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“Indianapolis Monthly?”

“It’s a magazine,” Meadow explained.

“Magazine? Huh. Those still around?” Petra asked nonchalantly. The lanky brown rat was sitting at her desk, swiveling back and forth in a roller-chair. Fiddling with her phone.

“We literally have stacks,” the petite harvest mouse reminded, gesturing at the coffee tables in the waiting area. They were covered in magazines of all sorts, big and small, running the gamut: sports and entertainment to science and politics.

“Thought we got ‘em in a yard sale or somethin’.”

“Nooo.” Well. Maybe the National Geographics? Some of those were pretty old. “We subscribe to them.”

By ‘we,’ she meant her bosses, the dentists who co-owned the practice, which she and Petra were receptionists at (Petra full-time, Meadow part-time).

The receptionists were always the first to arrive, a half-hour before opening.

At quarter ‘til nine (which was now), the hygienists began filtering in through the back door while the first patients pulled into the parking lot up front.

The dentists themselves were always last in.

“Yeah, but who actually reads ‘em? Aside from pups.” Petra put her phone down. “And they only look at Highlights.”

“Well, Indy Monthly is a little more prestigious than Highlights,” Meadow boasted proudly, crossing her golden arms.

“But does it have Goofus an’ Gallant?” Petra challenged.

The mouse rolled her blue eyes.

The rat chuckled and asked, “So, Fibster’s gettin’ the cover of this rag?”

Fib was Meadow’s mate.

Also a harvest mouse (six years younger; 35 to Meadow’s 41), the genial, outgoing male was chief morning meteorologist (or ‘weather-fur’) for Channel 13, the state’s most-watched news team. He ‘onscreen’ moniker was ‘Fib the Morning Mouse.’

“Well … no.” Meadow, a pretty, sky-blue skirt going halfway down her thighs, wandered to the printer, which was spitting out the patient schedule for today. “Maybe? I don’t know. I didn’t say that. He’s going to be in the cover story. It’s about a whole group.”

“Who?”

“Hoosier Who’s Whos.”

“What?” Petra asked, scrunching her brow.

“Who’s Whos,” Meadow repeated.

“Psh! ’Kay, Costello. I’ll be Abbott.”

“Ha, ha,” Meadow deadpanned, before pausing to ask, “What … what does that mean?”

“Who’s On First?”

“Who?” Meadow wondered innocently.

The rat laughed. “No, that’s their routine!”

“Oh.” Meadow blushed. “Oh! I, uh, knew that … ” Another pause. “Why am I Costello?”

“He’s the short, gullible one. Abbott’s tall an’ worldly.”

Making a face, Meadow asked, “How do you even know about them anyway?”

“My grandpops was into ‘em.”

“Well, the Hoosier Who’s Whos isn’t a joke. It’s a big honor!” The printer finished, Meadow shuffled the papers and wandered back to her desk, putting them by her keyboard. “Fib’s getting a plaque and everything.”

“Isn’t he from Iowa?” Petra pointed out smartly.

“He’s lived here for a decade, now!” Meadow defended.

“So, that makes him a Hoosier? I thought it was like bein’ President. You gotta be born here to be one.”

“He’s an adopted Hoosier. Which is pretty much the same thing.”

“I’ll need to consult the rulebook about that.”

Meadow tugged at her sunny-yellow top before sitting down. She then crossed her legs and held her ropy tail in her pink, furless paws.

Prodding her co-worker with her own ropy, grey tail, the rat (who had an unrequited crush on the mouse; sitting like that didn’t alleviate it) asked, “An’ what about you, Blondie?”

“Hmm?” Meadow swatted Petra’s tail away. “What about me?”

“They gonna interview you for this thing?”

“Why would they?”

“Girl, media loves gossip shit. You’re the cutie behind the cutie! They’ll wanna know how ya met, yer favorite hangs, where ya work … ”

Meadow got a worried look on her face. Hmm. That was true, wasn’t it? She gulped. An introvert, she preferred to leave the spotlight to Fib (who fed off attention).

“Where they doin’ the interview?” Petra continued, pulling the mouse out of her own head.

“Well, um, Fib’s playing in the Fourteenth Annual Naptown Media Wiffle Ball Classic on Saturday.” She took a quick breath. “So—”

“Wiffle ball?” the rat interrupted judgmentally.

“It’s for charity!”

All five local news stations (plus a sixth team of ‘area celebrities’) participated in an all-day tournament downtown. There’d be food trucks and live music and everything, and temporary bleachers would be set up for spectators.

