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I wasn’t built for the spotlight.
Not like Miyuki, who always had some smug grin tucked under his tongue, ready to stir chaos just to see what would happen. Not like Kuramochi either, who somehow made sprinting laps look like a personal challenge to the laws of gravity. If the two of them were storms, loud, fast, unpredictable. Then I was the drizzle that came before it. Quiet. Background.
I sat between them in class every day.
Every. Day.
It wasn’t by choice, either. The seating just so happened to place me directly between a chaos engine in glasses and a hyperactive speed demon who drummed on the desk whenever he got bored.
This morning, as usual, Miyuki was bothering me during our first year's homeroom.
“Oi, don’t smudge that,” I warned, flattening the corner of my notebook with my palm as he leaned over, his pen hovering dangerously close.
“I’m not smudging,” he said, sketching an overly dramatic pitch arc on the side of my bullpen chart. “Just adding some personality.”
“You gave the pitch a tail.”
“Tanba-senpai’s control was a little off yesterday,” he shrugged.
“You drew it curling like a shrimp.”
Kuramochi choked on his melon bread.
“That’s low, man,” he grinned between bites. “Leave her notes alone, she works harder than half the first string.”
“Which is why she needs some fun in her life,” Miyuki said with a mock sigh. “She’s too serious. Makes the rest of us look bad.”
“I like being serious,” I muttered, elbowing him as I fixed the chart. “Someone in this trio has to be.”
We weren’t really an official trio, not in the way sports teams or manga might frame it. We were just three people who happened to land in the same class, with the same baseball obsession, and the same inability to go five minutes without a baseball reference slipping into conversation.
Still, I found myself comfortable between them. Miyuki teased, Kuramochi barked back, and I kept them both anchored, at least I tried to.
By lunch, we’d argued over last summer’s Koshien runner-up, and by cleaning time, Miyuki had tried to convince Kuramochi to fake a leg cramp so they could both skip afternoon practice.
(They didn’t. The coaches would’ve had them running laps until the next season.)
I wasn’t a player.
I didn’t join Seidou to be on the field, to pitch or bat or chase home runs. I joined to be close. To learn. To feel the rhythm of it all in real time, to be surrounded by the thing I loved most in the world even if I could only ever touch it from the edges.
Being a manager wasn’t glamorous, but it suited me.
Folding towels, labeling water bottles, logging every practice pitch, these weren’t tasks. They were rituals. There was something comforting about lining things up just right, making sure every player could step onto the field without worrying about the little things.
I liked the little things.
Like how Tanba-senpai would wipe the edge of his glove before every pitch.
Like how Yuuki-senpai would always glance at his bat before stepping into position like he was about to swing at the air, then stay frozen in that stance for a full ten seconds.
Like how Masuko-senpai secretly ate pudding everyday before practice.
Like how Coach Kataoka would tap his clipboard twice whenever he was thinking.
Small, quiet details no one really noticed. I noticed.
That afternoon, practice hummed along like usual. The field buzzed with motion, sneakers skimming dirt, bats cracking against warm-up balls, the occasional barked command from Coach Kataoka. The sun had already begun its descent, casting long shadows from the fences, making everything glow slightly orange.
I stood just beyond the dugout, clipboard in hand, pencil tucked behind my ear, watching the infield drills. I wasn’t assigned to observation today, but I liked keeping track anyway.
Just habits.
My gaze swept over the field. Everything looked fine on the surface, good rhythm, solid form. But Tanba-senpai’s relay throws were just a little off. Not inaccurate, just… slower than usual. Half a second too long to switch feet. His shoulders didn’t roll with his usual ease.
Injury? Fatigue?
I made a quiet note on the margin of my form. Nothing official. Just in case.
“You’ve been watching the infield too?”
The voice came from my left. Calm, slightly dry. Takashima-sensei stood there, arms crossed, looking at me with an expression I’d come to learn meant I’m testing you.
“A little,” I said, keeping my tone careful. “Tanba-senpai’s timing is a little delayed. His step angle’s narrower than yesterday. Could it be his back?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze followed mine back to the field.
After a beat, she said, “I haven’t caught that yet.”
I blinked. “Oh. I just— I wasn’t trying to—”
“You’ve got a good eye,” she said before I could backtrack. Then she walked away, like she hadn’t just dropped a rare compliment straight into my lap.
I stood frozen for a moment.
Then, as I turned to head for the cooler to refill the bottles, I heard it.
A voice, low and sure. Gentle in a way that could easily go unnoticed unless you were really listening.
“She noticed.”
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have to.
It was Takigawa Chris Yuu.
Catcher. Second-year. Composed to a fault. I’d only heard him speak a handful of times during practice and never directly to me. He wasn’t someone who said much without a reason.
He didn’t know me. Not really. I was just the new manager. A background figure.
But what he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, was that we had history. Not the meaningful kind, but the one-sided sort that people eventually grow out of.
I remembered him from Marugame Junior High.
Back then, he was already calm. Already precise. I’d watch him through the fence during practice, when I stayed late for club duties. He never stood out the way loud athletes did, but even from a distance, I noticed him. The way he knelt for signs, the way he didn’t flinch when a wild pitch whizzed past, the way he called a game like he was piecing together a puzzle only he understood.
I never spoke to him. Not once. But I remembered.
And now we are here.
Somehow, his voice, a quiet observation not even meant for me. Stirred something in my chest I wasn’t ready to name.
I hadn’t expected him to stop beside me.
