A/N: Hi everyone! Here is a new story that came from a prompt from Nat_Richonne on TITTD. She came up with this premise and was kind enough to let me write it! It's a bit out of my wheelhouse, as in pure tropey fluff with no angst, and Rick is not a cop! :o But I loved the idea and had to jump on it. Let me know what you think! PS this will be a slow burn

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"Hey! Any of you guys seen Jessie?" Rick had to raise his voice over the booming music and general debauchery that was roaring around him to get the attention of the handful of his teammates huddled around the bar. It was a Friday night, but the season was in full swing and they were supposed to be keeping things tame. However, what had been billed as a team-only get together at the first baseman's house, had quickly evolved into a block party with a professional D.J. and what looked like a bus load of VIP fans. He was ready to tap out and get some rest.

Dixon and Ford failed to answer him, instead sharing a look that Rick couldn't quite decipher. Shane Walsh, or 22 as he was known, took a sip of his beer and threw an arm around Rick's shoulder, pulling him into the circle they had made. "Ain't seen her in awhile," he yelled, getting the attention of the girl tending bar and circling the air with his finger to order another round. "Have a drink with us."

"Nah, I'm done," Rick said, refusing the beer Shane was trying to shove into his hand. "I'm gonna take Jessie home, then get some sleep. Y'all should be calling it a night too. We gotta be on the field at 8 a.m."

"That's six hours away, Cowboy," Ford said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Let loose a little. We remember your rookie days, we know you can handle it."

By handle it, Rick knew he was referring to the days when they would show up for practice dehydrated and exhausted, and try not to puke in front of a line of reporters as they ran suicides up the baselines. He had let himself partake in that kinda thing when he was younger, and just a number on the roster, but now he was a captain and one of the biggest faces of the team. He prided himself on managing his career thus far without any of the scandals or bad reputations that some of the other guys had to pay big bucks to make go away. That's why he was going to finish the last sip of his one and only beer for the night, find his girlfriend, and go home.

"Maybe next time," he said. "Besides, season's barely started, let's get a few more wins under our belt before we start celebratin' too hard." He reached across his buddies and set his beer bottle on the bar, then gave a nod and a fist bump to his catcher. "Don't leave me hanging out there tomorrow, Dixon," he said, intending to leave them to their own devices, but Dixon tossed his own beer back and followed him as he turned to leave.

"Hold up," he said, hustling until he was right at Rick's side as they crossed the room. "We gotta chat."

"Walk with me," Rick said. "I gotta find Jessie." He stepped through the slider into the private courtyard where the party had spilled out into the chilly April air, and scanned the crowd. Dixon was right on his heels as he weaved through groups of people, dancing and much, much more on the cobblestone patio.

"That's the thing," Dixon said, in a sort of whisper shout that Rick strained to hear. "It's about-"

Rick felt Daryl's hand latch onto his shoulder, just as he skidded to a stop in front of the eight-person hot tub at the center of the yard. It had apparently been commandeered by a lone couple who were doing a poor job at using the frothy water to hide what they were doing. It wasn't the obvious thrusting, or the moaning that could be heard even over the speakers that stopped Rick short though; it was the red and white, polka-dotted bikini and bleach blonde ponytail that he recognized immediately.

"Jessie?" he called, not quite loud enough to reach her over the sounds of the party. He watched as a pair of hands emerged from under the water, moving up his girlfriend's back, and the strobe lights from the DJ booth flickered over a large gold ring that instantly gave away the identity of the other party, despite his face being hidden in Jessie's cleavage. There was only one guy on the roster who had won a World Series, and John Negan was never without the momento.

Negan had been acquired by the team at the beginning of the season, in the hopes of adding another power slugger to the lineup to replace the recently retired T-Dog Douglass. But even after months of Spring training with the team, he had yet to ingratiate himself into the core group of players who had been playing together for the last few years. In fact, there wasn't one other guy on the team that Rick could think of who actually liked the son of a bitch. As a veteran player, and a leader on the team, Rick had attempted to sooth the tension that his presence had brought to the clubhouse, but apparently someone else was going to have to take on that role now, because he was about to bury his fist in John Negan's jaw.

