"Crap… I can't feel my arms anymore," Dranred muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on the batter at home plate.
"Dranred!" called the third baseman. "We've got your back! Let them hit — we'll defend the bases with everything we've got!"
The others echoed him, their voices firm, confident. Dranred clenched his fist, his chest tightening. They still believe in me… I can't let them down now.
Then he heard it — Rosette's voice cutting through the noise.
"Red!"
He turned toward the stands and saw her standing, hands covering her mouth, tears glistening under the stadium lights. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"You're crying again, huh?" he whispered. He glanced down at his trembling hand. "How can I lose focus now…? These are the same hands that once held you, remember?"
The chant began softly, then grew louder — the crowd calling his name, one voice after another, until the entire stadium thundered with it. For a moment, Dranred forgot the pain. The numbness faded beneath the sound of his name echoing in his ears.
"Just hang in there," he told himself, stepping onto the mound once more.
He threw his next pitch — not as fast, not as sharp, but filled with trust. The batter swung, sending the ball between third and second. The second baseman dove, snagged it cleanly, and fired to first. Double play. Two outs.
The crowd roared.
The next batter stepped in — a powerhouse hitter. Dranred's arm ached, every pitch heavier than the last. The batter connected, sending the ball to right field. The runner advanced to second, now in scoring position.
Fourth batter. First pitch — foul. Second pitch — solid contact. The ball soared past the infield, enough for the runner to sprint home.
3–2.
Two outs. One runner left on first base.
The fifth batter stepped up. Dranred gritted his teeth. "Just one more…"
The pitch flew. Crack! A sharp grounder to shortstop — caught cleanly. Out.
Three outs. Change inning.
The field erupted in relief — until they saw Dranred still standing on the mound, clutching his arm.
"Dranred!" the infielders shouted, rushing toward him.
"Are you okay?" the second baseman asked, voice tight with worry.
"I'm sorry… I think I'm at my limit," Dranred said softly, his breathing heavy. "I can't feel my arm anymore."
Nathan placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then rest. We'll handle the rest of the inning."
Dranred managed a faint smile. "Make sure to get that one run."
"You bet," Nathan replied, grinning.
As Dranred walked off the mound toward their dugout, the stadium erupted into applause. The crowd rose to their feet, chanting his name over and over. The roar echoed in his chest like a heartbeat.
The air trembled with their voices, chanting his name again and again — Dran-red! Dran-red! The sound hit him like a wave, echoing in his chest, in his heartbeat, in the very bones of his arm that could no longer move.
"Unbelievable. You're stealing the spotlight again," the third baseman teased as Dranred passed.
"I guess they've never seen a pitcher as stubborn as me," Dranred replied with a tired laugh.
Charlie met him at the dugout steps, worry and pride mixing in his expression. He took his nephew by the arm and helped him to the bench.
"Just rest for now," Charlie said gently. "Let your teammates finish this. You did a great job, kid."
Dranred only nodded, his body too heavy to speak. He sat on the bench, staring at the field as Nathan and the others took their positions.
The inning was brutal. The batters fought desperately to bring the game to a tie, but the American team's defense was unshakable.
When Nathan stepped up to the plate, hope flickered one last time — only to fade when the umpire called three quick strikes.
It was over.
The World Cup finals ended with a 3–2 victory for the American team.
Yet, there was no bitterness in their dugout — only pride. For the first time in history, their team had made it to the finals. To them, that was already a victory worth celebrating.
As the cheers began to fade and the stadium lights dimmed, Dranred looked down at his hand — the one that had carried them this far.
We didn't win the championship, he thought, but we won something greater.
He smiled faintly, the weight of exhaustion giving way to quiet satisfaction.
Next time, he promised himself, they would go all the way.
After the awarding ceremony, chaos followed the losing team. Reporters crowded outside the National Team's locker room, demanding updates about Dranred — the injured ace who had stolen the world's attention.
Was it serious? Would he ever pitch again? And what would this mean for his career, now that major league scouts had been watching?
Inside, the mood was tense but quiet — a stark contrast to the cheers that still echoed faintly from the stadium. Only players and one guest, Celine, were allowed in. Though known publicly as a vlogger, she was also a licensed physical therapist — and now the only one trusted to check Dranred's arm.
"Those reporters are relentless," one teammate muttered, shaking his head.
But before anyone could reply, Celine's voice cut through the air — sharp, emotional.
"How can you be so reckless?"
Everyone turned to her. Her hands trembled slightly as she examined Dranred's arm, frustration flashing in her eyes.
"It's just a light inflammation," she said at last, exhaling. "You'll recover — as long as you stop pitching for a while. But if that game had gone into extra innings…" Her voice broke for a second. "You might've done permanent damage. You could've lost your career. An ace pitcher being this reckless — it's ridiculous."
Her words hung in the air like a reprimand and a confession all at once.
"You're showing a bit too much concern for our pitcher," another teammate teased. "Don't tell me you've fallen for him? Too bad — he's taken."
Celine flushed instantly. "I didn't say that!" she shot back, turning her face away — but her reddened cheeks betrayed her. She couldn't deny the admiration she felt for Dranred, especially after what he had done on the mound.
"You're acting more like his girlfriend," another joked — until Nathan shot him a glare that silenced the room.
Dranred flexed his fingers weakly and looked at Celine. "I'll do it," he said quietly, letting her fasten the arm sling. "Thanks."
Then he stood up.
"Where are you going?" Celine called out, startled. "You should rest — and there are reporters waiting outside. You won't even make it past the door. You need to go to the hospital—"
"I'll go later." He slipped into his jacket, his tone gentle but firm. "Thanks for worrying… but you don't have to."
He turned toward the exit — only for Charlie to block his path.
"You heard her," Charlie said, crossing his arms. "Reporters are everywhere."
Dranred met his uncle's gaze, silent but unyielding. For a moment, Charlie sighed — he knew that look. He knew where his nephew wanted to go.
"You're not going anywhere," he said finally, gripping Dranred's shoulder. "Just sit."
Dranred said nothing, lowering himself onto the bench again. His jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist. He wasn't thinking about his arm anymore — he was thinking of Rosette. The look on her face when he pitched through the pain still haunted him.
"I'll go get her," Charlie said softly, understanding without being told.
Dranred looked up, surprised. Across the room, Celine's eyes flicked toward them both, curiosity and something else flickering in her gaze. Whoever she was, she must be important.
"I'll check the hallway too," Charlie added. "Maybe we can slip out once the reporters move to the champions' side."
Dranred nodded faintly as Charlie left.
"I'll talk to the reporters," their coach said after a pause. "They deserve an update, and people need to know you're going to be fine. No major damage — just a tired arm." He gave Dranred a small smile. "You gave them a hell of a game, son."
For a moment, the room was silent again — just the soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant roar of fading applause.
Dranred leaned back, closing his eyes. The game might have been over, but the weight of it was still heavy in his chest.