The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the dirt. Most of the team had split into smaller drills. I was crouched near the gear shed, sorting shin guards and catcher’s mitts, brushing out stray dust with the edge of my sleeve.
“You're thorough.”
I looked up and there he was.
Takigawa Chris Yuu stood a few steps away, hands behind his back like always, posture calm and unreadable. He wasn’t wearing his mask now, so I could see his expression clearly neutral, but not unfriendly. His glove dangled loosely from one hand, thumb tracing the stitching once before going still.
“Oh. I didn’t hear you come over,” I said, straightening up. My knee brushed against the shin guard pile, sending one clattering softly onto the dirt. I stopped to right it, giving my hands something to do.
“You usually don’t.”
...Was that supposed to be a joke?
I blinked, unsure how to respond. Chris didn’t exactly have a reputation for humor. But he didn’t look like he was teasing me, just observing, as always. His gaze lingered on the gear for a fraction too long, as if measuring the neatness.
I waited a moment, thinking that he would leave, like always. But he didn’t.
He turned toward the field again, where the sun was now brushing golden light over the pitching mound. His weight shifted slightly toward me before he planted his feet, shoulders angled just off-square.
“I liked watching you play,” I said, before I could think better of it.
The words hung in the air, soft and unpolished. I immediately felt the weight of them. Not heavy, but not light either. I wasn’t confessing. Not really. Just stating a truth I’d been carrying since junior high. My fingers tightened on the strap of a shin guard, pulse ticking in my throat.
Chris didn’t turn back. But I saw his hand twitch slightly, just enough for me to notice, the way I always noticed small things. His thumb smoothed over the leather again before falling still.
Then he said, quietly, “Thanks.”
And like that, he walked away slow and steady, his back straight, his shadow long across the dirt. I let my eyes follow the line of it until it faded into the edge of the dugout fence, the sound of creaking leather still in my ears.
“Hey,” I leaned forward across my desk, voice low so the rest of the class wouldn’t hear, “what kind of person is Takigawa-senpai?”
Miyuki didn't even bother looking up from his manga. “Chris-senpai?”
I nodded, careful not to seem too eager. “Yeah. I mean… he’s a catcher, right? Upperclassman. You guys must’ve seen him more during practice.”
Kuramochi, halfway through peeling the wrapper off his bread “He’s good. Seriously. Kinda scary.”
Miyuki snorted. “Only ‘cause he never laughs. Dude’s all straight-backed posture and polite silence.”
“He’s not scary,” I mumbled, fidgeting with the edge of my notebook. “He just seems… focused.”
Now Miyuki glanced up, one brow raised. “What’s this? Our dear manager’s taking an interest in the upperclassmen?”
I shot him a look. “It’s for the roster sheet. I’m making notes.”
Kuramochi wiggled his eyebrows. “Sure, sure. And I eat vegetables because I like being healthy.”
I sighed, choosing not to dignify that with a response. “I just think he’s interesting, that’s all. You know, he gives off that ‘quiet dependable senpai’ vibe.”
“‘That's all’,” Miyuki repeated, deadpan. “Right.”
Kuramochi grinned. “Bet she’s got a type.”
“I do not,” I muttered.
“Mmhm.”
I folded my arms, but the corners of my mouth tugged upward despite myself. “Just shut up and eat your bread.”
“Gladly,” Kuramochi said, happily biting into it.
Miyuki, meanwhile, muttered something suspiciously close to, “So that’s why she’s been watching the bullpen so much…”
“I heard that.”
The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting warm streaks across the diamond. Practice had slowed into its final stretch, players scattered in small groups, some running drills, others cleaning up. I crouched near the dugout, ticking off names on the clipboard and quietly reminding myself not to look for him.
Of course, the moment I thought that, my eyes slid toward the bullpen.
Chris was there, as usual, catching Tanba's pitch with quiet focus, frame steady, glove firm, posture textbook. Everything he did had purpose, precision. Like he moved through each day knowing exactly what he was here to do.
I lingered too long, apparently, because his gaze flicked my way.
I shifted my weight, tapping the end of my pen against the clipboard like it held the most riveting data in the world.
Smooth.
A minute later, footsteps crunched closer.
“Manager-san.”
My heart skipped before my brain caught up.
When I looked up, Chris was only a few steps away, towel in hand, faint sweat catching the light. He wasn’t out of breath. Just calm, like always. His glove dangled loosely from one hand, his thumb brushing over the worn strap as if he’d been absently checking it.
Without thinking, I reached into the kit box behind me, grabbed the sports tape, and held it out.
“For your glove,” I said, keeping my tone even. “It looked like it was coming loose earlier.”
A small pause. Just enough for me to notice the way his grip on the glove tightened before he stepped forward to take the tape.
I’m trying not to brush our fingers.
I failed. I definitely brushed our fingers.
His mouth tugged upward, just faintly. “Thanks. Good eye.”
I busied myself straightening the papers on my clipboard. “It’s nothing. Just… habit, I guess.”
He stayed quiet, taping the glove with slow, even pulls, before speaking again. “You really like baseball, don’t you?”
The question made me glance up, and suddenly he wasn’t the composed upperclassman with perfect mechanics. Just a boy studying me with genuine curiosity.
“I do,” I admitted. “I’ve liked it for a long time.”
He nodded once, but didn’t look away right away. “You went to Marugame Junior High, right?”
I blinked. “…You remembered?”
A brief hesitation. His fingers paused mid-wrap before his eyes found mine. “Not at first. But I saw the name on the sheet you gave Takashima-san. We never spoke back then, did we?”