Meadow continued, “The magazine’s gonna profile him there. Maybe take some photos of him in ‘action’ with the skyline behind him? They said it would be ‘epic’.”

“Why’s he on the team? Is he any good at sports? If you can call wiffle ball a sport … ”

“It is a sport.”

“Seems more like a game to me,” Petra argued.

“Well, whatever it is … he, uh, hasn’t actually played before,” Meadow admitted. “The rest of the team is all predators, and he got selected as the ‘token’ prey. But! He’s at his best in the spotlight. He’ll catch on quick.”

This was the first time Fib had ever ‘made the cut.’ (Mice tended not to be first choice for group athletics.)

Meadow swiveled her rolling-chair. “I mean, how hard can it be? It’s just ‘easy baseball,’ right?”

“Easy?” The rat clicked her tongue and shook her head. “There’s some real wiffle-heads out there, Blondie!”

“Wiffle-heads?” Meadow’s whiskers twitched. She was never sure when Petra was exaggerating … or just winding her up to garner a ‘cute’ reaction.

“Oh, yeah. Hardcore.” The rat crossed her arms. “What position’s he playin’?”

“I don’t … I don’t know the positions?”

“Come onnn. Even girly-girls know what pitchers an’ catchers are,” the rat told her slyly. “An’ I know you’ve been on all the bases.”

Getting the innuendoes (after a few seconds), Meadow’s ears got beet red. She pretended to read the papers she’d printed off. “I … I know basketball and racing, and that’s it.”

“Yup. You’re a Hoosier, alright,” Petra confirmed. The rat was originally from Chicago.

“We’ve never had a baseball team here!” Not pro, anyway.

“You’re naïve, Blondie. It’s adorable! But good thing ya got me to give it to ya straight.”

“Says the poly bisexual.”

Petra, wearing a devilish smirk, just went ‘yo!’ and nodded at the front door, which was opening. The first patient had arrived.

Meadow sat up straight put on a bucktoothed smile, instantly switching to ‘customer service’ mode. “Good morning! How are you? Could I have your name and appointment time, please?”

“Alright, gather up! C’mon! Let’s go, let’s go!” Baxter chirped, twirling a thin, yellow bat made of flimsy, hollow plastic, just like the white ball he held in his other webbed paw.

It was Saturday morning, hot and humid.

Fib’s forecast yesterday had been spot-on …

“Good morning, Central Indiana, and wow, what a week! Did someone say ‘heat wave’? Cause this is one of the most intense since 2012! But some good news: the worst is almost behind us. For now. Ha,ha!”

A weather map appeared behind the harvest mouse (the epitome of ‘adorakable’ cuteness; dressed in khakis, a button-up short sleeve t-shirt, and a colorful bowtie).

Using his tail as a pointer, he did a half-turn and gestured at the animated loop.

“By the end of the weekend, our core of hot air will be gradually displaced … you can see here. But! The transition will place us in the cross-hairs of a heavy storm cluster axis. Watch out for severe weather Sunday afternoon into the evening … as well as unsettled conditions Monday and Tuesday, as shown by FutureTrak 13.”

The weather map faded into a ‘five day outlook,’ with high and low temps.

“But the rest of today and tomorrow? Hot with a capital H. In the 90’s before the heat index. I know we’ll be wishing for this when we’re buried in a January blizzard, but … hoo, boy, it’s rough in the moment, isn’t it? Drink plenty of water, folks. Especially if you’re coming to see me and my co-workers at the Fourteenth Annual Naptown Media Wiffle Ball Classic!

“Opal, JR, back to you!”

“Thanks, Fib, and good luck tomorrow,” Opal said. The cow looked into the camera and said, “A van of unused fireworks up in Westfield soon became a van of used fireworks when what the driver claims was a ‘malfunction’ caused the vehicle, in a busy parking lot, to festively explode. We sent Sakona to the scene to suss out what really happened … ”

The Channel 13 crew, donning colorful, custom-made jerseys, was now assembled before Baxter, squinting in the sunlight. The Indianapolis skyline, looming closely in the park’s background, was silhouetted in its rays.

Wiffle teams were allowed six players each (with a substitute on standby should you wish/need to use them).

The six representing the station:

Baxter (morning sports; river otter), Fib (morning meteorologist; harvest mouse), JR (morning co-anchor; coyote), Jaye (afternoon ‘features’; bobcat), Solvang (evening ‘investigative reporter’; red fox vixen), and Rosie (weekend ‘co-anchor’; raccoon).

