The wind was strange that morning. Not strong, not cold—just... off. Haruto Aizawa stood near the dugout, staring at the mismatched group of teammates stretching half-heartedly on the rough dirt field. Seven players. That's all they had managed to gather.
No right fielder. No substitutes. No proper uniform. This wasn't a team—it was barely a lineup.
"Seven players?" Reina scoffed, jotting something in her scorebook. "Guess we're aiming for creative defeat."
Haruto didn't answer. He was already walking to the mound, brushing his fingers across the seams of the ball. His eyes followed Sōta, his best friend and reluctant catcher, who was crouching behind the plate with a blank expression. The same blank expression he always wore right before everything went wrong—or right.
Their opponents, the Okabe Middle School team, looked amused. They had ten players, all in matching jerseys, laughing as they warmed up like they'd already won. One of them pointed at Daichi, the oversized kid trying to wear cleats too small for him, and burst out laughing.
"Just watch," Haruto muttered under his breath. "We're not here to impress anyone."
Coach Inoue stood silently by third base, arms crossed, bald head reflecting the grey spring sky. He wasn't technically a coach—he was their math teacher—but today he was judging, calling balls and strikes with the same deadpan tone he used when giving detention.
The first inning started as expected.
The first Okabe batter swung hard at Haruto's first pitch and sent it screaming down the third base line. Riku missed it by a mile. The outfield scrambled, fumbling the ball, and by the time it returned to the infield, the runner had already crossed home plate.
"0–1," Reina called out. Her voice cracked slightly. No one responded.
The next batter didn't even try. He walked on four pitches.
The third laid down a perfect bunt. Daichi didn't move. Neither did Kento. Bases loaded.
Haruto gritted his teeth. His control was slipping, the seams of the ball felt wrong in his grip, and his heartbeat was too fast. He glanced at Sōta, who simply nodded once.
"You're rushing. Breathe," Sōta said softly.
Haruto closed his eyes for a moment. Then, he wound up and threw.
Strike.
The ball cut inside sharp and fast. The batter looked stunned.
Another pitch. A curveball this time.
Strike two.
Gasps rose from the small, scattered group of onlookers. Even Coach Inoue raised a brow.
Haruto felt something change in his grip. The air around his fingertips pulsed. He didn't question it.
The third pitch was supposed to go low—but it didn't. As it left his hand, a soft gust of wind lifted it just slightly, altering its arc mid-flight. The ball curved unnaturally. Beautifully.
The batter swung and missed.
Strike three.
The air fell silent. Sōta blinked. Reina looked up from her scorecard.
"Did the wind...?"
Haruto didn't answer. He stared at his hand like it wasn't entirely his. The seams of the ball, the pulse in his palm—something had shifted.
The rest of the inning passed in a blur. Haruto locked in. Each pitch landed exactly where Sōta called. One by one, the batters fell, confused and muttering. They left the field with narrowed eyes instead of smirks.
Their turn to bat.
Daichi stepped up first. He held the bat like a mop, hands too close together, legs stiff. The pitcher on the other team grinned.
The first pitch? Strike.
Second? Another whiff.
From the dugout, Reina cupped her hands and shouted, "Daichi! Swing like you're swatting flies!"
Daichi chuckled, embarrassed. He adjusted his grip, bent his knees awkwardly, and—
Crack.
The ball flew over third base and landed just fair. Daichi bolted toward first, arms pumping wildly. Safe.
Their first base hit.
Sōta followed. He didn't swing once. He watched. Three balls. Two strikes.
Then he bunted.
The Okabe infield rushed forward, confused, panicked. Daichi ran. The throw was too slow. Sōta reached first just in time.
Reina nearly dropped her scorebook. "We're actually... doing this?"
Then came Haruto.
He walked up slowly, bat resting on his shoulder. Sōta signaled something behind him—curveball inside.
Haruto nodded.
The first pitch missed low. Ball.
The next—he swung. A soft, ugly hit—just enough to send the ball dribbling past the shortstop.
Daichi sprinted home.
Tie game. 1–1.
They played five innings before the teachers called it for time. No scoreboard. No ceremony. Just a scribbled 1–1 on the chalkboard leaning against a trash can.
Reina clapped once, then stopped. "We didn't win."
Haruto wiped his face with his sleeve. "But we didn't lose."
Coach Inoue said nothing. As they packed up, he walked past the bench and dropped something.
An old, faded playbook.
On the front was a note:
"You've earned it. Let's train for real."
Haruto picked it up slowly, as if touching something sacred.
For the first time, he smiled.
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End of Chapter 14