I shook my head. “No. You were always busy playing. I was just… in the stands.”
Something eased in his expression, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, real smile. “I’m glad we get to talk now.”
And with that, he jogged back to the bullpen, leaving me with a pen still in my hand and a heart thudding like it was trying to make up for lost time.
I was halfway through stacking a crate of towels when the storage room’s door slammed open behind me.
“I saw you with him!”
The crate nearly slipped from my arms. “What?!”
Miyuki’s voice bounced off the metal shelves like a loudspeaker in a concert hall. He barged in with the confidence of someone who’s never once knocked in his life.
“With. Chris-senpai.” He smirked, drawing out each syllable like he was narrating the juiciest scandal of the year.
Kuramochi followed right behind him, nearly tripping over a bucket. “You didn’t even try to be subtle! The tape handoff? The smile? We were all watching!”
I blinked at them, completely cornered between stacked helmets and bins of spare cleats. “Are you seriously barging in here for this?”
Miyuki leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “You were blushing so hard I thought you had heatstroke.”
“I was not!”
“Don’t lie,” Kuramochi cut in, grinning ear to ear. “You looked like he gave you flowers instead of you gave him athletic tape.”
“Oh my god.” I buried my face in a towel I’d just folded. “I was just being nice!”
Miyuki clicked his tongue and made a dramatic show of glancing around the room. “Wow, it’s a little steamy here. Could be the weather. Could be the romance.”
“Get. Out.”
“Not until you admit it,” Kuramochi sing-songed. “C’mon. You’ve been crushing on him since—wait. Weren’t you from Marugame too?”
I stiffened. Too slow.
Miyuki gasped like a drama queen. “Don’t tell me… a junior high crush?!”
I chucked a towel at him. “You guys are the worst.”
Miyuki dodged easily, cackling. “So you did like him back then!”
Kuramochi clutched his chest like he was physically in pain. “Wait. This is big. You came here already simping over Chris-senpai?”
“I wasn’t! I didn’t even think he’d remember me!”
“And now he’s out here personally talking to you like a gentleman.” Miyuki looked like he was about to cry with joy.
“Shut up!”
They were both laughing so hard now, I was certain someone outside would hear.
Kuramochi flopped onto an overturned ball bucket, still grinning. “Just say the word and we’ll casually trap you two in here together for like, fifteen minutes. By accident.”
Miyuki wagged his brows. “Team bonding, right?”
I groaned and dropped the towel into the bin beside me, face flushed. “This is why you guys don’t have any friends.”
Later that night, most of the team had already cleared out.
The silence was almost suspicious after all the noise earlier. No Miyuki, no Kuramochi crashing in with wild accusations or scheming ideas. Just the hum of the overhead light and the faint sound of the field being locked up for the night.
I was refolding the last set of jerseys when I heard footsteps stop just outside the door.
“Still here?”
My heart did a somersault.
Chris stood in the doorway, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other resting against the frame. His presence always had this strange calm to it. Like time slowed down around him.
“Oh—yes. Just finishing up.”
He glanced around, probably noticing how most of the shelves were already organized. “You always stay this late?”
I smiled faintly. “Only when Miyuki and Kuramochi decide to turn the whole ground into a circus and mess everything up.”
A soft chuckle escaped him. Barely audible, but it was there. “That sounds about right.”
I busied myself with stacking the folded jerseys, trying not to think too hard about how he was still standing there. Still looking.
“You’re always helping out,” he said after a beat.
“It’s not much.”
“It’s not ‘not much,’” Chris replied, his voice steady but kind. “I remember how you talked about Tanba’s wrist angle?”
“I only mentioned it because I noticed him wincing,” I said quickly. “I just thought—”
“I know,” he interrupted gently. “But it helped.”
There was a pause. I didn’t know what to say.
“You’re observant. And you care,” he added.
“I’ve seen you reminding first-years about cooldown stretches. That’s not technically part of your job, is it?”
I blinked. “Uh… I guess not, but it’s nothing big. I just noticed the coach didn’t catch it the other day, and they looked like they were about to skip it.”
His mouth curved just slightly, almost imperceptibly. “That’s observant of you.”
Was that… praise?
I looked up, and our eyes met. His were steady, unreadable at first glance. But there was a faint hesitation in the way he exhaled, like he wanted to say more but chose not to.
And suddenly, I felt my fingers tightening around the clipboard, my voice catching in my throat.
“Thank you,” I said, barely louder than a whisper.
Chris nodded once, as if he meant to say more, then hesitated. Instead, he checked the time. “You should head back soon. It’s late.”
“I will.”
He turned to go, but paused again at the door. “Oh and thanks. For earlier.”
I blinked. “For what?”
“That tape. The one you passed me when I was fixing my glove earlier." His lips quirked just slightly. “Perfect timing.”
I didn’t remember even thinking about it. I just… did it.
As he walked off, the storage room felt oddly brighter.
The air in the practice field shimmered with late afternoon heat, the steady thwack of balls into gloves and the sharp crack of bats echoing across the diamond.
I’m standing near third, charting throws like Coach asked, my thumb brushing graphite dust off the page so the notes don’t smudge.
When I glance up, Chris is looking at me.
Not in the way people look when they’re just scanning the field. His glove hangs at his side, the ball loose in his fingers. His gaze is steady, almost unreadable, like he’s halfway through a thought he’s not saying.
It’s maybe half a second before Miyuki’s voice cuts in, sharp and too loud.