The ‘substitute,’ lingering nearby, her big, right foot-paw restlessly thumping the ground, was Kendra. She was the morning news director (and Baxter’s mate). The orange-hued desert cottontail had played volleyball collegiately and, like the otter, had a competitive nature.

But this tournament was Baxter’s moment to shine (he looked forward to it every year), so she was giving him some leeway. But she was ready to lay down the law if he got too ‘into it.’

“We lost pretty badly last year,” the otter announced, shaking his head in remembrance. “Fifth place! Only better than the lowly ‘celebrity’ team.” He began to pace and pivot like a general, thick rudder-tail sweeping the grass as he stopped and stared down his peers. “We’re not going to let that happen again. Are we?”

No response.

“Are we, Team 13?” He gestured for a response with the bat.

“No!” Fib squeaked, smelling of sun lotion (liberally applied to his ears and tail).

“I guess not?” Solvang said.

“Are there prizes if we win?” the raccoon wondered.

“It’s fucking roasting … why can’t we do this in the fall?”

A breeze was blowing (at times, gusting), which was more than they’d had the rest of the week. But it didn’t make the air any less oppressive. It was like standing in front of an oven door!

Addressing the last response, Baxter said, “Because, JR, the kiddos will be in school then, and this is a fun time for families. So, let’s put on our happy faces and pass it on. I’ve already autographed several wiffle balls for appreciative pups!”

“Maybe you should be on the celebrity team,” the snarky coyote replied.

Baxter opened his maw to retort—

“Settle down, guys,” Kendra warned, finally hopping in.

Baxter grumbled but receded to her authority.

“I’m sure we’ll all do our best, but let’s remember: this is for charity,” the rabbit said. “Not to mention it’s good PR for the station.”

Fib raised a pink, furless paw.

Kendra nodded at him.

“What positions are we playing?”

“Baxter?” the rabbit said, handing it back to her mate.

The taller otter cleared his throat. “I was just about to announce that.” Nodding, he said, “I’ll be pitching. Solvang, you’ll be anchoring first base.”

“Story of my life,” the fox quipped.

“Jaye’s on second. Rosie on third. JR, you’ll be catching at home plate.”

The bisexual coyote snickered, licking his fangs.

“And Fib will be in the outfield.”

“You can count on me!” Fib promised.

“Mm,” the otter went. “Now, the batting order: Solvang, JR, Jaye, me, Rosie, Fib.” The otter tapped the bat to the ball. “Any questions?”

“How many times do we gotta do this?” Rosie asked/complained.

“The tourney is round robin. All teams play each other once. So, five games. Then, the knockout rounds. Top two teams going in get a bye to the semis.”

The raccoon spread her paws. “I wanted an answer, not a math equation.”

“Minimum six games, maximum eight.”

“If we’re gonna be here all day,” Jaye said, inspecting her claws, “do we get free grub?”

“You’ll have a catered lunch,” Kendra promised.

“Catered by who?” the feline pressed.

“Well, I’m sorry to say it won’t be the Ritz.”

“Is it pizza? It’s always pizza.”

“I like pizza!” Fib said brightly.

“I won’t eat anything with mushrooms on it,” Rosie swore.

“I thought raccoons ate everything,” JR said.

“Not this one.”

“So, are these games … like, are they as long as a regular baseball game?” Solvang asked uncertainly, swishing her tail. “Cause don’t those take forever?”

“Wiffle is six innings, not nine. And there’s a mercy rule. If you get down double digit runs, the game is called. But! That won’t happen to us, will it?” Baxter declared.

Mumbles of uncertainty.

“Will it?” Baxter repeated loudly, standing tall.

“No!”

“Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Eh.”

“Now, let’s go kick some tail!” Baxter said, extending his paw for ‘team first!’ moment. But the others had already wandered off. The otter growled. More so when they all gravitated toward the wrong field. “God dammit.”

Because ‘wiffle fields’ were only a quarter-size of a baseball field, two temporary ‘diamonds’ (with painted lines and sand-filled bases) had been constructed side by side (though facing opposite directions) with one set of bleachers behind each home plate. Food and vendor trucks and tents were on the ‘sidelines.’

Kendra, seeing the look on Baxter’s face, touched his rudder-tail. “I’ll get them to the right one. Just have fun, okay?”

“I’ll have fun if we win,” he insisted, narrowing his eyes.

“Also, don’t pick on Fib.”

“I’m not!”

“You put him in the outfield and made him last on the batting order.”

