⚾ "Rosette!"
Dranred shot up in bed, his heart pounding. The image of her crying still clung to him — so vivid, it felt real. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the dream. Sunlight spilled through the curtains; somehow, the night had slipped away without him noticing. He remembered hearing his phone ring, Rosette's name flashing on the screen… but he hadn't answered.
"Dranred!"
His uncle's deep voice echoed from below. He groaned, dragging himself out of bed and down the stairs. From the landing, he could see Charlie and Peter standing in the kitchen. Charlie was already raiding his refrigerator.
"Do you have to be this loud in the morning?" Dranred muttered.
"Morning?" Charlie scoffed, pulling his head out of the fridge. "It's almost ten. You sleep like the dead, kid."
Dranred glanced at his watch — 9:12 a.m. He hadn't realized he'd slept that long. Maybe he wouldn't have woken up at all if not for that dream.
"What is this, a shrine to bottled water?" Charlie said, shutting the fridge door with a thud. "How do you even survive like this? What do you eat? Ice cubes?"
"Why are you here?" Dranred sighed.
"If I were you, I'd get married," Charlie said, taking a sip of water. "This big house deserves someone who actually uses the kitchen."
"Did you come here to criticize my fridge?"
"You're grumpy," Charlie teased. "Anyway, get dressed. The team's waiting. You promised me last night."
"I'm not going."
"So what, you'll stay here and sulk? Maybe punch a few walls? Or wear out your hands in the batting cage?" Charlie crossed his arms. "If you really want to shake off what's eating you, come be my pitcher."
Dranred blinked. "Pitcher? Aren't you the pitcher?"
Charlie grinned. "Not today, I'm not."
"I'm the catcher today," Charlie said with a grin, giving Dranred a playful shove toward the stairs. "Now hurry up and get dressed."
Dranred just shook his head as he climbed up to his room. Maybe Charlie was right — he couldn't just mope around all day.
After a quick shower, he stood by the door, his towel still draped around his shoulders. For a moment, his gaze fell on his phone lying on the bedside table. Almost without thinking, he picked it up and dialed Rosette's number.
Out of coverage area.
He tried again. The same response. The sound echoed in the quiet room, dull and heavy. He lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen for a long second before slipping it into his pocket.
"Who was that?" Charlie called from downstairs. "Girlfriend? Don't tell me the great Dranred finally has one!" His laugh rang through the hall.
"Just stop," Dranred muttered, walking past him. His voice was calm, but Charlie caught the faint shadow in his eyes — the kind that even laughter couldn't quite erase.
Charlie brought Dranred to a sunlit baseball stadium buzzing with energy. Today's exhibition match would feature the national team against Charlie's squad — a charity game meant to inspire young players and attract sponsors for the struggling league.
Dranred had assumed there wouldn't be much of a crowd. But as he stepped into the dugout, the sound of cheering fans and the sight of flashing cameras caught him off guard. The stands were packed.
"Hey!" called one of Charlie's teammates as they entered. The players were warming up — pitchers practicing in the bullpen, batters swinging in rhythm.
"Romeo!" Charlie greeted the man with a handshake. "This is my nephew, Dranred."
Romeo grinned and extended his hand. "So this is the Fire Ace you've been bragging about."
"Fire Ace?" Dranred repeated, shooting Charlie a questioning look. His uncle pretended not to hear, busy watching the others stretch.
"Didn't you know?" Romeo chuckled. "He talks about you all the time — how good you were back in the day. We also caught your basketball game last night. Rough loss."
"Charlie!" someone else called. "So you actually brought the basketball superstar here!"
Dranred blinked, taken aback. They knew about the finals? Of course they did — his name had been all over the sports feeds.
"Here," the team manager said, handing him a uniform.
He hesitated only for a second before taking it. "The locker room's that way," Charlie said with a grin, pushing him gently. "Hurry up — warm-ups start soon."
Moments later, Dranred emerged in full uniform. Conversations quieted as the team turned to look at him.
"See?" Charlie said proudly. "Told you he'd look like a pro."
"You really do," added the manager.
Dranred smiled. "Thanks."
"Let's see what you've got," Romeo said, tossing him a ball and his mitt.
As he stepped toward the mound for his first few pitches, the noise of the crowd seemed to fade. He felt the weight of the ball in his palm — familiar, steady. For the first time since the finals, Dranred's chest didn't ache.
The sunlight spilled across the field, soft and golden, bouncing off the bleachers as Dranred stepped toward the pitcher's mound. The cheers from the crowd blurred into a low hum, like distant waves rolling against the shore.
He tightened his grip on the baseball — smooth, familiar leather pressing into his fingertips. For years, that simple weight had felt like home. Somewhere beneath the ache of defeat and regret, the muscle memory stirred.
Charlie crouched behind the plate, giving him an encouraging nod. "Let's see if the Fire Ace still has it," he called, his tone half-challenge, half-pride.
Dranred took a deep breath. His eyes flicked to the catcher's mitt — his first target in months. Then, with a single exhale, he let the ball fly.
Whoosh—CRACK!
The pitch sliced through the air, thudding into the mitt with a sharp pop. A few players watching nearby whistled in surprise.
"Still got the speed," Romeo said, grinning. "That one clocked in fast."
Charlie chuckled. "Told you. He just needed a reason to throw again."
Dranred rolled his shoulder, the tension easing as he tossed another ball into his hand. He didn't notice it at first — the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. For the first time since the finals, he felt light.
Pitch after pitch, his rhythm returned. The hiss of the wind, the weight of the ball, the small satisfying snap each time it hit the mitt — everything synced together like muscle and memory dancing in harmony. The noise of the crowd faded completely, replaced by the steady beat of his own breathing.
Then Charlie stood up, pulling off his mask and walking toward the mound. "You see?" he said, placing a hand on Dranred's shoulder. "That's the look of someone who remembers why he loves the game."
Dranred blinked, a bit caught off guard. "It feels… good," he admitted. "Different. Calmer."
"It's not about calm," Charlie said quietly. "It's about truth. Sports, music, love — they all reveal who we really are when we stop pretending. Maybe that's what you forgot when you started playing for everyone else."
Dranred didn't respond. Instead, he looked down at the ball in his hand — a simple white sphere, yet suddenly it felt heavier, fuller, like it carried the weight of his entire journey.
From the stands, a few kids started chanting his name. "Fire Ace! Fire Ace!"
Charlie laughed. "Looks like you've got fans everywhere you go."
Dranred shook his head, smiling faintly. "Maybe they're just cheering for the game."
Charlie glanced toward the sky — a few gray clouds forming on the horizon. "Maybe. But remember, kid — the game always gives back what you put into it. Baseball, basketball… life. They're all the same."
As the announcer called the teams to the field, Dranred took one last pitch. He wound up, threw hard, and watched the ball soar like a flash of light across the diamond — clean, precise, free.
For the first time since his loss, Dranred didn't feel like the boy who failed under the lights. He felt like an athlete again — no cameras, no rivalry, just the pure rhythm of motion.
And somewhere deep inside him, something that had been cracked since the finals began to mend.
As Dranred threw one pitch after another toward Romeo, the sharp sound of the ball hitting the mitt echoed through the stadium. With every throw, memories came flooding back — afternoons spent on dusty fields, the scent of leather and sweat, the thrill of competition.