“Oi, Chris-senpai. Eyes on the ball, not the—” He pauses, smirking like the rest of the sentence is too obvious to say.
A couple of the guys snicker.
Chris doesn’t flinch, but his thumb presses against the glove’s strap once before he turns his head back toward the play. The throw to first is clean, almost too clean, like he’s making a point.
When Miyuki jogs past to take his spot, I catch the tiny pause before Chris straightens his shoulders, jaw set just a fraction tighter.
Later, when everyone’s heading in, Miyuki passes me and grins.
“Careful,” he says under his breath. “Chris-senpai’s got a wandering focus today.”
The next morning, I’ve mostly convinced myself yesterday was nothing. Just Miyuki being Miyuki. Just a coincidence.
That theory lasts until the second period break.
I’m tidying up my desk, tapping my pencil twice against the edge before setting it down, when Kuramochi strolls over, leaning an elbow like he owns the space. Miyuki trails in behind him, wearing that smirk that means trouble.
“So…” Miyuki starts, drawing the word out like he’s about to announce test results.
I press my notebook closed. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“Yes, I do.”
Kuramochi’s grin is all teeth. “Heard Chris-senpai had a little trouble focusing yesterday.”
“Must’ve been something real distracting,” Miyuki adds, glancing meaningfully at me.
I rest my fingertips against the desk’s edge instead of looking at them. “You two seriously tracked me down between classes for this?”
“Of course,” Kuramochi says, dead serious. “It’s not every day we get to see him slip up.”
Miyuki leans in. “Bet if we asked him, he’d just say he was analyzing your form or something.”
They both laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
I slide my textbook into my bag, the zipper catching once before it closes. “You two are ridiculous.”
But when I walk past them, I catch Kuramochi muttering, “Definitely wasn’t her form he was looking at.”
Days later, practice breaks.
“Oi, you’re gonna break your back like that.”
Kuramochi's voice rang out from behind as I crouched to grab the scattered balls near the fence.
“Then help me, slug,” I muttered, without turning around.
He scoffed. “Why should I? You’re built like a paper stick. At least let me supervise.”
I turned just enough to squint at him. “Supervise? From the comfort of your water bottle, huh?”
Kuramochi grinned, leaning back dramatically like a lazy cat sprawled across the bench. “Exactly. I’m preserving energy for my next legendary steal.”
“Legendary, huh?”
“Oi, don’t mock the legend.”
I gave him a look before tossing one of the rubber balls his way. He caught it, barely with exaggerated flair.
“Anyway,” he said, more casual now, “you good? You’ve been cleaning up extra hard lately. Trying to impress someone?”
I shot him a glare. “If you’re going to say ‘Chris-senpai’ I will actually spray you with the hose.”
Kuramochi raised both hands in surrender, smirking as he backed away. “Hey, hey, I said nothing! You’re the one who brought him up.”
I sighed. “I swear, you and Miyuki are the worst.”
Just then, as if summoned by the universe, Miyuki’s voice echoed from the bullpen. “Oi, Manager-san! You forgot to take my towel too!”
I groaned and waved at him without looking, making a mental note to throw it directly at his face later.
Kuramochi snorted. “You’re a saint for putting up with us.”
I stood up and dusted my hands. “I’m a manager. Sainthood comes with the title.”
“Tell that to Takashima-san. She has zero patience for me.”
“She’s smart like that.”
Kuramochi laughed again, light and easy, and I realized how much I liked these moments.
Which is why the sudden quiet presence to my right caught me completely off guard.
“Do you always carry that much at once?”
I nearly dropped the cooler lid in my hands.
Chris stood beside me, eyes on the stacked supplies I was carrying. Calm, unreadable, like always. Except today, there was something just slightly softer in his tone.
“Oh—uh... It’s faster this way,” I said, adjusting my grip awkwardly.
Chris didn’t say anything right away, but then, silently, he took half the load from my arms.
“I can help.”
“…Thank you.”
Behind me, I caught Kuramochi’s whistle. High and obnoxious.
I was going to kill him.
But that could wait.
Chris and I walked together in silence for a while. The sun was high, the field buzzing with leftover energy, and somehow, next to him, it all faded a little.
“You’ve been watching Kuramochi’s slides lately.”
I blinked. “What?”
He gave a small nod. “Your advice on his pivot timing helped. The coach saw the difference.”
I shifted, slightly embarrassed. “I just noticed things. I didn’t think it was worth much.”
Chris stopped to set the supplies down near the bench, but didn’t leave.
“That’s what makes it worth something.”
I looked up, and he was already glancing toward the field again, as if checking something. Then, to me
“I’ll be working on catching drills later. If you have time… feel free to watch.”
“…Me?”
He nodded.
“You want feedback?” I half-joked, unsure.
A faint smile ghosted his lips. So faint I thought I imagined it.
“Maybe.”
Then he walked off, as silent and steady as always. But not before his eyes searched the fence line later that day, finding me there watching.
And for the first time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t imagining things after all.
The sun had dipped low enough to turn the dirt infield gold, the outfield grass catching the last warmth of the day. Most of the team had already drifted off toward the clubhouse, their voices fading behind the fence.
Chris stayed behind.
I’d only meant to pass through, heading toward the equipment shed with an armful of towels, but he caught my eye.
“You’re still here,” I said, slowing. My fingers shifted on the stack of fabric, the edge of one towel catching under my thumb.
He glanced up, one knee bent, forearms resting over it. His glove was on, a ball resting in his hand like it belonged there.