“He doesn’t know the difference,” the otter scoffed. He and Fib had started out as rivals when they’d first joined the station. That had slowly morphed into ‘frenemies.’

“Baxter … ”

“Predators are better at sports. I can’t help that.”

“Oh, really?” Kendra replied. Paws on hips, the affronted rabbit was about to launch into a (long, long) list of lapine athletic accomplishments. Including her own (before she tore her ACL senior year).

“Alright, alright,” he muttered quickly, thwarting the rant. Which, admittedly, he’d invited. “Sorry! I just … I don’t think of us as predator and prey, babe! I think of us as ‘you and me’.”

“Nice save.”

“Thanks.”

“Just because a species isn’t great at one thing doesn’t mean they can’t excel at another,” she added, lecturing him anyway. “Otters suck at track and field, even if you’re untouchable at swimming.”

“Have you tried sprinting with a tail this big? Not to mention webbed feet?” He swung his rudder around. “Tripping hazard.” He watched Fib from afar. He just knew the mouse was going to lose this for them! “If we were playing … badminton,” he said, naming a cutesy, mouse-friendly sport, “I’d take Fib seriously. But this is wiffleball.”

Kendra giggled.

“What?”

“Wiffleball is silly, Baxter.” She smiled, tilting her head. “You know that, right?”

“You know what’s not silly?” he countered, refusing to admit it (which was basically an admission). “Winning.”

Kendra rolled her eyes. “The press is all over this place. I don’t want any bad publicity for the station. Don’t make this about you.”

Baxter didn’t respond, clenching his jaw.

“You can be headstrong and stubborn, sometimes.” Maybe more than sometimes. “That said … it kind gets me going? In doses. Just don’t overdo it. Please?”

Being a ‘sports-head’ herself, Kendra had a weakness for ‘jocks.’ Not just their healthy, sculpted figures (mmmm!) but also their confident, driven attitudes. She didn’t share her bed with pushovers.

Softening, the otter mumbled, “I’ll try … ”

“Try what … ?”

“Not to embarrass you.”

“Heh. Go crush ‘em, ott. In a socially acceptable way.” She stood on her tiptoes and pecked a quick, little kiss to his lips, their whiskers brushing.

The otter blinked and smiled, pulled out of his ‘mood.’ “Right!” he announced, enthusiasm restored. He waved his bat like a sword. “Let’s play ball!”

The tournament was underway.

Channel 13 was currently fielding in the second inning, tie game.

A photographer had been snapping shots of Fib in action, as well as some more traditional portraits posing in front of the skyline.

“So, Meadow, is it?” the Indy Monthly reporter asked, sitting next to her in the bleachers.

She’d been easy to find (that golden fur glowed in the sunlight), being the only harvest mouse in attendance aside from Fib. The species, predictably, was more prominent in rural areas. Much rarer in the city.

The reporter (a fisher; similar to a marten) held her phone close to Meadow’s face.

“Yes. Uh. Are … are you recording this?” the mouse asked, nervously clutching a bag of ‘ballpark’ popcorn. Heavily sprinkled with butter-flavored yellow salt. She nibbled on a few pieces, eyes darting between the predator and the game.

“Of course. That a problem?” the fisher (Janine) asked, tilting her dark-brown head.

“No! No, I just … I thought reporters used pens and paper?” In between bites of popcorn, Meadow spritzed her whiskers with a mist-blowing fan. It kept her a bit cooler. “Or tape recorders?”

“Heh. Only in old movies. But I’m no ‘His Girl Friday’.” With a wink, Janine added, “I’m more a ‘Her Girl Saturday,’ you know?”

“I’ve never seen that one.”

“No, well, it’s not a real film. I’m just say—” Janine cut herself short, getting back on topic. “Just roll with me, mouse. The sooner I do this interview, the sooner I can get out of this heat.” It was getting more oppressive with each passing hour.

“Sorry. I just, uh … get self-conscious at the sound of my own voice, I guess.” It was so light. And squeaky!

“Well, I promise not to release the recording to the public,” Janine said. Showing her fangs, she joked, “Unless you give me a juicy scoop.” A pause, leaning in ever-so-slightly. “Are you? Going to give me something juicy?”

Meadow side-eyed the fisher. Was … was she flirting with her? She had that look that Petra got, sometimes.

“Now, first things first: what makes Fib a good Hoosier?”

