Chapter 38: Rain Between the Lines

The sky was grey, not from a storm, but from the kind of cloud cover that makes the whole day feel paused—neither light nor dark. The kind of day when baseballs felt heavier and hearts hung lower.

Reina walked down the sloped path behind the school grounds, her bag bouncing softly against her hip. She wasn't supposed to be here today—not with exams around the corner, not with the faculty breathing down her neck about attendance. But there were things more important than lectures sometimes. Things you could only feel out in the open, by the dugout, near the cracked chalk lines where dreams had been drawn and redrawn again.

She found him sitting there, alone, as expected. Haruto had become a silhouette lately. Watching, never playing. Smiling without meaning it. She didn't announce herself. She just sat beside him, pulling her knees to her chest, waiting.

Haruto didn't turn to her, but he knew.

"You missed health class," he said, voice soft.

"So did you," she replied, kicking the dirt near her shoe.

Silence.

Reina pulled something out of her bag: a worn-out ice pack, the fabric stitched in one corner from where it had torn last week.

"Put this on," she said, holding it out without looking at him.

Haruto didn't move. He was still wearing his practice jersey, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a light sheen of sweat on his brow. He hadn't pitched today—again. Just ran laps like everyone else, pretending he wasn't in pain. But she had seen it. She always did.

"It's fine," he mumbled.

"No, it's not."

"I can manage—"

"Stop saying that."

He flinched at her tone. Not because it was loud, but because it was the closest Reina ever came to being angry.

She finally looked at him. Really looked. "You think pushing through it is noble. Like it makes you stronger. But it doesn't. It just wears you down until there's nothing left to fight with."

Haruto stared at the dirt. "If I stop now, we lose everything."

Reina leaned forward. "If you don't stop now, you'll have nothing left for what comes after. You've already lost some movement in that shoulder. I saw your pitch drop lower yesterday."

He blinked. She had noticed that?

"You watch everything, don't you?"

"I care about what matters," she replied.

He finally took the ice pack, holding it with hesitation, like it might admit defeat.

Reina softened. "Do you remember last summer? The day it rained during practice and you stood on the mound anyway, throwing into the storm?"

"You were the one shouting at me from under the umbrella."

"You were smiling so wide back then," she whispered. "Like you had the whole world in your glove."

Haruto looked at her, and for the first time in weeks, he let the weight of everything he'd been carrying leak into his expression. Not the stoic calm of a pitcher, but the ache of a boy who didn't want to let anyone down.

Reina placed her hand gently over his wrist. "You're allowed to rest, Haruto. We're not asking you to be perfect. Just… present."

He didn't say anything for a long while. The only sound was the rustling leaves, the faint echo of shouting from the distant track where the team was still warming up.

Then he asked, quietly, "Do they hate me? For not playing?"

"They don't," Reina said. "They just don't know how to say they're scared without you. So they get loud. Or quiet. Or confused."

"Feels like I'm disappearing."

"You're not." She smiled faintly. "You're just healing. That takes time. And trust."

Haruto nodded slowly, eyes glancing toward the field. "I'll sit out the next game."

Reina blinked. "You… you will?"

He sighed. "I'll hate it. But I'll do it."

She stood suddenly, surprising him. "Then come with me. Now."

"Where?"

She grabbed his hand and pulled him up. "To tell Coach. Before you chicken out."

---

That weekend, the stands were fuller than usual. Word had spread—quietly, almost reverently—that the Miracle Nine were still in the fight. Families, farmers, a few retired players, and even children with bent paper megaphones crowded the sidelines. The energy buzzed like a festival, but with a different kind of tension.

The game began with Sōta stepping in as acting captain. Takeshi pitched the first inning—a little wild, a little fast—but his nerves settled. Haruto sat on the bench beside Reina, wrapped in a jacket despite the warm sun, his left shoulder still tight with worry.

"Batting fourth for Nishioka... Jun Furuhashi!"

The commentator's voice echoed through the outdated speakers, drawing cheers from a small clump of students waving handmade signs. One read: "Miracle Nine = Magic on Dirt". Another: "Furuhashi! Show 'Em We Farm Fireballs!"

The game wasn't clean. Errors crept in. Jun missed a steal. Shu dropped a pop fly. Takeshi gave up two runs in the fourth. But they played like kids who had earned their bruises.

Still, the scoreboard told a harsh truth by the sixth inning: they were down 4–1.

Reina's hand hovered near Haruto's. Not touching. Just near enough.

"You okay?" she asked.

He nodded, eyes on the mound. "Hurts to watch more than to play."

They sat like that until the eighth. When the final out was called—an unfortunate strikeout on a wild swing—the crowd gave a collective groan, but not one of anger. It was understanding. Sad, yes. But still proud.

Back in the locker room, the silence was loud again. But this time, it was different.

Coach Inoue stood at the front, arms crossed. "You all played like a team today."

"We lost," Takeshi muttered.

"Yes," Inoue said. "But you didn't fall apart."

Jun slumped against the locker. "Still feels like crap."

Haruto stepped forward, the jacket gone, bandage visible beneath his undershirt. He faced the team.

"I should've said something earlier," he began, "but thank you."

They looked at him—confused.

"For not giving up without me."

Sōta smiled faintly. "Wasn't pretty, but it was honest."

Reina entered quietly with a tray of energy drinks and rice balls. She placed it on the bench, then walked to Haruto and whispered, "They'll follow you… even when you're not pitching."

Haruto didn't reply. But his fingers brushed hers gently.

The path ahead was still uncertain. The injury wasn't gone. The team was flawed. But something had shifted today.

They had played without their star.

And still, the crowd had stayed.

Still, they had fought.

Still… they were a team.

And that counted for something.