"What the hell happened out there?" the coach barked as soon as Dranred stepped back into the dugout. His face was a storm of disbelief and anger.
Dranred didn't look at him. He knew what everyone was thinking — that he'd lost his nerve. He had been ready for this game, the most important one yet. But the moment he stepped onto the mound, something inside him faltered. His chest tightened, his pulse raced, and his throwing arm went completely stiff. For a terrifying moment, he couldn't even lift it. Before things got worse, he made the call to walk off the mound.
The crowd had erupted in confusion. Everyone wanted answers. Fans, teammates, even commentators were questioning what had happened to the Fire Ace — the star pitcher who had carried the national team this far.
Now, sitting on the bench, Dranred could feel the weight of their disappointment pressing down on him.
"Dranred, what's wrong? This isn't like you—" his uncle, Charlie, started, but the young man cut him off.
"I'm not in good shape to play right now," Dranred said quietly. "I'll be in the bullpen." He stood up to leave.
"Dranred!" Charlie snapped, grabbing his nephew's arm. "You don't just fall apart like this without a reason. Tell me what's going on."
"Every player has an off day," Dranred replied, pulling his arm free. His voice was steady, but there was a shadow in his eyes. "I just need to clear my head. Some fresh air."
Without waiting for another word, he put on his jacket and walked out toward the bullpen.
The coach exhaled sharply and turned to Charlie. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"
Charlie shook his head. "No. He didn't mention anything when we talked yesterday. But… maybe I should have noticed something. He's been off lately."
The coach's frown deepened. "He'd better figure it out soon — before this game slips away from us."
Meanwhile, Dranred reached the bullpen behind the stadium, away from the noise of the crowd. He stood there for a long moment, just staring at his right hand. The numbness was gone — but something still felt wrong. His arm didn't hurt, but it didn't feel right, either.
"What's happening to me?" he muttered under his breath. He wasn't afraid of the crowd or the pressure — he had faced that a hundred times before. He was looking forward to this game. It was supposed to be the match that proved him worthy of James's trust. The game that brought him one step closer to fulfilling his promise.
He took a deep breath and threw a pitch toward the net.
"Damn it." The ball flew wide, nowhere near the strike zone.
He tried again. Still off-course.
No matter how much he adjusted his grip or angle, his pitches veered out of control. It wasn't his mechanics — it was him. His body wouldn't listen.
He clenched his jaw and threw another pitch, harder this time. It hit the net with a dull thud — far from where it should've landed.
"Crap," he hissed. "It's still off."
At least no one could see him here. The bullpen was tucked behind the stadium, out of view from the stands. If anyone saw how badly he was throwing, it would only add to the tension already spreading among his teammates.
Dranred leaned forward, resting his forehead against his forearm. His pulse was racing, and frustration burned in his chest.
He was supposed to be their ace — the one who could handle any pressure, any challenge. But right now, he couldn't even trust his own arm.
"Red," Rosette whispered softly, watching him from the entrance of the bullpen.
Charlie glanced at her, concern etched on his face. "I don't know what's going on with him," he admitted. "He won't tell anyone what he's feeling. His pitches are completely out of control. Honestly, I think you're the only one he'll listen to."
He had run into Rosette just moments earlier near the stands, surprised to find her there—especially since Dranred hadn't mentioned she'd be watching live. When she told him she'd seen the score—Mexico leading three to nothing by the fourth inning—he decided to bring her straight to the bullpen.
Thanks to Nathan's determination and the team's regained rhythm, Mexico hadn't added any more runs since the second inning. Still, the tension was heavy, and Dranred's absence on the mound weighed on everyone.
"He's in this state during such a critical game," Charlie muttered, shaking his head. "Go talk to him, Rosette. Maybe you can snap him out of it." He gave her a faint smile. "And if you can, knock some sense into him while you're at it."
He opened the bullpen door and gestured for her to go in.
Rosette hesitated for a moment, watching Dranred from afar. He stood near the pitching net, his brow furrowed, eyes fixed on his hand as though it no longer belonged to him. Worry clouded his expression, and her chest tightened at the sight.
"You could've told me if you weren't feeling well," she said as she walked closer.
Dranred froze, recognizing that familiar voice. He turned sharply, eyes widening in disbelief. "R–Rosette? What are you doing here?"