“Oh! Well, he’s friendly and helpful, and he has a good community spirit!” Meadow praised, bestowing her mate’s virtues. “Like, a ‘Hoosier’ isn’t just someone from Indiana, you know? That’s the most important part. But! You can be an adopted Hoosier, too. By taking on the values: being someone who is caring and down to earth and, like … well … someone who is always there for you.”

“That’s very nicely put,” Janine said with a smile. “So! How did you two meet?”

“Me and Fib? Um, wellllll … he was a patient at my work.”

“Oh? Hooking up with patients, huh?” the mustelid said, perking a brow. Her tail swished. “Do tell!”

“No, it’s not like that!” Out of context, that did sound bad, didn’t it? “I’m … I’m not a doctor. Or a dentist. I’m just a secretary. I mean, no, I’m a receptionist! At a dentist office. Part-time, now, but I, uh, used to be full time.”

Deep breath!

“And he was a patient, and that’s how we met.” Meadow felt she had to elaborate further. “I didn’t look him up or anything! Our patient files are confidential, of course. No. We met naturally at the check-in desk, and … and he asked me out, and, well … we hit it off really quick.”

“Heh. You mean you fooled around on the first date?”

“Umm … we had a good time,” was Meadow’s diplomatic, ear-blushing answer.

“Niiiice. And how long have you been together?”

“Eight years.” Meadow counted on her paws. “Yeah. Eight. But it wasn’t a full mate-ship until five years ago. That’s when I sold my farmhouse and married him. And we got a place together in the city.”

“Country girl, eh? Mmmm,” Janine went. “I’ve known a few. Michigan is full of country girls.” That’s where she was from.

“A lot of fruit farms up there,” Meadow said, showing off her agricultural knowledge. When you were a ‘harvest’ mouse, you instinctively knew about things that could be harvested!

“Yup. Blueberries. Cherries. Apples.” The fisher skipped a beat, showing her fangs. “Peaches.”

Meadow blushed. Okay, she was definitely being flirted with! Oh, gosh. What was it about her that drew so much feminine attention? She’d never even kissed a girl!

Feeling way hotter than before (and she’d already been close to melting), Meadow pulled out a compact, lemon-yellow umbrella. She sprung it open and used her tail to hold it in the air above their heads. There was no one sitting behind them, so she could get away with it.

“Wait, you have a prehensile tail?”

“Harvest mice are the only species of mouse that do,” Meadow said (somewhat braggingly).

“That’s awesome. Bet it has some uses,” Janine said as she eyed Meadow’s rump.

“It … it comes in handy, sometimes.”

“Mmm.”

Meadow, adjusting the angle of the umbrella to keep them both in shadow, took a deep breath and asked, “You’re not going to use all of this?” She cleared her throat. “Are you? In the article?”

“There are, like, twenty Hoosier Who’s Whos. They’ll each get one page. I’ll edit the conversation way down.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Relax, mouse. Now, give me a few facts about Fib I can put as bullet points on the layout. What’s his favorite food?”

“Macaroni cheese. With bread crumb topping.”

“Always a comfort classic. Favorite movie?”

“It’s probably Twister. The first one. He likes the newer one for the science, but the first one is more romantic.”

“He’s a romantic guy, isn’t he?”

Meadow bit her lip. “Yeah … ”

“He has quite the fan club. Do you ever get jealous? Or possessive?”

“He’s never given me reason to be,” Meadow insisted, sipping her soda.

“Is he as sunny and dapper in private as he is on screen?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s not an act. He’s so endearing! Very obliging, too.” Chewing on more popcorn, Meadow added, “I mean, he only gets demanding during—” Catching herself, she stopped short.

The fisher prodded, “Duriiinnnng?”

“Um. Uh. W-weather stuff.”

“Really? Hmm. It seemed like you were say something else … ”

“No.”

“Sex, maybe?”

“No! I didn’t say that.”

“But you were about to.” Janine leaned in. “So, he’s really dominant in the bedroom, huh? Wow. Kinda surprising, honestly.”

Whiskers twitching, Meadow was saved from answering by a foul ball which bounced off her umbrella and rolled in front of her. She retrieved it and threw it back.

Patiently waiting, Janine didn’t miss a beat. “Or is it you?”

“Me? What about me?”

“Maybe he’s a confident, take-charge guy because you inflame that natural desire in him. A shy, soft-spoken country girl, all innocent, needing guidance … sounds like a recipe for sparks.”