He stormed over to the side of the jacuzzi, just as Jessie threw her head back, tossing Rick's cap that she had borrowed into the water, and catching his eye.

"Rick!" she yelled, jumping up from her spot straddling his new teammate, and moving quickly to adjust the front of her bathing suit that had all but been removed. "I…"

"Save it," Rick growled, turning his sights on Negan. Daryl's hand was still squeezing his shoulder, and he tried to shake it off and lunge for the smirking asshole in the hot tub, but his friend used his other hand to wrap around his bicep and hold him in place.

"Aw shit," Negan said, his toothy grin and relaxed posture causing white flashes of rage to appear in Rick's vision. "Grimes, is this your girl?"

Rick struggled against Dixon's hold, but the catcher had about 30 lbs on him, and he couldn't break free.

"Christ, I feel bad now," Negan smirked. "Here I thought she was a free agent the way she was grinding on my pole just now." He sucked his teeth and shook his head in faux remorse, and Rick narrowed his gaze, a vision of murdering the star hitter with his own bat playing in his head. Negan turned to Jessie who looked as though she was about to burst into tears. "You shoulda told me, sweetheart. I mean, not saying we couldn't a still banged, but I like to know what I'm getting into."

"Rick, I'm so sorry," Jessie cried, tears falling freely from her eyes now. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Now don't blame her, Grimes. It's me. I just have a certain appeal with the ladies. Though, don't know if I'd call her a lady after what she and I just did, but I'm sure you know what kinda little freak you got."

Their voices were barely registering in his ear as Rick's heart pounded out a war cry in his chest. He was a pretty even tempered guy for the most part. Not much set him off, but something about Negan set a lot of people off. He wasn't sure if it was Jessie, or his bruised ego, or just the culmination of something a long time coming, but he was seeing red and if hadn't of been for Daryl, there would have been no stopping the violence that was begging to be let loose.

A small crowd had gathered around them now, multiple pairs of wide eyes peering over brightly colored cocktails, and Rick suddenly remembered the relatively public guest list and all of their cell phone cameras and social media accounts. He took a step back, willing himself to reclaim his composure before he could make a mistake neither of them was worth.

He cocked his head to the side, his narrowed gaze bouncing back to Jessie. Her features all of a sudden looked plain and common, instead of sweet and girlish as he'd originally found them. They'd met on a random Tuesday trip to the grocery store, six months ago. It was one of the few chores he held onto to make him feel normal in the midst of a very public life. She hadn't recognized him, which pleased him immediately, but it was her Southern accent that really drew him to the blonde with the girl next door appeal. He had earned the nickname The Cowboy his first year in town, because of his thick accent and his ever-present boots, and hearing a similar inflection in the middle of the New England metropolis, had him courting nostalgia. He asked her out, and she accepted. They'd even gone out a couple of times before he revealed that he was the starting pitcher for the local pro team, something that had never been able to hide before. But even after that, her lack of sports knowledge, and fellow transplant status, allowed them to have a fairly quiet and normal relationship for the last half of a year. She'd met his son, spent time with his friends who weren't teammates, and he'd even flown her down to Florida for a week during the preseason.

This was the first time he had brought her out to this type of event, though. She knew most of the players, and their wives, from the quieter get togethers they had away from the spotlight, but tonight he had wanted to show her the more glamorous side to his profession. He thought they could marvel at the pomp and excess together, in small town camaraderie, before retreating back into the quiet life that he tried his best to lead. She was a sweet girl; she deserved to enjoy the perks he came with, or so he thought. Looking at her now, he thought she deserved something else.

Sensing that Rick had retreated from the edge he was on, in that non-verbal way that pitchers and catchers excel at, Daryl let his grip loosen and Rick shrugged him off.