"You said you needed a recharge," she replied, smiling faintly. "So here I am. Looks like you really—"
Before she could finish, Dranred stepped forward and pulled her into a tight embrace. Her words died in her throat, replaced by the warmth of his arms around her. For a moment, she simply stood there, feeling his heartbeat pounding against her cheek.
He held her like a man holding on to something slipping away.
"You've been through so much," Rosette whispered, gently patting his back. "And you're trying to carry it all on your own."
When he finally pulled back, there was a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes betrayed the exhaustion beneath. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? Who are you here with?"
"James came with me," she said. "He wanted to see your game. We were both shocked not to see you on the mound—and even more shocked to find the team down three runs. What happened to you? You're not sick, are you?" She reached up to touch his forehead, checking for fever.
Dranred chuckled softly and caught her hand. "Not there," he said, moving her palm to his chest. "It hurts right here."
Rosette sighed, though her cheeks flushed. "You can still joke at a time like this?"
"Who said I'm joking?" he murmured, his voice soft but sincere.
Her eyes drifted to his hand, which still held hers. "Your throws are off, Red. Is your arm bothering you? You keep staring at your hand after every pitch."
"You really are observant," he said, smiling faintly. "You always notice when something's wrong, even before I say it."
"I'm your number one fan," she replied with a teasing grin. "Of course I'd notice every little thing."
Her expression turned serious again. "Is your hand hurting? I heard from the crowd that you stepped down from the mound before the game even started. What really happened?"
He hesitated, gaze falling to the glove still resting in his other hand. "Would you believe me if I told you I just… froze up?"
"You? Nervous?" Rosette raised a brow. "You've been playing for ten years, Red. You've faced finals, championships, stadiums full of fans. This isn't your first big game."
"I know," he said quietly. "But when I stood on that mound earlier… my arm just wouldn't move. I was ready. I wanted this. But suddenly, it was like my body refused to obey. Before I embarrassed myself out there, I stepped down."
Rosette sighed, squeezing his hand gently. "That doesn't sound like the Dranred I know. Those hands of yours—they've inspired so many people. From basketball to baseball, they've never failed you."
She looked down at his hands, tracing her fingers over the calluses. "These are the same hands that used to hold mine. The same ones that gave me courage to face my fears. Because of you—and because of these hands—I was able to overcome what I once thought impossible."
She intertwined their fingers, her touch firm yet tender. "So let me hold them now. I'll keep holding on until you're ready to walk out there again and face them."
Dranred's lips curved into a smile as he stared at their joined hands. "Can you still hold my hands while I'm on the mound?" he asked playfully.
Rosette laughed, shaking her head. "Of course not. They'd never let me near the field. But as long as you need me, I'll hold them like this. Call it your medicine—something to drive away the numbness."
"So now I have a girlfriend, my light, my energy source, and my medicine?" he teased.
"All in one," she replied, smiling brightly.
"That's pretty convenient," he said with a grin, tugging her closer.
"W–what are you doing?" Rosette stammered, eyes wide.
"This," he said softly, "is part of the treatment."
Before she could respond, he leaned in and kissed her. The mitt in his hand brushed against her waist as he drew her in, their joined hands still pressed between them. Rosette gasped in surprise, but her free hand instinctively gripped the sleeve of his jacket. The world fell away for that fleeting, gentle moment.
When he finally pulled back, Dranred's grin returned—light, confident, alive again.
"There," he said softly. "Now I'm healed—and ready to play."
Rosette bit her lip, cheeks flushed, and smiled. "Then go show them what you've got, Fire Ace."
"Ahem."
A deliberate cough made both Dranred and Rosette turn toward the bullpen door.
"I don't mean to interrupt your little romantic moment," Charlie said, arms crossed, trying to hide a smirk. "But it's already the sixth inning, and you're up to pitch. Think you're ready?"
Dranred glanced at Rosette, their hands still clasped together. She smiled and gave a small nod.
"I'm ready," he said firmly.
"Then let's go." Charlie turned to leave—but paused halfway, his gaze falling on their joined hands.
"Well? Planning to let go anytime soon?"
Rosette flushed and quickly tried to pull her hand back, but Dranred held on tighter.
"I didn't say you could let go yet," he said softly.
"But you're about to pitch!" she protested.
"Five more minutes," he pleaded. "I need some reserves—just in case I lose my nerve once I'm out there."
Charlie groaned. "Seriously? Can you two read the room? I'm right here! Unbelievable—kids these days." Shaking his head, he muttered, "Five minutes. Then get back out there. Your coach and Nathan are both about to explode." He left them alone.