Narita Airport was alive with movement — announcements echoing in both Japanese and English, the rhythmic shuffle of travelers, the scent of coffee and jet fuel mingling in the air.
Dranred stepped off the plane, his duffel slung across his shoulder. Charlie was already waiting for him near the arrival gate, grinning from ear to ear and waving like a proud parent.
"Welcome to Japan, Rookie!" Charlie called out, his voice booming even through the crowd.
"Stop shouting," Dranred muttered, suppressing a small smile. "You're embarrassing me."
"That's my job." Charlie patted his back as they walked toward the terminal exit. "Besides, this is a big deal. Not everyone gets to play on Japanese soil — especially not with the national team."
"I'm just here for an exhibition game," Dranred reminded him.
"Maybe," Charlie said, glancing sideways. "Or maybe this is where you start over."
The car ride from the airport to the stadium was quiet, save for the soft jazz playing on the radio. Dranred stared out the window, watching as the sprawling city gave way to quieter suburbs. His thoughts drifted — to the roar of the crowd he'd left behind, to Cal's words, to the image of Rosette holding a broken phone.
He pressed a hand against his chest.
Why does she still feel so close even when I'm half a world away?
When they arrived at the stadium, it was already buzzing with activity. The Japanese national team was practicing — their movements sharp, precise, almost poetic. The smell of grass and leather mitts filled the air.
Charlie tossed him a glove. "Let's see if those hands remember what to do."
Dranred slipped the glove on. It felt heavier than he remembered — not because of weight, but of meaning.
They stepped onto the field. The sun glared softly through the open dome, casting long shadows across the diamond. A few players recognized Charlie and waved; others glanced curiously at the tall newcomer beside him.
"This is Dranred," Charlie announced in English, his arm over his nephew's shoulder. "Our guest pitcher from the Philippines."
Polite bows followed. A few murmurs of "Basketball star?" and "He's switching sports?" echoed through the group.
Dranred smiled politely but didn't answer. Instead, he jogged toward the bullpen, picked up a ball, and took a stance.
The first pitch — wild. The ball bounced off the net.
He winced. Ten years... and my arm still remembers how to embarrass me.
The second pitch — cleaner, sharper.
The third — smooth, perfect form.
And by the fifth, the crack of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt echoed like thunder through the empty seats.
Charlie grinned from behind the net. "There's the Dranred I know."
For the first time in days, Dranred laughed softly.
The weight he'd been carrying seemed to loosen, if only for a moment.
As the practice went on, the coach of the Japanese team approached Charlie, speaking through a translator. "Your nephew has a natural rhythm. It's rare. He pitches like someone who's trying to find peace."
Charlie just nodded. "He is."
Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Dranred sat alone on the bleachers. The field was empty now, bathed in amber light. He could still smell the dirt, still feel the echo of his pitches in his arm.
He took out his phone again — no messages, no missed calls.
Still nothing from Rosette.
He sighed and leaned back, watching the first stars appear.
Maybe this was what Charlie meant — about finding his path.
Maybe peace didn't come from winning or losing.
Maybe it came from letting go.
Dranred wasn't at the third game of the finals—and the Phoenix fans made sure everyone knew how angry they were. Without him, the team fell again to the Falcons, now trailing 0–3 in the best-of-seven series. One more loss, and the championship would slip away completely.
During the postgame interview, reporters pressed the coach about Dranred's absence. The coach only said that the player was "handling some personal matters," but promised that he would return soon.
Meanwhile, in Japan, Dranred had once again shown his talent on the baseball field. His control, his timing, his composure—they all drew attention. The crowd loved him. The commentators couldn't believe he was just a guest player.
But that night, sitting alone in the locker room, he watched the broadcast of the Phoenix game. The team he'd trained with for years struggled without him. Every missed shot hit him like a weight pressing deeper into his chest.
"What is it that you really want, Red?" Charlie asked quietly from behind him.
Dranred didn't answer. He couldn't. Both games called to him—the court and the diamond—and he didn't know which was truly his.
"The final match of the exhibition series is this Sunday," Charlie continued.
Dranred turned sharply. "Sunday?" The same day as the fourth game of the finals. The one that could end everything.
Charlie smirked knowingly. "Why? Got plans?"
"None," Dranred replied, though his chest tightened.
"Tell me, Red," Charlie said, stepping closer. "Are you still playing basketball because of James?"
Dranred frowned, caught off guard.
"You're good at both," Charlie went on. "But today, your pitches felt lighter than before. Your heart wasn't in sync. I don't intend to catch half-hearted pitches."
Dranred blinked at him, stunned. Half-hearted? He'd never thrown that way—or at least, he'd never meant to.
"You've given ten years of your life to basketball," Charlie said, his tone softening. "Maybe it started as a debt you felt you had to pay. But somewhere along the way, it became something more. Don't deny that. You owe yourself the truth about what you love."
"Don't run away from basketball just because you're afraid to face your past," Charlie said firmly. "You know what your problem is, Red? It's James. He's your weakness. Instead of running from him and throwing your half-hearted pitches here, face him. Settle things like a man. Then come back and pitch again—this time, without the weight in your heart."
Dranred stared at him for a moment, confused. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you look lost," Charlie replied, sighing. "I told you before—I came here to mess with your head. Turns out, you really needed the push. I let you play these matches to help you figure out what you really want, but it seems you're still not mature en—"
He stopped mid-sentence when Dranred suddenly smiled and rubbed his forehead.
"What's so funny?" Charlie frowned.
"You could've just said that from the start," Dranred said, standing up with a grin.
Charlie shrugged. "Well, where's the fun in that?"
Dranred nodded. "Please send my apologies to the team."
"You're going back?" Charlie asked, watching as his nephew headed toward his room to pack his things.
"Yes," Dranred said simply. "I can't just let them be beaten like that. You're right—I need to face this head-on. Even if I play baseball right now, I'll never be satisfied knowing I left something unfinished. And besides—"
He paused.
"Besides what?" Charlie pressed, raising a brow. "Finish your sentence."
"Next time," Dranred said with a small smile. "I'll tell you next time."
Next time, he thought, when I finally talk to Rosette.
"That better be good," Charlie said, laughing softly. "I'll reserve seats for the seventh game. Make sure you show up."
Dranred waved as he walked away, grinning over his shoulder. Charlie stood there, watching him go, a proud smile tugging at his lips.
"That brat," he muttered, chuckling. "What a waste… he would've made one hell of a pitcher."
He walked to his drawer and pulled out a folded baseball uniform—the one made especially for Dranred. His name and number gleamed across the back.
Charlie ran a hand over the fabric, smiling. "Maybe next time," he whispered. "When you're ready."
He looked out the window, the faint sound of rain against the glass. "They'll see soon enough," he said to himself. "He's not running away. He's just finding his way back."