The sun hung low over the rice fields behind Inashiro Middle School, casting long shadows over the diamond. It was after practice, and the field was quiet—except for the soft rustling of cleats brushing against the gravel, the faint thud of someone swinging a bat into air long after the others had gone home.
Haruto sat on the bench, hoodie thrown over his shoulders, shoulder bandaged beneath. He didn't pitch in today's game—not after Coach Inoue's warning, not after Reina's stern look the day before. His shoulder was still not fully healed.
Across the field, Reina was kneeling beside the equipment bag, slowly rolling up gauze and taping supplies. Her fingers moved automatically, but her mind was elsewhere. She wasn't the team manager just because she liked baseball. In truth, she didn't care much about the sport itself—at least not in the way the boys did. She cared about what it did to people.
She watched the way Sōta limped away from field drills, refusing to let anyone see the pain. The way Jun clenched his fist tighter every time he dropped a grounder in warm-up. The way Haruto flinched—barely, but visibly—each time he tested his shoulder in private.
And she knew that someone needed to understand those cracks.
To hold them when they couldn't.
"Hey."
Haruto's voice was soft. He stood beside her now, glancing down at the bag.
"I can carry that," he offered.
"I've got it," she replied, then smiled faintly. "It's not as heavy as it looks."
Neither of them moved.
A moment passed.
He sat down beside her on the edge of the grass.
The summer cicadas buzzed in the distance like a thousand distant cheers.
"Today went well," Haruto said.
She nodded. "Ayumu's the kind of player who reminds you why silence isn't emptiness."
"'Silent Thunder,' huh?" He grinned, the first in days. "Did you come up with that?"
"I might've whispered it into Sōta's ear during the game." She laughed softly, then looked down at her hands. "But I meant it."
Silence again. Comfortable this time.
Then Reina said it—slowly, not looking at him:
"I want to become a sports therapist."
Haruto blinked. "What?"
"I've been reading textbooks. Watching training videos online. Learning about muscle recovery, movement psychology, even sports trauma care." She exhaled. "I don't want to be just the girl who brings water and tapes ankles. I want to understand what happens to athletes—physically, mentally—when they push past their limits."
Haruto didn't answer for a long while.
He looked out at the field. It was empty now. But earlier, it had held chaos and celebration. And beneath all of that—pain.
"Is it… because of me?" he asked at last.
She hesitated. "Not only you."
He glanced at her, and her eyes were sincere. Gentle.
"But yes," she admitted. "Watching you throw pitch after pitch like your life depended on it. Watching you hide your injury behind that grin. Watching everyone expect something from you every game…" She paused. "It made me realize that no one ever takes care of the ones who carry everyone else."
A breeze passed through the field. Haruto looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes.
"I don't know how to not carry it," he said, voice barely audible.
"I know," she whispered.
Then she reached out—not to touch his shoulder, but to tap the gauze gently with her fingers.
"You can't control whether the world needs you. But you can control how much you bleed for it."
Haruto looked at her. For once, he didn't smile. He didn't joke.
He just nodded.
And that was enough.
---
That night, Reina sat alone in her room, journal open on her desk.
Her handwriting was neat, lines perfectly spaced.
> "Athletes are not just players. They're stories written in muscle and willpower.
And someone has to learn to read those stories—not just cheer for them."
On her wall, a sketch: a small diagram of the human shoulder joint, notes scribbled around it.
She didn't know where this path would lead.
She didn't know if she'd make it into a sports university or become an official team therapist.
But she knew she wanted to be someone like that.
Someone who could see pain before it broke people.
Someone who could catch a falling dream before it shattered.
---
Next day, practice ended early due to sudden rainfall.
Most of the team had already rushed inside, shoes squeaking down the hallways.
Reina was walking beneath the eaves, her notebook clutched to her chest to keep dry.
She paused as she passed the gym door.
Inside, Haruto was alone, tossing a ball lightly against the wall with his left hand.
He didn't see her.
And yet, his form was perfect.
Even injured, he trained.
Even hurt, he practiced.
She watched him for a moment before walking on.
Not smiling.
But understanding.
The future was waiting.
And this team—the Miracle Nine—wasn't just about baseball.
It was about why people chose to stay even when it hurt.
It was about who they became when no one was watching.
And Reina?
She was going to be the one who always watched.
Because dreams—like injuries—only got worse when ignored.
And she had chosen to heal both.