"You wanna call Jessie a cab?" Rick ground out, his jaw still clenched.

Daryl nodded, his own face pursed into a threatening scowl at the two.

"Thanks," he said. "Glad you had a good night, Jessie. I think the guy from TMZ is here, if you want your five minutes of fame with this asshole before he moves onto the next one. Ya'll enjoy your night. I'm going home."

"I'll see you out there tomorrow, Grimes," Negan hollered as Rick headed for the gate. "No hard feelings?"

…

The city's weather was far more fickle than its die hard sports fans. What had begun as a brisk Spring morning where your breath still appeared in the air and the fog at the top of the day still crystallized on your windshield, had graduated to an above average temperature under the unfiltered midday sun. The stadium was glistening, as was the clear blue sky, and the smell of the fresh cut grass and stale beer was riding on the very slight breeze that kept the air seasonal. It was the perfect day for baseball, Rick just had to get his head back from the night before.

He was perched on the thick rubber strip of the pitcher's mound, wiping at the beads of sweat that he had worked out of his forehead by crushing some cathartic fast balls into Daryl's dusty mitt. The sound was echoing off of the empty stadium, bouncing back to him in a powerful, satisfying refrain that served to work out some of his anger and sharpen his blurry senses.

Jessie and Negan had ruined his intentions of waking up bright eyed and bushy tailed after a good night's sleep. After laying a strip of rubber on the driveway on his way out of the party, he had taken advantage of the near empty suburban roads late at night to work out some of his rage with a heavy foot on the gas of his Ford F-250 Platinum pickup. The vehicle, though more practical for the New England winters than some of his teammates' pricey coupes, was still all flash and show, and it was the one indulgence he didn't mind flaunting. The guys all assumed he bought it in reverence to his highly marketable Southern boy image, and it did fit his nickname well, but in reality he had purchased it because it was the type of truck the teenage version of himself would have busted a nut over. It reminded him of the man he really was, beneath all of this temporary fame.

When he was done demanding she prove her six figure window sticker, he eased the truck into the three bay garage of his classic two-story Colonial, punched in his security code, and made his way into the sprawling granite kitchen. There was most likely a plate left for him in the refrigerator, prepared by his live-in nanny, Carol, but he wasn't feeling at all like eating after the night he had just had.

She had left a light on for him, and he could smell the evidence of freshly baked cookies wafting throughout the entire first floor as he moved into the living room to kick off his boots and toss his coat on the back of the couch. She and his son, it seemed, had enjoyed an evening of board games and popcorn, judging by the state of the coffee table, and the sight made him smile. Parties like tonight were a rarity for him; usually he'd be right there with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor, getting his ass handed to him in Pop-O-Matic Trouble by a six year old and a spikey-haired, middle-aged woman with all the tenacity necessary to handle his crazy life, from completing their domestic chores to caring for their mental health needs.

He sank into the oversized cushions on the leather sectional, and lay a heavy arm over his eyes, forcing them shut. He never invited Jessie to stay over on nights before game days, so he had already intended on arriving home alone when he'd left earlier that evening, but he wasn't quite prepared for the loneliness that had hitched a ride home with him.

He supposed if he really thought about it, that's what Jessie was. Someone to fill the space, to remind him of his roots, and to take up room in this oversized mansion that was clearly too big for just him, and Carol, and Carl. Carol was a Godsend, and he thanked the team's relocation coordinator every day for matching him with her, but she couldn't fill the one hole that he was still left with after all of life's I's were dotted and T's were crossed; the part of life that the heart lived was the only thing left to deal with.

His profession didn't leave him wanting for female attention, and he'd soaked it up like the sun the first few years, but finding someone who didn't care about the fame or the glory of being on the arm of a pro ball player had been near impossible. He thought he'd finally found someone who wanted more than that in Jessie; someone who was impressed by something other than his job, but clearly she was more susceptible to that lifestyle than he thought. Being suddenly forced to perpend that hole again had him tossing and turning long after his more zealous teammates had surely ended their revelry and turned in for the night.