Meadow blew out a breath. “Maybe ... ”

Letting her off the hook, the fisher chuckled. “You’re too precious. You and your mate. I expected to find a typical fakey media couple.” She turned her phone off and put it in her pocket. “I got enough. And don’t worry. My editors wouldn’t let me put anything naughty in the magazine, anyway. We’ve got a ‘classy’ reputation to protect.”

Meadow, relieved, tail still holding the umbrella over them both, sprayed herself with the mister before offering, “Want some popcorn?”

“Thanks!” Janine took the back and began munching. She had to interview a few other folks. Fib wasn’t the only Hoosier Who’s Whos in attendance. But a little break never hurt anyone!

Channel 13 ended up losing their first game to Channel 4 by five runs. And their second to Channel 59 by three runs. But they beat Channel 6 and Channel 8.

At 2-2 they were already eliminated from getting a bye, but their seeding was still undefined.

Their last game before knockouts was the ‘local celebrity’ wildcard team (The Sofa King, an eccentric squirrel who owned a local furniture chain and starred in his own comedic TV ads; a wolf duo who’d won a national reality show; the afternoon sports ‘drive time’ hosts on Indy FM radio; and the state house rep for the district the game was being played in).

If they won this game, Channel 13 would be the 3-seed and rematch with the ‘celebrities’ for a berth in the semis with the 2-seed (which was looking to be Channel 59).

Currently up 3-1 in the fourth inning, Baxter scuffed his webbed foot-paw on the mound, staring down the Sofa King. The otter chewed a few times, blowing a pink bubble with his bubble gum before giving an arcing, curved toss.

The breeze caught it a spun it away from the squirrel. It looked to be a ‘ball,’ but it suddenly veered back to the plate! The Sofa King swung!

“Strike two!” the umpire called.

The crowd clapped. (There was also an isolated hoot, as well as a half-holler.)

Baxter acknowledged the reaction with a tip of his imaginary cap.

Throwing a wiffleball was all about knowing your holes (and Baxter certainly knew about that!).

The plastic ball had eight holes carved into one side but zero on the other, so you could achieve ‘trick throws’ depending on how much air you allowed inside the ball.

Feeling himself, Baxter threw what should’ve been the final strike, but the breeze changed directions quite suddenly, turning a curve ball into a straight arrow pitch.

Sofa King made contact, and the ball flew high into the air. To the outfield.

“Fib, that’s you!” Baxter shouted.

The mouse craned his neck upward and shielded his eyes. Ack! The ball had gone into the sun! So bright! Where was—

Bonk!

The ball painlessly bounced off the mouse’s head, landing softly in the grass.

Fib squeaked, rushing to it! By the time he picked it up, the squirrel was on second base. Fib threw it as hard as he could! And the breeze blew it back into his chest. The spectators began to giggle.

“Angle the throw! Carve into the wind!”

The ball eventually rolled toward home plate. Long after the runner had scored. 13’s lead was now 3 to 2.

Baxter grumbled, blood pressure spiking. He glanced off field to Kendra, who was making a ‘take it easy’ gesture with her paws.

Despite Baxter’s angst, Channel 13 actually made the finals (which was further than they’d ever gotten!).

But, early on in the championship game, they were getting destroyed by Channel 4.

Kendra hip-checked her mate in what served as the ‘dugout.’ “It’s not your fault, Baxter. They have two bulls and a horse on their team. And a cougar! We couldn’t even match their power if we were all on steroids.”

“I guess,” he huffed. “I just don’t want to be ‘mercy ruled’.”

It was already 8-0 at the top of the third inning, and Channel 13 had 2 outs. If they didn’t score now (with runners on second and first), they weren’t going to make it to a fourth inning. Channel 4 was guaranteed to score at least two runs their next at-bat.

“If it’s any consolation, we have more local Emmys than they do?” Kendra claimed, ears standing tall. “And our ratings are better.” Though under the management of the cutthroat business jaguar Advent, Channel 4 had really closed the gap.

Baxter saw who was now at home plate. “Great. Fib. Might as well pack it up and go home.”

The short, gold-and-cream harvest mouse adopted an overly exaggerated swinging stance.

Baxter groaned, almost afraid to watch. Fib hadn’t gotten a hit all day! He may have been good at forecasting the weather, but he was not good at this.

The bull who was pitching for Channel 4 snorted, stomped a hoof, and threw the ball. It took a crazy, looping path toward the plate.

Fib swung!

His body turned a full circle in the aftermath, and he barely stayed upright.

“Strike one!”

Baxter glowered, tail slumping on the ground.

Kendra put her paws around her mouth (mega-phone style) and shouted, “Let’s gooooooo!”