“You free?”
The question was simple, but his gaze lingered just long enough to make it feel less like a casual invite and more like something else.
I hesitated. “…I’ve never played catch before.”
“You’ll be fine.” His voice held the same even certainty he used when calling signs. “Just throw.”
We started slowly, me standing awkwardly on the foul line, him a good distance away. He caught each throw cleanly, barely moving his mitt, as if every pitch I made was exactly where he expected it to be. When he tossed it back, the ball came in with perfect, easy arcs, meeting my glove with a soft, solid thud.
“You’ve got a steady arm,” he said after a while, almost to himself.
I tried to laugh it off. “Steady’s another word for boring.”
His eyes flicked up at me, something unreadable in them. “Boring wins games.”
The rhythm settled in. Throw, catch, toss back, repeat. The sound of leather meeting leather, the faint scrape of my shoes in the dirt. No teasing, no unnecessary words. Just the game stripped bare.
Chris tosses the ball underhand, the arc slow and easy. I catch it with both hands. Not because I have to, but because the sound of the ball hitting the glove just feels satisfying.
“You’re getting better,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile in his voice.
Before I can respond, a loud whistle cuts through the air.
“Oi, oi, what’s this?” Miyuki’s voice carries across the field, smug as ever. He’s leaning against the fence, Kuramochi beside him, both of them wearing the exact same grin. The kind that means trouble.
“Extra training?” Kuramochi calls out. “Or are we interrupting a private lesson?”
I roll my eyes and throw the ball back to Chris, maybe with a little more force than necessary.
“We’re just playing catch,” I mutter.
“Sure, sure,” Miyuki says, drawing out the words. “Next thing we know, you’ll be learning Chris-senpai’s special catching techniques.”
Chris ignores them completely, just tossing the ball back to me like they’re not even there. Which, honestly, makes it worse. Because now Miyuki and Kuramochi are exchanging looks that scream ‘see, see, we’re right.’
I focus on the ball, the weight of it in my glove, the rhythm we’ve found. Still, I can’t help the small smile that slips out when Chris says quietly, “Don’t let them get to you.”
Which, of course, Kuramochi notices immediately.
“Ahhh, she’s smiling now!”
Miyuki laughs. “Yup, we’re definitely interrupting something.”
Chris just shakes his head, and I pretend to scowl but the throw I send back to him is lighter, easier, like maybe they’re not entirely wrong.
He is careful when he tosses the ball back. Underhand, easy like he’s afraid I’ll get scared off if it comes too fast. The late afternoon sun catches in his hair, and for a moment I forget to raise my glove.
“You’re supposed to catch it, y’know,” Miyuki calls from behind the fence, leaning against the post with that infuriating grin.
Kuramochi’s laugh follows right after. “At this rate, you’ll make Chris-senpai think you joined the wrong club.”
I roll my eyes, tossing the ball back to Chris. “Maybe I just have a bad throwing partner,” I say, even though we both know I’m not serious.
Chris’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “Then I guess I’ll have to try harder,” he says, sending the ball my way again. This time just enough spin to make me step forward to catch it.
Miyuki makes a dramatic gasp. “Did Chris-senpai just joke? Someone mark the calendar.”
Kuramochi elbows him. “Nah, he’s just being nice to his favorite manager.”
My throw goes a little sharper this time, and Chris catches it cleanly without looking away from me. There’s no comment from him, just a steady, quiet patience that makes it easy to ignore the peanut gallery behind us.
Or almost easy.
After a few more exchanges, Kuramochi groans dramatically. “Alright, I’m starving. Miyuki, let’s go before all the good food’s gone.”
Miyuki shrugs, casting one last smirk your way. “Don’t drop the ball, Manager-san.”
They wander off toward the clubhouse, voices fading, leaving the field quieter. You glance at Chris, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you and the soft thud of the ball in your glove.
When my shoulder finally started to ache, I caught the ball one last time and held it, letting the silence stretch. He walked over, glove tucked under his arm, and took the ball from my hand without breaking eye contact.
“Thanks for staying,” he said simply.
And just like before, he turned away before I could answer.
But I noticed, when he walked back toward the dugout, he was still holding the ball we’d used, not putting it with the others.
The other day the team had cleared out, the sun dipping low, casting long shadows through the open storage room door. I stayed behind, as usual, sorting equipment and wiping down the shelves that hadn’t seen a proper clean since... Well, ever.
I was halfway through untangling a mess of training bands when a soft knock echoed against the doorframe.
“Need help?”
I turned and there he was.
Chris stood just outside the doorway, sleeves rolled up slightly, a towel still draped around his neck, his hair damp from the shower. He looked less like a stoic person and more like someone who had decided of his own will to linger.
“I thought everyone left,” I said, a little breathless from surprise.
“Forgot something,” he replied simply. Then, after a pause “Saw the light was still on.”
I opened my mouth to ask what he forgot, but something about the way he stepped inside and picked up a loose ball like it was a casual habit stopped me.
He placed it in the basket next to me, then started folding the elastic bands into neater coils without a word.
I stared for a moment before joining him.
We worked like that for a few minutes, quiet, peaceful, not awkward, just companionable.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I said eventually.
Chris didn’t look up. “I know.”
“Then why...?”
This time, he glanced at me.
“Because you do it every day. Even when no one’s looking.”
The air shifted, thickened just a little.
I blinked. “It’s kind of my job.”
He tilted his head. “No one tells you to clean the shelves.”
I looked away, suddenly flustered.