Rick and Daryl were finishing up their first hour of private practice with the rest of the bullpen, when the other players started to arrive. After lining the private parking lot with sports cars or chauffeured town cars, they filed in small groups of two or three through the locker room where they hung their street clothes and wandered into the dugout, as Rick lobbed a few more over home plate.

When enough of them had arrived, the manager called him off the mound and gestured for him to head toward the training room while batting practice got started. Just as he was wiping the dust from his glove onto the side of his pants, he spotted Negan strutting down the first base line, making his way to where a group of them were stretching in the grass. His smug smile and cocky strut had all of the rage that Rick had pitched into Daryl's mit boiling back up inside his gut. From his lack of sleep, to his new pissy outlook on life, there wasn't much Rick couldn't blame on Negan today, and he was eager for the opportunity to blame him properly.

"Hey, Morgan, I'm feeling a little stiff," he called to the manager, winding his arm around in an attempt to convince the man. "Let me at a few of the guys."

"Alright, Grimes," Morgan said, his eyes on the clipboard he was studying. "Just don't over do it."

"Yes, sir." Rick nodded his head in the direction of the mound, letting Daryl know he wasn't done, and the catcher got back into position behind the plate. They tossed a couple back and forth to keep his arm warm, while eyeing the batting coach as he put the lineup together.

Shane stepped up to the plate first, swinging his bat around and smacking loudly on his ever-present wad of dip. "Going against Grimes today, eh?" He stepped to the plate and pointed his bat at Rick with a cocksure grin. "Guess Morgan wants to take it easy on us, cause he knows we had a long night."

Rick laughed at his friend, watching for Daryl's signal beneath his mit. He offered him a few slow pitches, and a knuckleball that Shane knew well, and he handled them easily, before trotting off to take a spot in the field to work on some ground balls.

Just as Rick had hoped, Negan was next up. He leaned back on his heels, pretending to study the stitches on the ball as Negan went through his batting rituals; tapping the corners of the pate with his shoe, kissing the end of the one and only bat he ever used, crossing himself. Everything the guy did was a production, a show. Even Jessie, poor stupid girl, she was just a way for him to assert himself, make up for some shortcoming that had yet to be revealed, but they all knew he harbored. She had fallen for it and she paid the price, but this wasn't about her anymore. John Negan had this coming for a long time, and Rick had had about enough. It was time to remind him of the pecking order around there, and he just happened to have given him the perfect excuse.

Negan finally stepped into the box, hoisting the bat high over his shoulder. Once he had settled into his stance, Daryl gave Rick a signal for a change up pitch, which he quickly shook off. Rick had a lot of pitches in his arsenal. He had even been known to switch to a Southpaw for the occasional trick play, but what he was really known for was his control, the way he could match the speed and velocity of any fastball pitcher in the league, but with an added precision that the rest of them could only dream of. He could put it exactly where he wanted, and have it arrive before you even saw it coming. Until now, he had only used his powers for good, but every man had his breaking point.

After shaking off the next two signals from Daryl, and earning a knowing glare through the cage of the catcher's mask, he finally saw the flick of a single finger beneath his mit, and nodded his approval. Nothing less than a fast ball would do. Rick leaned back on the rubber, and adjusted the brim of his hat, before bringing the tip of his glove eye level. When he had zeroed in on his target and plotted the exact course of the ball, he reached back with one wide swing of his arm, and sent it speeding like a freight train exactly an inch and a half from the plastic shield of Negan's helmet.

Daryl jumped from his squatted position, snatching the ball from the air and holding it captive while he squinted up the path to the mound.

"What the shit!?" Negan yelled, stumbling backwards a step, before gathering his composure.

"Just slipped," Rick called back, nodding for Daryl to send the ball back.

