An athletic, masculine man named Jacob plays baseball in college. He doesn’t know why, but he feels uncomfortable in his body. He reluctantly gives in to his desires to crossdress. Over weeks he learns how to dress better. He eventually decides to drop baseball and transition into a woman named jasmine. Jasmine finds a really attractive man at the bar and lets him take her home to have sex. She learns that she likes men.

Chapter 1: Introduction

The scent of freshly cut grass and sunscreen filled every breath I took, the ballpark heat beating against my skin. A kaleidoscope of uniforms scattered across the field, a flutter of motion against the afternoon sun. The clamor of my teammates shouting their pre-game chants only shoved my unease farther down my throat.

"Batter up! Batter up! Batter up!"

Jacob Whitmore. Outfielder for Franklin College.

Fast. Strong. Driven. Yet as I adjusted my cap and tucked my sweaty locks underneath – locks destined to be cropped short and bristly next week – I couldn't escape the sense of confinement.

Tight pants clung to me like a second skin, rough and restrictive compared to the silky garments I'd grown fond of in solitude. The rough scratch of the jockstrap made me long for the dainty lace I'd stolen from my mom's drawer.

Whispers of taffeta, flowing skirts, and blouses with feminine curves intoxicated my mind. They made the lingering sweat, mud, and testosterone seeping from this concrete battlefield repulsive.

Coach Walters' voice boomed as he motioned to me. "Whitmore! Get your head in the fucking game!"

I forced a nod and trotted to home plate, gripping my bat just as I would any opponent.

But the rough texture of the pine on my calloused palms couldn't suppress my fervent craving for lace, for touch so much gentler than this.

In the dugout, scuffed metal cleats shuffled as my teammates paced in anticipation. Still, that same gnawing disquiet chewed at me. Like a secret gnashing away at the foundations of who I was supposed to be: Jacob, the jock; the unstoppable force in the outfield.

Their eyes, those of my teammates, held all the judgments I'd feared for years, so I hid behind thick walls of muscle and sweat.

"Let's see an actual hit this time, Whitmore!" a teammate teased. I cringed, forcing a smile to mask the internal dissonance. Muffled laughter echoed in the dugout; our banter bouncing around us like a morbid chant.

My heart clenched, stuttered beats that might have given away my predicament to the discerning eyes.

But they had no idea of the tempest that haunted me, how I wrestled with the two halves of me. Jacob: talented, athletic, masculine. And Jasmine: delicate, graceful, undeniably feminine.

The third inning roared to life like an untamed beast, and I took refuge in the field, welcoming the cold comfort of my ball cap against my neck, the familiar snugness of my glove.