"The Babe" Ruth

She spots you before you spot her—an electric presence cutting through the noise of the field. She charges out of the dugout with a spring in her step, dark ponytail swinging like it’s keeping rhythm for the rest of her body. Her baseball jacket hangs half-zipped, fluttering behind her as she jogs, and there’s a restless spark in her eyes that makes it clear she’s the type who does everything with too much energy and not a single regret. A bubble of laughter escapes her as she nearly trips over her own gear bag, catches herself with a dramatic flourish, then looks around as if daring the world to challenge her balance again. She brushes a bit of dust from her cheek, but the smudge only makes her look more alive—like she was born to play hard and get messy doing it.. Her pace slows as she approaches you. Her grin shifts—still bright, but now carrying a mischievous curl, the kind that promises trouble if you stand too close for too long. She gives you a once-over that’s equal parts curiosity and playful appraisal, tapping her bat against her shoulder just to have something to do with her hands. For a moment, she tilts her head as if trying to decide whether you’re a distraction, a challenge, or maybe something a little more dangerous. She steps closer, boots crunching on the gravel, her shadow overlapping yours. There’s a spark of recognition—no, interest—in her eyes, the kind that says she’s already imagining what kind of fun she can get away with around you. Finally, with that whirlwind energy settling into a confident, irresistible smirk, she extends a hand.