Negan quickly rearranged his shocked features into his signature smug grin, stepping back into the box. "This about last night?" he yelled, repeating his ridiculous routine. "Christ, I said I was sorry, Grimes. Look, maybe she'll take you back. Lord knows I'm done with her."

Rick ignored his soliloquy, focusing instead on his next pitch. This time he didn't wait for Daryl's advice, pulling back and launching another missle so close to Negan's groin that the breeze from its force rippled his uniform pants. Negan leapt out of the way, letting out a yelp that sounded like it came from a kicked puppy and Rick couldn't help the chuckle that left him.

Negan rested his bat on his shoulder, pulling off his batting helmet and shielding his eyes with his free hand. "You and me got something to hash out, Grimes?"

"Do we?" Rick replied, tossing the ball up in the air and snatching it with his glove.

"You tell me, you prick. We both know what you're doing."

"What the hell is going on?" Morgan yelled from the sideline, the break in the action having caught his attention. "Negan, get back in the box or forfeit your spot. I don't have time for this."

"Get back in the box, man," Daryl said, trotting up the lane to meet Rick on the mound. He lifted his mask and looked Rick in the eye. "You done?"

Rick scratched at the thick stubble sprouting on his jaw, a team tradition when they were on a streak like they had going now, having won the first five games of the season. "I'm done," he said, with a resolute nod. He'd made his point.

"Good," Daryl said, turning for the walk back. "And nice one."

When Daryl was back in position, Rick set up to finish Negan's turn with some easy pitches, but before he could get the first one off, he heard Negan begin to whistle a tune. His musical offering got louder and louder until he decided to add the vocals.

"Let your man know that Mr. Steal Your Girl is back," he sang, bouncing his head to the imaginary beat. "So let your man know that Mr. Steal Your Girl is back, back…"

Rick didn't recognize the song, but the lyrics alone were enough to snap the thin string of composure he was holding onto. He launched one more pitch past the tip of Negan's nose, then tossed his glove to the ground and marched toward home plate. Negan threw his bat aside and took off running to meet him. Rick already had his fist drawn, and he drove a glancing blow to Negan's jaw the moment they collided, whipping his head to the side with a satisfying crack. Negan returned with a hard uppercut, hitting Rick in the ribs and sending him to his knees. Negan swung again, his knuckles connecting with Rick's brow, and he felt his skin split. He scrambled back to his feet and hooked his arm around Negan's neck, trapping him while he delivered a few more kidney shots over the yelling and stampeding footfalls of his teammates.

Daryl got there first, yanking him by the shoulders until his grip loosened, and Negan fell to the ground, spitting and swearing. Shane and Abe had him pinned in an instant, and Rick watched as he struggled in their hold, his eyes wide with fury. His hand was throbbing and his forehead was dripping blood, but he still pressed against Daryl's arms, he wanted another crack at him.

Morgan came to a skidding stop at the scene then, and despite the rage that was still roaring between them, both men stopped their squirming at his arrival. "Grimes, Negan, my office. Now!"

…

"I don't give a damn what this is about." Hershel Green, team owner and fellow Southerner, paced in front of their two bruised faces, glaring his disapproval. Morgan was perched on the desk behind him, his arms folded across his chest and his face serene. After breaking up the altercation, he'd been mostly silent as they took their spots in front of the big boss, waiting for damnation.

"He's clearly unhinged," Negan continued. He was new to Hershel and hadn't learned yet to just shut up and take it when to came to their boss. Rick knew he didn't have to say much, Negan would hang himself in due time.

"Did you hear what I said?" Hershel boomed. "Neither one of you is playing today, looking like that. Do you know how many reporters were out there on that field? You know how many pictures are probably already being sold?"

Rick hung his head, an exhausted breath escaping from his lungs as he rubbed at his temples. Five years of keeping a clean nose out the window. He was contemplating what it would take for this little incident to fade from the public memory, when Hershel tossed a live grenade into his train of thought.

