"Foolish brats!"
Dranred froze mid-windup, his hand still raised, when a familiar voice echoed across the field. He turned, and there stood Charlie, arms crossed, wearing his usual disapproving grin.
"Uncle Charlie!" Rosette exclaimed, eyes widening in surprise. Even James straightened up, gripping his bat more firmly.
"What do you think you're doing here?" Charlie said as he strode toward them. "Ah, never mind. I can already tell. But tell me, what kind of geniuses think they can play baseball without a catcher?"
"Huh?" Rosette blinked. That wasn't what she expected to hear. Judging by his tone, Charlie wasn't here to stop them—he was joining in.
"What's so shocking?" he continued, pulling a catcher's mitt from his backpack. "You can't expect me to watch two fools throw balls at each other without someone to catch them."
Rosette's jaw dropped. "You're not going to stop them?"
"Little girl," Charlie said with a knowing smirk, "how can you stop two athletes determined to settle things their way? Relax. This will be fun." He even winked at her.
"Unbelievable," Rosette muttered, rubbing her temples as Charlie crouched behind the plate. They're all impossible.
"You're really not going to interfere?" James asked as Charlie took position behind him.
"Waste of breath," Charlie replied casually. "You two are as stubborn as they come. Might as well see who's got the better arm now."
"You're weird," James muttered.
"Talk about yourself," Charlie shot back. "You don't need to challenge him like this—you already know how it'll end." He turned to Dranred with a smirk. "He's not the same college kid you used to know."
"I know that," James said quietly, tightening his grip on the bat. He'd seen Dranred pitch earlier. The improvement was undeniable.
"Here it comes," Charlie warned.
The words barely left his mouth when the ball blurred through the air. James didn't even see it leave Dranred's hand. A split second later, the snap of the ball hitting the mitt echoed across the empty stadium.
"First strike," Charlie announced, standing and tossing the ball back. "That was his fastball—but not the fastest one."
"Don't praise him too much," James muttered, irritation flickering in his eyes. He'd been caught off guard, that was all. He could see it clearly now. Next time, he'd hit it.
"Be ready for the second," Charlie called, settling back into his crouch.
"Stop acting like a commentator and just catch," James grumbled, stepping back into the batter's box.
Still as stubborn as ever," Charlie muttered with a grin.
Dranred wound up again. A few seconds later, the second pitch sliced through the air—faster this time, sharper, heavier. The ball thudded into Charlie's mitt with a resonant smack that echoed across the stadium.
"Strike two," Charlie called, tossing the ball back.
That bastard, James thought, smirking faintly. He's not holding back. Not that I expected him to.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Rosette. He saw the worry written on her face. So… who exactly are you worried about, little sister? Him or me?
He looked back at Dranred. I've never seen that fire in your eyes before. Maybe I wasn't really looking all this time, old friend. This won't be easy for you—I'll make sure of that. So give me everything you've got.
The next pitch came fast.
Crack!
"Foul!" Charlie barked, tracking the ball as it sliced across the foul line. Even he was surprised—it had looked like a clean strike. James had stepped forward, swinging with flawless timing.
Then came another pitch. And another.
Each time, James managed to foul the ball. The sound of the bat meeting leather rang again and again.
Charlie couldn't help but be impressed. No baseball background, and yet he's keeping up with Dranred's pro-level speed. Unbelievable. He could see Dranred's irritation building. Each foul only pushed him to throw harder.
"Red…" Rosette whispered. Watching the two of them was like looking back in time—back to when they were students, best friends chasing the same dreams. James would always challenge Dranred like this, swinging until he could match every pitch. Dranred, in turn, would only throw harder, more determined to win.
Is it still the same now? she wondered. No… not anymore.
This wasn't a friendly rivalry anymore. James wasn't testing Dranred's strength—he was testing his worth. His approval. His right to be with her. And all of it was tangled with a past neither of them had truly left behind—Estelle, the pain, the unfinished business.
Rosette clenched her hands. Red, you have to win. She shouldn't be picking sides, not between her brother and the man she… But it was the only way to make James listen.
"Ball!" Charlie announced suddenly. The first one of the match.
Dranred blinked in surprise. The pitch had slipped—his fingers had lost their rhythm. Too much strain, he thought. The exhibition game earlier had already drained him. And James wasn't giving him an inch.
He flexed his hand, feeling the faint sting in his palm. He's a hell of an opponent, he admitted silently.
His eyes lifted toward Rosette again. Even from the mound, he could see her anxious expression.
A small smile tugged at his lips. Such a worrywart.
I'll show him that I mean every word I said earlier. So rest easy, Dranred thought, tightening his grip on the ball. He drew a deep breath, feeling his pulse echo in his fingertips.
If I can't get past this, I have no right to chase the majors—or to stand by her side. That's why I can't lose.
Gathering every ounce of strength left in him, Dranred wound up for what would be his final pitch. This one carried everything—his pride, his feelings, his promise. He knew James wouldn't hold back either. After seeing all those fouls earlier, he could never underestimate his friend. No one else had ever matched his pitches like James could.
He respected him deeply. If James hadn't devoted himself to basketball—or if not for that old injury—Dranred might have begged him to join him in baseball. The fact that James was even standing here, playing despite that injury, only made Dranred's respect grow stronger.
He understood why James was doing this. Any brother would want to protect his sister. But Dranred needed to prove that his feelings for Rosette were genuine—that his heart was clean. That he was worthy of her.
"This is it," he whispered to himself.
He threw.
It was the fastest, cleanest pitch of his life. The ball screamed through the air with precision born of desperation.
James was ready.
Dranred's breath caught when James stepped forward and swung. The bat connected perfectly. Crack! The sound thundered through the stadium.