"How's your arm?"
Charlie's voice was calm, but his eyes said everything.
The players were in the dugout for a short break before the sixth inning, their breaths still heavy from the last play. Dranred sat near the end of the bench, towel draped around his neck, pretending not to notice his uncle's stare.
"I'm fine," he said.
Charlie didn't answer. He just kept looking at him — that quiet, piercing kind of look that made Dranred uneasy. Charlie had seen it. The dropped ball. The faltering control. The way his arm stiffened in the last swing.
"You know I saw what happened," Charlie finally said. "You're not the kind of pitcher who just loses his grip like that. You've been off since the fourth inning."
Dranred sighed and forced a small smile. "Uncle, your worry is unnecessary. I can still play. We only need one run — I can't stop now."
Charlie crossed his arms. "You do know what happens to players who ignore an injury, right? If you take that lightly, you might never make it to the majors. You've barely started your career — are you really willing to throw it away?"
"I know the risks," Dranred replied, meeting his uncle's eyes. "But I can't walk off the field midway. I'll get checked after the game, I promise. For now, just let me finish this."
He tried to sound confident. "It's just a bit of discomfort. You saw my homerun earlier, didn't you?"
Charlie exhaled, unconvinced. He studied Dranred's face — the faint strain in his jaw, the way his right hand twitched slightly when he tried to adjust his grip.
"Should I call Rosette?" Charlie said at last, half serious. "Maybe you'll listen to her."
Dranred let out a short laugh. "You're using her to scare me now?"
"If that's what it takes to make you stop being stubborn, then yes." Charlie's voice rose slightly. "You're talking about your career, Dranred! About your future!"
Dranred's expression softened. "I'm not as weak as you think," he said quietly. His gaze drifted toward the audience stands where Rosette sat. From the distance, he could almost feel her eyes on him — worried, searching.
"I think she saw what happened," he murmured. "She must be worried right now. But I can't stop. Not yet. I'll just have to apologize later."
When he looked back, there was a faint, determined smile on his face. "And you can't use her as a threat, Uncle. I'll be fine. Trust me on this."
Charlie shook his head, defeated. "You're too stubborn for your own good."
He turned away, walking toward the coaching staff. Dranred watched him go, then looked down at his hand.
The faint tremor was still there.
He closed his fingers around the baseball, feeling the weight of it — and of the moment.
He knew his uncle was only worried. But he couldn't stop now. The game was almost over. Whatever the result, he needed to finish it his way — with no regrets.
As the sixth inning began, the air around the stadium grew heavier — every pitch, every swing, every breath charged with tension.
The National Team's batters stood their ground. Even against the American pitcher's unrelenting speed, they refused to back down. Each foul, each connection, was a small victory — proof that they weren't just relying on Dranred or Nathan. The crowd began to see it too: every player here was fighting for something.
By the seventh inning, Nathan managed to reach first base on his third at-bat, only for the next hitter to strike out. Two outs, no runs — and still, both teams stood locked in a stalemate.
It wasn't just skill keeping the scoreboard low — it was stubborn will.
Dranred made sure of that.
He refused to let the Americans score another run. Even when his pitches began to stray off course, his arm shaking slightly between throws, he pushed on.
Nathan noticed it — the slight hitch in his release, the subtle wince between breaths.
He's still throwing heat, Nathan thought, but his control's slipping.
When the eighth inning came, the game's weight finally began to show. The first batter fouled off pitch after pitch, forcing a long rally that drew sighs and cheers from the crowd. Sweat clung to Dranred's hairline. His breathing came shallow, uneven.
Then — crack!
A fair hit slipped past the infield. The batter sprinted to first base.
"Red…" Rosette whispered from the stands, clutching her brother's hand tightly. She could see it now — the exhaustion, the strain tightening Dranred's jaw every time he flexed his fingers. This wasn't the same composed pitcher she'd watched before.
"He's almost at his limit," James said quietly beside her. His eyes didn't leave the mound. He saw the way Dranred's glove hand lingered too long near his elbow after every throw, as if trying to calm the pain.
But still, he stood tall.
He didn't look at the bench. He didn't call for a substitute.
He just waited for the next signal from Nathan — his eyes burning with the same fire that had carried him this far.
The game was reaching its turning point. Everyone knew it.
And yet, Dranred stayed there — fighting the ache, the pressure, the fear — determined to carry his team to the end.
After the batter's hit, Nathan immediately called for a timeout. The fielders converged on the mound, the weight of the game pressing on all of them. Up close, they could see what Nathan already suspected — Dranred was favoring his throwing arm, his breath uneven, sweat beading on his temples.
"The next batter's their ace," Nathan said, glancing toward the on-deck circle where the American team's cleanup hitter stood, swinging with calm precision. "He's not easy to strike out. He can send any pitch flying."
"With your arm like that, trying to strike him out might be too much," Nathan added. "Let's just walk him."
"That's risky," the shortstop countered. "There's already a runner on first. Walking him means two men on base — both in scoring position."
Nathan turned to Dranred, who hadn't spoken since they'd gathered. The pitcher's gaze was fixed on the dirt, his jaw tight, his glove hand twitching slightly — using every second of the timeout to steady his breathing.
"Dranred," Nathan said carefully. "What do you think?"
The second baseman stepped in. "You're the one catching his pitches, Nathan. You tell us — can he still handle it?"
Nathan hesitated. "There's still power in his throws," he admitted. "But his control's slipping. If this keeps up, it's either going to be a foul fest… or a forced walk."
The third baseman exhaled sharply. "Then maybe we call for a substitution?"
"I can still pitch."
All heads turned. Dranred's voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the noise of the crowd. "You're worrying too much. If I can't continue, I'll step down myself. But not now."
"You really are as stubborn as they say," the first baseman muttered, half-smiling. Then, more softly: "Come to think of it, we wouldn't even be in the finals without you. But you don't have to fight this alone."
He glanced around the mound, meeting the eyes of the others. "Let him hit if you have to. We've got your back."
"Pitch with all your heart," the third baseman added. "We'll cover you."
Dranred looked at each of them — teammates, brothers in this battle — and felt a faint smile form on his lips. He nodded once.
He knew this inning would be brutal. The ace batter was waiting, and his own arm might betray him at any moment. But hearing their faith, even now, steadied his heart.
If we can retire him, Dranred thought, the rest will fall into place.
He wiped his brow, adjusted his cap, and stepped back to the mound.
The timeout was over — and so was hesitation.