"You're both suspended," he said.

Rick's head snapped up in disbelief. "Suspension?"

"Yes, Rick. What did you think was going to happen when you punched our star hitter in the face in front of the entire city?"

Negan chuckled under his breath, and Hershel swung his head around to face him. "And you? I don't know how things worked where you're from, but Grimes is a captain on this team and you will respect him. We may have paid a pretty penny for you, but his name sells the tickets and merchandise that allowed us to bring you here, and gave you the opportunity to play for the number one team in the East this year. Fall in line, or when you get back from this suspension, you'll be riding the pine until you do. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," they both chorused.

"Good, now Negan get out of my sight. Grimes, Morgan, stay a minute."

Negan rose from the chair and left the office with all of his swagger intacted, while Rick glared after him.

"Rick," Hershel said. "I don't have to tell you that this isn't good. I meant what I said about your name being the face of this organization. I can't afford to have it tarnished because of some stupid feud with Negan."

"Yes, sir," Rick said, his shoulders slumped and his head pounding. "I lost my mind there for a moment. I promise it won't happen again."

"The damage is already done, Rick." He nodded to Morgan who pulled out his cellphone and hit a few keys, then turned the screen so the trio could see it. A photo of Rick being restrained by his catcher, with blood streaming down his face, was already posted to the the local paper's Facebook account and the story was already trending.

"We have to do some damage control," Hershel said, turning to speak to Morgan.

"I'll call the PR department right now."

"Wait," Hershel said, with a hand in the air. "I'm thinking we go beyond hiring a publicist and doing the typical rounds with the vultures that posted these pics in the first place. What we need is a better story to steal the coverage."

"What are you thinking?" Morgan asked, as they continued to discuss his fate as if he weren't even in the room.

"I have a friend whose daughter is a local freelance journalist. Grimes has been here five years now, and we haven't had to pay off a single woman who claimed he scorned her, or a single reporter who'd snapped pictures of him doing something morally reprehensible, or worse, illegal. We know the lives most of these guys lead; someone as squeaky clean as him is a story in and of itself."

"So we commission her to write a glowing piece about Grimes', then what? How do we get it to the public if she's a freelancer?"

"Easy," Hershel replied with a mirthful grin. "She's dating the editor at Sporting News."

...

"So you want me to write a promo story on one of your ball players?" Michonne Anthony was lounging on the couch of her two bedroom condo in the Arts District, sipping a hard earned glass of wine, and considering the outlandish request from her closest family friend.

"Not a promotional piece," Hershel said. "A feel good exposé. Something people can smile at when they read."

"So, a fluff piece."

"A human interest story."

Michonne rolled her eyes at how bad of a salesman her honorary uncle was, despite his profession. Hershel was old money who had used his fortune to indulge in his most favored hobby by purchasing a professional baseball franchise, but a businessman he was not.

"Uncle Hershel, you know sports is Mike's forte. I cover current events, politics."

"This is great practice then. Politicians have way more scandals than professional athletes. You can be like that Olivia woman from that show...what's the name of that?"

"Scandal."

"Right. You can be like her. Cut your teeth on a good guy who happens to have a quick temper, before you get into the stuff the real scoundrels are doing."

She sighed dramatically, emptying her glass and rising to pour herself a second. "Absolving someone of their crimes isn't exactly the unbiased journalism I set out to do."

"Oh, what crimes, Michonne? The man got into a little dust up. I promise you, you aren't being asked to be a party to any cover-ups or even to embellish the truth. You'll see, he really is a good egg."

"So what if I find some dirt in all this digging?" she asked, leaning on the fridge door while she considered his proposal. "I'm still being fair and impartial?"

"I tell you what," Hershel said with a rumble of laughter. "You find any dirt, and I'll double your commission."

"Deal," she said. "When do I meet him?"

"Come to the stadium tomorrow morning. I'll buy you a hot dog and a slurpie, and introduce you to the one and only Rick Grimes."