Another throw.

Another whiff.

“Strike two!”

Baxter began to curse darkly under his breath.

“Be a little more supportive?” Kendra suggested with a frown.

“I really want to score!”

The rabbit amended dryly, “Let me put it this way: would you rather score now … or when we get home?”

Baxter blinked, sucking air before spontaneously clapping and cheering, “Come on, Fib! You can do it!”

The Channel 4 team was so confident that Fib would strike out they let the runners for 13 get huge head starts. So what if they stole a base? It wouldn’t matter when the mouse struck out!

At that moment, Meadow squeaked from the stands. “I believe in you, Fib! I love youuuuu!”

Fib, turning to beam and wave at Meadow in the stands, didn’t see the pitch coming at all. But the ball bounced off his stationary, outstretched bat and rolled forward, stopping halfway between home plate and the pitcher.

Solvang, with her head start, was already sprinting home before the others had processed what happened.

Fib had accidentally … bunted?

That never happened in wiffleball!

Did he even know what a bunt was?!

As the vixen barrelled forward, she yelled at Fib to, “Get out of my way! Go! Run!”

Fib took off in a tail-flailing scurry.

The fox scored.

The pitcher finally retrieved the ball but was torn on where to throw it! Home plate, where Jaye, the bobcat, was now headed? Or first base, Fib’s destination?

Making a split-second decision (not wanting to get beaten by a mouse), he tossed to first. Fib was out. But not before Jaye scored the second run, narrowing the gap to six and helping protect the team against being ‘mercy ruled.’

Solvang barked and pumped her fist, hugging Jaye as if they’d won the game.

JR raised both arms in the air, yipping loudly.

Fib, scurrying back to the others, was greeted with high-fives.

“Well, that worked out, didn’t it?” Kendra told Baxter as their team bonded before returning to the field.

Smiling, the otter shrugged and followed them, turning around and shuffling backward as he pointed at his mate with both paws. “I still wanna score!”

The rabbit blew back a kiss, promising, “Can’t wait to catch your fastball, stud.”

Evening, now.

After a long, hot day, the mice were finally home. Channel 13 had lost the championship game (by seven runs), but everyone had ultimately had fun.

The sun hadn’t set in their wooded, private neighborhood, but the sky was dimming.

Meadow, smelling of strawberry shampoo, emerged from the bathroom, golden fur damp and torso wrapped in a dark blue towel. She padded to the bedroom to get dressed.

Fib, watching the World Cup from the couch, cocked his head. Ears swiveling. He heard her, looked over his shoulder, and waited a strategic moment before getting up and wandering to the bedroom, too. (He’d showered first.)

Meadow noticed him in the open doorway.

They made quiet eye contact.

Fib, sauntering in, lustily ordered, “Lose the towel, Butterscotch.”

Minutes later, they were both naked, and Meadow was on her back in bed, thighs parted, pink foot-paws in the air. Her toes started to curl.

“Mm … mmmmf,” groaned Fib. Eyes closed. On his belly, he was eating her out. (They had yet to have supper, so he was extra hungry!)

Meadow gasped!

For the longest time, she’d been intensely self-conscious about guys going down on her. But Fib loved doing it, and he was so good at it … and … well … she enjoyed it, now. She was still blushing, of course, but it wasn’t out of embarrassment anymore.

Fib’s jaw worked overtime as his tongue scooped and swirled into her, easing back to glide and lick up and down her vulva, wetly painting her clit.

“Ah! Ahh!”

Without thinking, Meadow instinctively grabbed Fib’s blonde head, pulling him flush to her loins. In doing so, her fingers touched his lobes. Like hers, they were red with blood, capillaries showing. Quite erogenous.

Fib shuddered at the ear-stim, squeaking sharply. But he kept going, slurping and suckling, whiskers dripping with her clear juices.

Each time his tongue met her clit, she squeaked louder. “Ah! Fib! Ohh, Fiiiib … ” Her furless fingers outright drifted over his lobes. She couldn’t … she was gonna! Her face scrunched up. Tail whipped! Whiskers twitched! She was gonna—

Meadow squealed, thighs ‘crushing’ on his head as she tensed and arched and spasmed in orgasm.

Fib’s tail curled in delight. Not just at getting his mate off … but she’d unintentionally given him an ear-gasm! The hot, tingly sensation in his lobes broke containment, flushing through his face and upper body, going halfway down his chest before it stopped. It was only half the intensity of a genital orgasm, but, damn, it still felt good.