“I like having things in order,” I muttered.
Chris made a small sound. Not quite a laugh, more like a hum of understanding.
“I get that.”
When I glanced back at him, he was still working, slow and precise, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave.
“Do you ever get tired?” I asked before I could stop myself. “Of holding everything together?”
Chris’s hands paused over a band, and I nearly took the question back. It was too forward, too raw. But then
“…Yeah,” he said softly. “Sometimes.”
He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
I understood. And maybe, just maybe, he knew I did.
We finished cleaning in a quiet rhythm again. This time, when we carried the boxes back together, I didn’t feel like just the manager anymore.
I felt like something was changing quietly, steadily and maybe Chris did too.
I barely had time to set my bag down when Kuramochi slammed both palms on my desk, nearly making me drop my pen. Miyuki followed right behind him with that insufferable smirk already plastered across his face.
“I knew it,” Miyuki declared dramatically, eyes narrowed with mock betrayal. “You were with Chris-senpai again last night, weren’t you?”
“What?!” I blinked, then leaned back in my chair as if distance could help me escape this interrogation. “How do you even—?!”
Kuramochi held up a finger. “Masuko-senpai walked in on you two carrying boxes. Together. After hours.”
“You were smiling, apparently,” Kuramochi added with a scandalized gasp. “Do you smile at us like that? No. No, you do not.”
I buried my face in my hands. “It wasn’t! We were just cleaning the storage room. That’s it.”
“Oh, so now it’s the storage room,” Miyuki teased, adjusting his glasses for dramatic effect. “A tale as old as time.”
“A broom closet romance!” Kuramochi cried.
“I’m going to transfer,” I muttered into my palms.
The worst part? They weren’t entirely wrong.
It wasn’t just the cleaning. It wasn’t just the shared silence. Chris had stayed. He’d wanted to stay.
“Wait, wait” Miyuki leaned in, squinting. “Are you blushing?”
I nearly fell out of my chair. “I am not!”
“You are!” Kuramochi shouted gleefully, grabbing Miyuki by the shoulders. “Bro, we’re losing her! She’s being recruited by the quiet, respectful upperclassman faction!”
“Tragic,” Miyuki said, completely unbothered. “But understandable.”
I groaned, slumping against my desk in defeat as the two of them continued their over-the-top mourning of my imaginary defection.
Still, I couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
Because they noticed.
Because he noticed.
And maybe, just maybe, something really was starting to change.
Thunder grumbled in the distance as the skies cracked open above Seidou. I stood just beneath the edge of the gym’s overhang, clutching my bag, staring at the downpour with a deep frown.
I didn’t bring an umbrella.
My house wasn’t far, just a few streets over. But the rain was coming down in thick, slanting sheets. The kind that blurred the world into shades of grey. Puddles had already started collecting near the sidewalks, and the wind made it worse. I shifted my weight, debating if I should just make a run for it.
“Still standing there?”
I froze for half a second. That voice. Low, calm, familiar, made something flutter in my chest. I turned and found Chris approaching, a dark navy umbrella already open above him. His uniform was neat, tie loosened just slightly, and his expression was the same calm, unreadable one I’d grown used to.
“You didn’t bring one?” he asked gently.
“Nope,” I replied, trying for a light tone. “Didn’t check the weather.”
He came to a stop beside me, tilting the umbrella slightly in my direction. The soft patter of rain on the canopy filled the silence.
“Take mine,” he said.
I shook my head, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “Nope. I’ll pass.”
“You’ll get drenched.”
“I’ll live.”
“Take it.”
“I don't wanna.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at me quietly, thoughtful. Then he sighed, stepped even closer, and held the umbrella over both of us without another word.
“Then I’ll walk you.”
“Wait— What??” I started. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
And just like that, my words faltered.
I fell into step beside him, too stunned to argue again.
We started walking, the soft splash-splash of our shoes in the water the only sound for a while, aside from the endless drumming of rain on the umbrella. The umbrella wasn’t big, so every step brought us a little closer. Once or twice our arms brushed. Then briefly, our hands.
Chris glanced at me. “You don’t usually turn down help.”
I let out a breath, barely above a whisper. “I don’t usually get offered help by the person I like.”
He stopped walking.
I froze, heart lurching violently in my chest.
Wait—did I just say that? Did he hear that?
I slowly looked up, dread twisting in my stomach. His face was unreadable, but the tips of his ears were definitely red.
“You… like me?” he asked, voice low and just a little stunned.
“Forget I said that,” I said quickly, already trying to walk again, heat rising to my cheeks.
But he didn’t move. “No. I don’t want to forget it.”
I paused again.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said after a moment, his voice softer. “Sometimes I thought I was imagining things. You’d smile and joke around with Miyuki and Kuramochi, but with me… you’re more careful. You always look away first.”
My throat felt tight. “I didn’t think you noticed.”
“I did. I have so many questions but...”
The rain kept falling around us, but inside our little umbrella bubble, the world had stilled.
“I like you too,” he said quietly. “For a while now. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”
His words hung in the air between us. Fragile and real.
I felt a smile creeping up my face before I could stop it. Small. Shy. But certain.
“You just said it.”
Chris let out the faintest chuckle. “Yeah. I did.”
We started walking again. Slower this time. The space between us barely existed now. I let my shoulder lean slightly into his. He didn’t pull away.
By the time we reached my gate, the rain had lightened into a soft drizzle.
“Thanks for walking me,” I murmured, looking up at him beneath the umbrella.
