The sky had returned to its usual softness—muted blues painted with hints of white, the kind that didn't scream for attention but simply hung there, patient. The rain from yesterday's match had soaked the practice field enough to leave the bases a little softer underfoot, but no one complained. In fact, no one said much at all.
The silence wasn't unusual on this countryside team. They had always trained with more action than noise. But today… there was a different kind of quiet. The kind that pressed on the lungs.
Haruto jogged toward the mound, right arm tucked tightly against his chest like it had become a habit. He hadn't thrown a pitch since Reina had scolded him—no, begged him—to rest. Not a real one, at least. Just the phantom motion, the twitch of muscle memory when no one was looking.
Jun stumbled trying to catch a routine grounder at second. The ball rolled past him, came to a stop somewhere near the chalk line. He cursed under his breath and shuffled over to retrieve it.
"Again," Takeshi said, with a short edge in his voice. Not quite a shout. Not quite friendly, either.
Jun ignored him.
"Again!" Takeshi repeated.
Jun turned around slowly, the ball now resting in his palm. "I heard you the first time."
"You gonna act like that in a real match too?"
Sōta, crouching behind the plate, exhaled a quiet sigh. He stood, stretched his legs, then added calmly, "We're practicing, not auditioning for the military."
Takeshi shot him a look. "We've lost two games. And we're not even playing like we care."
"Some of us are trying," Jun muttered, more to himself, but it was loud enough to carry.
The ball fell silent between them.
Even the cicadas seemed to pause.
Then Takeshi took a step forward. "Then try harder."
"You think yelling makes you captain now?"
"No one else is leading."
Jun's glove hit the ground before the words finished. "You're just pissed because Haruto's sitting out and no one's handing you the ball."
Haruto looked up at the sound of his name. His heart picked up, faster than it should have.
Takeshi's jaw tightened. "You think I want to be here covering for him?"
The others froze—Reiji, Shu, even little Tomoya who barely spoke. There had always been friction, yes. A team full of amateurs, barely stitched together by chance and pride, had to have some. But this was different. This was blame.
Jun's eyes flicked to Haruto. "He's hurting. You think he wants to sit on the sidelines?"
"No," Takeshi replied, softer now, but the bite lingered. "I think we all are. And some of us don't have the luxury to hide."
Haruto looked away.
Sōta stepped forward, his voice firmer this time. "Enough."
But no one moved. It wasn't enough. Not yet.
Haruto's voice cracked through them, quieter than the rest. "He's right."
They all turned to him. He wasn't yelling, not angry—but his eyes were tired, older than they should've been.
"I wasn't honest with you. About the pain. About the pitch in that last game. I thought… if I hid it, we'd win anyway. And we lost."
Jun blinked, unsure what to say. Takeshi opened his mouth, then shut it.
Haruto gave a small laugh, without joy. "I thought I could carry it all. Again."
No one interrupted him. He rarely spoke this much in one go.
"So yell at each other, if it helps. But don't forget what we are." His voice wavered. "We were never a real team. Not like Aoyama. Not like those city schools. We built this out of scraps. Broken bats. Borrowed jerseys. Half of you didn't even like baseball when we started."
Jun rubbed the back of his neck. "Still don't, sometimes."
"And yet we're here," Haruto continued. "So maybe we're not a team with talent. But we're a team with reasons."
Takeshi stepped back, ashamed, the fire in him flickering.
Sōta walked over and sat beside Haruto on the bench. "You were wrong to hide the pain, yeah. But none of us said anything either. We saw you win us those games. We just assumed you'd always be able to."
Haruto didn't answer. He looked at the empty field. The cracked scoreboard. The crooked third base line that Reina had re-drawn herself just yesterday.
The silence returned—but not as a weight. As a breath.
Coach Inoue stepped onto the field, hands in his jacket pockets. He had been watching from behind the fence the whole time. He didn't say a word, only walked over to the pitcher's mound and knelt down. He brushed the dirt smooth with the side of his hand.
Then stood.
"Start again," he said. "Five more reps. Then we run base relays."
The boys looked at each other. No one argued.
Jun jogged back to second, still quiet. Takeshi nodded at Haruto as he passed, eyes avoiding direct contact.
Haruto didn't pitch that day. He sat with Reina near the bench, watching the others work—scrappy, unpolished, disorganized. But this time, together.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and bats rested heavy on shoulders, the boys ran laps around the field. They didn't speak. Just the sound of feet against dirt, the steady rhythm returning.
From the bleachers, someone had left a note under Haruto's bag. He didn't see who.
It read:
"You don't carry this team alone. We carry you too. – M.N."
He folded it quietly and slipped it into his pocket. For the first time since the injury, he allowed himself to smile.
It wasn't over. Not yet. And maybe—just maybe—this fracture was the beginning of something stronger.