Meadow wriggled in frantic, fevered bliss before going slack. Her nimble paws slid to his bare shoulders, then to his flexing upper back, weakly clutching.

Fib pulled back and opened his eyes, nose sniffing, flaring, full of her scent.

She ‘unhooked’ him, thighs parting and paws retreating, restoring his full range of movement.

Fib slid forward and raised to all fours above her body, thick, pink erection visibly bobbling between his legs.

“S-sorry,” she told him.

“What for?” he cooed.

“I, uh, didn’t mean to squeeze you so hard … I didn’t hurt your ears, did I?”

He giggled. “Far from it. Though they’re still ringing from your squeaks.”

“I … I guess cause it was so good.”

“You guess?” he teased warmly, lowering his body to hers. “I looove making you cum.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup.” He kissed her. Slow and passionate, making sure she could taste herself on his lips. “In fact … there’s only one thing I like more.”

“W-what’s that?” she asked bashfully (why she, a grown adult, should feel so bashful making love to her mate? She didn’t know!).

“Cumming in you,” he huffed, groping one of her breasts. He kneaded it. Thumb wagging over her nipple. Then, he bent down to suckle it, popping off to ask, “Would you like that?”

“Y-yes … “

“Yeah?” He inched back up and nibbled her neck. “Want me to fuck you? Right now?” he breathed, already sliding his erection between her thighs, his tip dribbling on her pussy. He knew what her answer was going to be. “Say it, Butterscotch.”

“I w-want you … right now,” she insisted.

“What me to do what?” he murmured. “Hmm?” He moved his paws under her body, caressing her back. Hugging her. Whispering in her ear, “It’s okay. It’s just us, baby.” Their whiskers brushed. “What do you want me to do?”

“F-f … fuck me,” Meadow stammered. She was so polite. She never used such language! Fib found it super hot when she did.

“Louder.”

“Fuck me!” she begged.

“Mmm, good girl, Butterscotch … gooood … giirlllll,” he slurred, already pushing, sliding into her. Hilting balls-deep with a squeak. His face scrunched up. “Fuck,” he easily cursed, pulling back and thrusting, slamming forward. His need was such that he was immediately at a steady, unbroken hump. He just couldn’t stop himself!

Meadow’s body rocked, breasts jiggling.

Fib’s five-and-a-half-inch penis squelched lewdly as he plowed her, big, white-furred balls clapping rhythmically against her. Slap-slap-smack!

Meadow whined beneath him, hugging her mate with every part of her. Arms, legs, tail, sex.

Fib’s noises took on higher, desperate tones, ropy tail seeking hers out and loosely entwining with it.

“Oh! Ohh … ”

“Mm! Hmm!”

Drooling, buckteeth jutting, Meadow came again before she could warn him. She was just … and it was just … oh! So much!

Fib, seeing the look on her face, feeling, hearing her peak? He huffed, hilted, and squeaked as he ejaculated. Flooding her with potent seed. “Oh, yesssss … oh, fuck … !” He grunted a few times.

Meadow, trembling with residual pleasure, hugged him tight.

They panted, nosed, and nuzzled.

Fib praised, “That … oh … that was so, so good … you’re so good. Butterscotch … did you like that?”

She blushed, not knowing what to say to that. Just nodding. He’d done all the work! She kissed him.

He kissed back.

They made out for a minute before panting on each other’s cheeks.

“I love you,” Meadow breathed vulnerably, almost inaudible to anyone without mouse ears.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back, hugging her close. “So much. You’re my everything.”

She buried her nose against his neck, eyes watering.

Another minute passed, spent quietly cuddling. He soothingly stroked her pelt.

With a shiver, Fib finally pulled out.

Meadow squeaked gently.

“We’re gonna have to take showers again,” he said.

“I know. It was worth it,” she insisted with a dimpled, golden smile.

Sitting up and standing, he smiled back and extended a paw. Helping her out of bed. Planting a kiss on her cheek. “You go ahead. I’ll change the sheets. When we’re both cleaned up, we’ll go out to eat. Get some ice cream after. How ‘bout that?”

She beamed and nodded. “Okay! I’ll be quick this time.” She didn’t need to shampoo or condition her fur, having already done that. Just some hot water to the right places would do it.

Leaving the bedroom, she heard raucous cheers from the living room. The television (which Fib had left on). Apparently, someone had just scored a match-winning goal.

The mouse smiled as she turned on the shower.

While she had no allegiance to either team, she knew exactly how that felt!