Chris tilted his head slightly. “Thank you for not running off after that confession.”
That made me laugh. A real one.
We lingered. Neither of us said anything for a moment, but it felt like maybe, neither of us wanted to say goodbye yet.
Eventually, I took a small step back.
“You should head back,” I said softly. “There’s still practice, right?”
He glanced toward Seidou, then back at me.
“…Yeah. You’re right.”
But he didn’t look disappointed. Just thoughtful.
“See you tomorrow?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
He nodded once. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
I watched him turn back down the street, umbrella in his hand, walking back toward the field.
And as soon as he was out of sight, I spun on my shoes, ran inside, and collapsed face-first onto the nearest pillow.
Oh god.
Oh my god.
Did that actually just happen?
The ground was still a little damp from last night’s rain, but the sun was high and the weather had flipped like a switch. Bright, breezy, and way too suspiciously cheerful.
I was helping set up the practice cones when Miyuki came jogging over, his grin already up to no good.
“So…” he drawled, nudging my side with his elbow. “You walked home yesterday.”
“Yeah?” I answered, carefully neutral, not looking at him.
“In the rain.”
I kept adjusting the cones. “I had an umbrella.”
“Liar,” Kuramochi chimed in from behind me. “We saw you standing at the gym door like a drenched cat.”
“Bold of you to call me a cat,” I muttered, but the damage was done.
“But then,” Miyuki said, dragging out every syllable dramatically, “someone showed up with an umbrella.”
I froze for a second.
Kuramochi leaned closer. “Don’t worry. We didn’t see your faces or anything. Just two silhouettes under one umbrella, walking real close… arm brushing against arm… hands maybe touching…”
I snapped up. “Okay, stop right there.”
“And you never told us?!” Miyuki gasped, mock betrayal in his voice. “Is this how you treat your beloved class and teammates?!”
Kuramochi looked past me and his eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Speak of the devil.”
I turned.
Chris had just walked over, clearly planning to ask something about setup, but his steps slowed the second he saw the three of us in our current configuration.
“Oh my god,” Miyuki whispered. “He is the umbrella guy.”
Chris blinked. “What’s going on?”
I could feel my soul leaving my body.
Kuramochi stepped forward like he was hosting a game show. “Chris-senpai, is it true that you walked our dear manager home yesterday? In the pouring rain? Shared an umbrella and everything?”
Chris, ever calm, glanced at me. “I did.”
I was going to die.
Miyuki straight-up cackled. “AND YOU CONFESSED, DIDN’T YOU?!”
“I—” I began.
Chris tilted his head. “She did first.”
“CHRIS-SENPAI!” I cried, mortified.
Kuramochi physically staggered, like he’d been hit with a pitch to the chest. “YOU CONFESSED FIRST?!”
“I DID BUT— NO.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!”
Miyuki dropped to the ground dramatically. “I need a moment. I’m overwhelmed. Our little manager is all grown up.”
I groaned and dropped my head into my hands.
Chris just smiled faintly and looked way too proud of himself.
“So, are you guys dating now?” Kuramochi asked.
I couldn’t even speak anymore, so I just shot a helpless look at Chris, who had the audacity to shrug like this was the weather report.
“Not officially,” he said. “Yet.”
Miyuki screamed. “YET?!”
Kuramochi screamed “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YET!?”
I considered running away to join a monastery.
Days passed, and practice had wrapped up a little later than usual. The sky was dimming into shades of soft orange and pale purple, and the summer breeze had picked up. I had just finished folding the last practice vest into the laundry basket when a familiar voice called out behind me.
“Heading home?”
I looked up to see Chris standing near the dugout, bag slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly damp from sweat. But somehow, he still managed to look completely composed.
“Yeah. Just need to drop these off first,” I said, lifting the basket a little.
“I’ll wait.”
He said it so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. And lately… maybe it was. Ever since that rainy walk home, we’d started talking more. Walking together after practices, sharing snacks during breaks, sneaking each other knowing glances whenever Miyuki and Kuramochi were being particularly insufferable.
The walk was quiet at first. Comfortable.
“You didn’t forget your umbrella this time,” Chris teased, nodding toward the one tucked under my arm.
I smirked. “Learned my lesson, thanks to someone.”
He gave a soft hum in amusement. “Still. If it rains again… I wouldn’t mind repeating that walk.”
I glanced up at him, heart skipping a beat. “…Neither would I.”
Meanwhile, back at Seidou’s ground…
Jun turned his head, eyebrows rising as he caught sight of Chris walking off the field, not alone. Again.
“…Was that our catcher just leaving with the manager?”
The batter looked up from tying his shoes. “For the third time this week.”
Jun gasped, scandalized. “Don’t tell me… Is Chris actually dating someone before me?!”
Tetsu stood up, grabbing his towel. “Looks like it.”
Jun stared toward the door. “Wait. WAIT. SINCE WHEN?!”
Tetsu rubbed the back of his neck. “You didn’t hear? Apparently they confessed during the rain a few days ago.”
“Are you SERIOUS? The RAIN? Like a drama?”
Tetsu sighed. “Jun. Stop yelling.”
“We’re supposed to be the senpais who know everything! How did we miss this?!”
Tetsu only shrugged. “Because Chris is Chris.”
“…Fair.”
A beat of silence.
Jun narrowed his eyes. “We need answers.”
Tetsu simply said, “We’ll ask him tomorrow.”
Back outside, we finally reached my street.
“Thanks for walking me again,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You don’t have to every time, you know.”
