The morning after their first provincial match came in quietly—just like the loss. There was no dramatic rain. No thunderstorm to wash away the pain. Just sunshine through paper-thin curtains in the cramped guesthouse room they shared.
Haruto sat on the floor, tying his cleats in silence. The faint sting in his shoulder was back—not enough to raise alarms, but enough to remind him. Today, they faced Ichiran Middle, a team known not for power, but precision. A team that won not by beating opponents into the dirt, but by waiting for them to crack.
"We'll take it slow today," Sōta said beside him, lacing his own shoes. "Their clean-up hitter doesn't swing early."
Haruto nodded, not answering.
Their game was scheduled at the secondary field—less crowd, smaller stands, but still official turf. The dugout smelled faintly of pine and rubber. As they walked toward the field, Reina passed out bottled water, her expression unreadable.
Coach Inoue hadn't sent any new notes. He had been warned again by the principal to "stop involving himself unofficially."
So they were truly on their own now.
The scoreboard reset. The field groomed.
The bell rang out.
Top of the first.
Haruto pitched with more control this time. Not as wild. He leaned on his fastball early, saving the curve for tight moments. It worked for the first two innings. Strikeouts. Pop flies. Double play in the second that sent the team running back to the dugout with their shoulders a little higher.
But Ichiran wasn't reacting. They were studying.
And when the third inning came, so did the small cracks.
Haruto's third pitch to their #6 batter—curveball inside.
The batter barely flinched.
Crack.
A sharp grounder toward second base. Takeshi lunged. Missed.
Sōta called for a low pitch next.
Haruto nodded.
He threw.
The ball dipped.
But… just as it crossed the plate, the sound wasn't right.
Thump.
The ball hit the edge of Sōta's mitt and rolled behind him.
Passed ball.
Runner advanced.
Next pitch—same call.
Another dip.
Another miss.
A pattern began to form.
The Ichiran dugout murmured. The batter smiled.
They knew.
Sōta had begun to struggle with Haruto's curveball.
Reina squinted from the dugout, whispering to herself, "He's off… no, it's the catch timing…"
By the end of the third inning, Ichiran scored two runs, not because Haruto was off—but because Sōta couldn't read the late drop. Haruto adjusted mid-game, switching to high fastballs and short changeups.
But the message was out: Furukawa's catcher can't hold curves consistently.
On the field, Sōta didn't say anything. But each missed frame added a weight to his shoulders. Each foul ball caught late. Each stare from the ump.
"Are you okay?" Haruto asked between innings.
Sōta just nodded. "I've got it."
But Haruto saw the truth. The tremor in his friend's gloved hand. The sweat dripping too fast down his temple—not from heat, but from shame.
Bottom of the fifth.
Furukawa still hadn't scored.
Jun swung hard—line drive to right field. The crowd gasped—but it curved foul.
Ayumu bunted but was tagged out before reaching base.
Reina closed her eyes in the dugout. We need a spark… just one run… something.
But nothing came.
Top of the sixth.
Ichiran's clean-up batter returned.
Sōta called for a curveball.
Haruto hesitated.
Then threw.
It was perfect. The kind of curve that drops like a falling feather.
But—
Thwump.
Missed again.
Runner on second.
The ump didn't react, but the Ichiran dugout erupted in whistles.
Haruto clenched his jaw.
On the next pitch—he went with a fastball instead.
Too predictable.
Crack.
It sailed into left center.
Run scored.
0–3.
That's when Haruto noticed something.
Rin Katsuragi wasn't in the stands today.
No scout eyes. No pressure.
Just themselves, the game, and this widening silence.
Bottom of the sixth.
Takeshi slammed a double.
Finally.
Then Reina shouted, "Go! Go! Go!"
Haruto ran to the plate. His stance wasn't pretty—but it never had been.
Pitch.
Crack.
Line drive—but caught.
Out.
Ayumu hit next—bunt, again.
Out.
Takeshi never made it home.
They walked back to the dugout slowly.
Sōta sat alone.
He didn't look up.
Jun sat next to him, patting his shoulder.
No words.
The seventh inning came and went fast. Three up, three down.
The final score:
Ichiran – 3 | Furukawa – 0
Silence.
Again.
The team walked back to the locker room in a fog. Not angry. Not sobbing.
Just heavy.
Like something had slipped through their fingers before they even realized it was falling.
Reina sat beside Sōta near the back of the room.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
"I cost us the game," he whispered.
"No," she replied, "You caught a hundred pitches. You bled behind that plate. And you're not done yet."
Sōta looked up.
She didn't smile.
She didn't sugarcoat it.
But she meant it.
Haruto walked in and handed him his glove.
"Next game," he said, simply. "We'll figure it out."
The team gathered again. Quiet. But closer.
They had lost again.
Not because of talent.
Not because of heart.
But because at this level, every inch mattered.
Haruto glanced at the door one last time.
Still no sign of Rin Katsuragi.
But that was okay.
Not every game needed to be witnessed.
Some games were just for the team.
For learning.
For surviving.
And this one—they survived together.
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