place.

            “Sometimes I roll a tennis ball under my arches before I go, though. It's like a little massage, gets blood flowing early so my shoes don't tighten up over the game.” She explained.

            “Interesting.” I tried to not imagine those long feet gently deforming a ball, rolling it back and forth, coating it in whatever she'd picked up or sweat out that day, but I was clearly never any good with mental discipline.

            “It kinda sucks with this night game, I'm gonna miss Jeopardy.” She said.

            “You like Jeopardy?” I asked, honestly a little surprised.

            “Sort of?” She shrugged, looking over to me, “Like, I'm not good at answering the questions or anything, but I used to watch it with my sister all the time. She was a trivia pro, especially the history stuff, so I guess it just reminds me of her.”

            “That's sweet.” I said.

            “Yeah, that's me, sweet as honey.” Rachel rolled her eyes, “Sweet as vinegar, more like.”

            “Could your sister...you know, the thing?”  I asked, ignoring what, in retrospect, may have been Rachel seeking a compliment, punctuating my question by pinching my index finger and thumb together.

            “Yeah, she could, my little sister could, even my mom could.” Rachel said.

            “Wow.” I replied, “So you've been small before too?”

            “We couldn't do it to each other, just to other people.” Rachel said, “Chelsea once described it like...something about magnetic poles? And a guy named Kucher or Kircher? I wasn't paying attention, honestly.”

            “So only your brother...” I trailed off.

            “Couldn't shrink people?” She finished for me, “Or would get shrunk?”

            “Both?” I asked.

            “Yeah, both. Sometimes punishment, sometimes we were just bored.” She said, nostalgic chuckle following, “We were probably too hard on him back then. But we were kids, you know? Maybe we were just working through our own shit.”

            “Hm.” I tried to imagine that situation, three sisters who could shrink me with a thought, but it was too much for my enfeebled brain.

            “Well, whatever, the past is in the past.” She said. I nodded in dumb concurrence.

            We watched a bit more of the show, making fun of it occasionally, while I tried not to stare at her flicking toes.

            “Alright, let's get moving. Just need to make sure I have everything.” She said, riffling through her gym bag, “Cleats, check, pants, check, top, check, glove, check, compression shorts, check...what else?”

            “Socks?” I said helpfully, but probably too quickly.

            “Right, new socks.” She said, opening a drawer and moving a handful of fabric into the bag, “There, that should do it. Let's go!”

            We hopped the campus bus to the field, pleasantly chatting like we'd known each other forever. Some connections are just like that, and when I wasn't being distracted by her body, she was really quite easy to talk to. Upon arriving, Rachel left for the locker room. I waited outside for a while, smoking, thinking, obsessing, but I was soon enough in the stands, same cold bleachers, same fans, same athletes. Only big difference I could see was Rachel's two-toned socks, white and green, stripe up the side.

            The visitors, a local team who played a yearly scrimmage tournament with our school, knocked out a homerun early, bringing three runners home. Slowly but surely, through small ball, sacrifice flies, strategic bunts, Rachel and her teammates bridged the gap, getting one over on their opponents by the end of the sixth inning. Final chance to breach the surface, the away team put two runners on, one out, full count, and then launched a fireball line drive towards center field. It never made it there, however. Rachel, like an acrobat, like a seasoned cat, lunged, caught the bounce, jumped and twirled, flung the ball to first and managed to back-pedal enough to catch the return throw: a double play to win the game.

            Two games, two wins, both derived from Rachel's incredible athletic skill. If she wasn't on the way to being the MVP, then the fix was absolutely in.

            As for me, I clapped when it seemed appropriate throughout the game, even stood during some tense moments, but overall felt too embarrassed to take part in the chants, the songs, and the waves. Despite my reluctance, however, after that incredible, final play, I was on my feet, hands up, cheering with the rest of the throng. Jumping up and down, surrounded by her team, Rachel's shining eyes still managed to pick me out of the crowd.

             “Did you see that?!” Rachel shouted, finding me outside. Deja vu.

            “I saw that! It was amazing! You're amazing!” I was uncharacteristically enthusiastic, though I wonder now if it's even characteristic if the trait is actually a mask.

            “And you're good luck!” She said, “Come on, I've gotta introduce you to the team.”

            “Wait, what?” I said, but it was too late. She had grabbed my wrist and was dragging me towards the locker room. I tried to pull away briefly, but Rachel was insistent, and irrevocably strong. Past the stares of crowd goers and workers alike, I was pulled to a pair of big double doors, one of which my drover kicked open.

            “Yo crew, this is the guy! The lucky one!” Rachel called to the team, none of whom, I was simultaneously comforted and disappointed, were yet undressed. A few said hello, some just waved, most seemed friendly, but I distinctly heard someone mumble 'Kind of dorky, huh?'

            “His name is Koji, he's cool, so be nice.” Rachel scolded.

            “Okay, no going out tonight, some of you have class tomorrow, and if you're grades slip, you're done! But...let's have one for the road!” Their pitcher and captain, a tall senior with long brown hair, shouted, holding up a half-full thirty-rack of Miller High Life. Champagne of beers? Not very likely, that stuff tasted like bubbly piss, but I still joined in on a group toast. Oh, what we do to feel included.

            They chanted the spirit chant, fight song, whatever you call it, stomped their cleats practically clean, leaving a pile of dirt clods strewn all over the floor, smashed cans together, and downed them like water. Several belches erupted from the team, the loudest, of course, Rachel's, arms splayed out like she was sending the sound straight up to god.

            We all giggled like kids, and Rachel tugged on my arm, motioning with her chin that it was time to go.

            “Aren't you going to...?” I signaled towards the lockers.

            “I'll just change when I get back to the dorm. C'mon, let's catch the bus.” She said, and so we did.

            She got a few looks, all decked out in her uniform, and the occasional compliment or 'good game,' from our fellow passengers. By the time we made it back home it was a hair past midnight. I figured I'd be heading back to my room, but Rachel pulled me by the arm again, getting quite effective at leading me like a horse, and we were quickly through her door.

            She stretched, looking a bit tired, but I figured she had me in here for a reason, so I didn't remark on it. With no ceremony at all she unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned her pants, and let them both drop to the floor.

            “Whoa!” I near shouted, jumping back as though she just revealed a gun. In reality, she had only revealed compression shorts, dark with sweat, “Oh. Uh, never mind.”

            “Real smooth.” She snarked, stepping out of her clothes, rolling her eyes, and taking a seat at her desk, lifting her legs directly in my line of sight. Now her undressing was slow, like a ritual, but it wasn't her shorts or her shirt that went off. The toe of one cleat pulled off the heel of its partner, and then vice versa. Smoothly, Rachel slid both off, leather softly clattering to the floor, revealing what she had apparently been hiding the entire time.

            Her socks weren't socks at all: stirrups over leg warmers, giving the perfect illusion of long athletic socks from the ankles up, but masking the fact that Rachel had basically played the entire game discalceate. Her feet were wet, toes coated in the diamond's dirt again, the smell was noticeable at a distance, and she flexed them roughly and purposefully. Staring at them like a holy relic, for a moment too long, and finally passing my gaze along to her cheery, flushed face, I knew I had to tell her.

            “Iwanttoyoushrinktoshrinkyoumeagain.” Which is how it sounded when both of us spoke simultaneously. Allow me to translate:

            “I want you to shrink me again.” I said.

            “I want to shrink you again.” She said, at exactly the same moment.

            You couldn't get a better pair on The Dating Game.