Chris turned toward me. The lamplight caught in his eyes. “It's fine. I want to.”
A beat passed.
“…I like you.”
My heart skipped. “I already knew that...”
He smiled, small but warm. “I just wanted to say it again. Properly. Without rain, this time.” He said as he put one of his hand on top of my head.
I grinned. “Then let me return the favor. I like you too. Still.”
His hand moves to take mine, fingers brushing before slowly lacing together.
By the time I entered my door, we were both smiling like idiots.
The very next day, Chris stepped into the ground, early as usual. The place was still half-empty, except for Tetsu and Jun, who stood at the entrance like two bouncers guarding a VIP list.
Jun raised a dramatic hand, eyes narrowed like a detective exposing a criminal.
“Chris. Is it true?”
Chris blinked. “…Good morning?”
“Don’t deflect!” Jun jabbed a finger at him. “Rumors are flying. People are talking. Is it true that our calm, stoic catcher has a girlfriend?!”
Chris paused. “No.”
Jun gasped. “Oh thank—”
“I just confessed a few days ago,” Chris added smoothly, walking past them. “So technically, she’s not my girlfriend yet.”
“YOU—THAT—CHRIS, WAIT—”
Tetsu sighed. “You walked right into that one.”
“He tricked me!” Jun howled.
“Okay but like. Since when?! How long has this been going on?! When were you gonna tell us?!”
Chris shrugged off his jacket. “We’ve talked a few times. We walked home together.”
Jun clutched his chest. “ROMANTIC WALKS HOME?! Tetsu, are you hearing this?!”
“Loud and clear,” Tetsu replied, already lacing up his cleats.
“You kept it quiet this whole time! What else are you hiding?! Are you secretly good at karaoke too?! Can you bake?!”
Chris glanced over, expression unreadable. “I make a decent cheesecake.”
Jun looked seconds away from combusting.
Out on the field, I was already setting up equipment near the dugout, going over the next practice schedule with Coach. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chris step outside.
And even in a sea of teammates and motion, he looked for me first.
The second our eyes met, I couldn’t help it—I smiled.
I waved.
And just like that, his whole expression softened. A quiet smile tugged at his lips as he started walking toward me.
Behind him, I could faintly hear Jun’s voice “She’s already here?! They have a morning routine? This is domestic! Tetsu, this is domestic behavior!”
Tetsu’s quiet laugh carried through the air. “Let him be happy, Jun.”
It had been a week since the... Well, the incident when Miyuki and Kuramochi found out what had happened in the rain between Chris and me. Things hadn’t exactly calmed down.
Today, after practice, I found myself hovering near the benches again. Towel in hand, heart doing that fluttery thing it did way too often lately.
Chris walked over, calm as ever, but the way his gaze softened when it landed on me made the whole world tilt just a little.
I handed him the towel, casually brushing his hand as I did.
“I’ll wait for you after practice, okay?” I said, soft but sure.
Chris nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Okay.”
Then
“Huh?” Miyuki, walking by, stopped mid-step like someone just hit pause on his brain. He stared at the two of us, expression slowly morphing from confusion to horrified realization. “Wait. Wait—what did I just hear?”
Before I could say a single word, Kuramochi popped his head in from the side like a nosy older brother who’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. “Oh, you’re only finding out now?”
Miyuki squinted at him like he was personally offended. “You knew?!”
Kuramochi grinned, all wicked amusement. “Of course I knew. Who do you think she vents to when she’s losing her mind over what snacks to bring to Chris-senpai’s study sessions? But she never told me it was actually a real thing.”
Chris, ever unbothered, “She brings good snacks.”
“Oh, shut up, Kuramochi!” I hissed, face burning.
Miyuki dramatically clutched his chest. “Study sessions? Snacks? You two have routines?!”
Tetsu, walking past with a clipboard and zero interest in the chaos, deadpanned, “You didn't hear yet? They’re dating now. It’s official.”
Miyuki just about exploded. “I—EXCUSE ME?!”
Kuramochi turned to me with a look of mock betrayal. “You didn’t even hint at this during lunch yesterday!”
“I was trying to survive!” I groaned.
Chris, still absurdly calm “We weren’t hiding it.”
“YOU DIDN’T TELL US,” Miyuki and Kuramochi yelled in sync.
Chris shrugged, like this was just a post-game interview. “You didn’t ask.”
Kuramochi physically staggered back like someone hit him with a 90mph fastball. “I feel so betrayed.”
Jun didn’t even look up from his notes. “You’ll live.”
Chris looked at me again, like none of the shouting was happening. “See you after practice.”
I nodded, trying very, very hard not to melt in front of the entire team.
Miyuki groaned and dropped to his knees. “I can’t believe I lost a bet with myself.”
Kuramochi blinked. “Wait, you were betting?”
“No,” Miyuki muttered, “but if I had, I would've bet on them being awkward and silent forever.”
Chris, with the faintest smile “Sorry to disappoint.”
Kuramochi flopped onto the bench next to him, dazed. “I’m gonna need to sit down.”
I just covered my face with both hands.
This team was going to kill me before love ever could.
Sometimes, I still can’t believe how things changed so quickly. From handing out towels and filling water bottles to being the person he walks toward after practice.
But maybe that’s what it feels like to like someone who, quietly and surely, chooses you back.
And even if the team acted like the world was ending over our “big secret,” I knew one thing for sure, I didn’t regret any of it.
Because every time he looks at me with those calm, steady eyes like I’m the only one in the room. The day feels a little lighter.