The game had reached the top of the seventh, and the Giants still led 7–4.

By rights, the gap should have been bigger by now. The Quakes’ starter had come apart, and the bullpen wasn’t in great shape either. On top of that, six hours on the road had caught up with the fielders, and their legs were heavy.

And yet, strangely, the Giants hadn’t scored again.

The reason was Suho. All that dirt caked on his uniform was putting silent pressure on the other players.

He’s going that far. We can’t just go through the motions.

At least let’s not make any plays we’ll catch hell for.

It wasn’t a hunger to win, not yet. It was a professional’s bare minimum of pride. Or maybe guilt. Whatever it was, it woke the players up. They forced their heavy legs to move and ran down balls that looked like sure hits. Suho’s fighting spirit was holding their fading focus on defense in place by sheer force.

And then Suho came up again.

Down three…

He glanced at the scoreboard.

Three runs in the seventh. You could call that a lot or a little. But for the team in the field, it was usually a comfortable cushion, since they could bring in their best relievers. For the team at the plate, three runs was a lot—way too much.

Even so, Suho thought they had a real shot.

It could’ve gotten a lot worse, and we held on.

That was a good sign, no question. He still couldn’t see a real hunger to win in most of his teammates’ eyes, but—

At least they haven’t given up. They’re giving it everything.

That was enough. His team wanted it more right now than the other side, sitting back and feeling safe with a three-run lead.

Suho tightened his grip on the bat.

He told me to get on base.

He remembered what Cash had said to him, almost like a threat. Truthfully, he had no idea what Cash would do if he did get on.

Hit a home run?

Cash was a truly great player. When it came to pure ability, he was the most ideal player Suho could think of.

Not that anybody in baseball gets to hit a home run just because he wants one.

But the way Cash was now, burning with a fight Suho had never seen in him, he might really put one over the fence.

Or else…

Suho shook his head. What was a hitter at the plate doing worrying about somebody else? Right now he had to get on base first—the way Cash wanted, and the way the team needed.

So how do I get on…

The Giants had brought one of their best relievers to the mound, and his stuff was no joke. Besides, a hit was no different from a home run: you didn’t get one just because you wanted it.

But Suho huffed a laugh. He was confident.

They’ve gotten sloppy. I’ll hit them where they’re not looking.

A three-run lead, late in the game. The pitcher and the infielders were only worried about extra-base hits and had backed off to deeper positions. The tension of the first inning was long gone.

The pitcher went into his windup.

Suho didn’t move his hands on the bat. He kept his hitting stance exactly as it was. But in the split second the ball left the pitcher’s hand, Suho snapped the bat flat.

It was a surprise—a bunt for a hit.

“…!”

The third baseman came charging in, startled. He was a quick fielder, and even though he’d been playing way back, his reactions were outstanding. He barehanded the ball and fired it to first as hard as he could.

It was going to be close. No—the throw was a little faster. But Suho didn’t slow down.

I’ll make it!

Just short of first, Suho left his feet once again. It was the head-first slide the manager had tried so hard to stop him from making.

He crashed into the dirt, and in the cloud of dust his hand slapped the bag. An instant later the ball smacked into the first baseman’s mitt.

The umpire’s arms swept out wide.

“Safe!”

Covered in dirt all over again, Suho clenched his fist. The fist said he’d kept his promise.

Kneeling in the on-deck circle, Cash had watched the whole thing. Seeing Suho face-down in the dirt yet again, he looked like the wind had gone out of him.

…Seriously, this is ridiculous.

At the same time, guilt washed over him. He was the one who’d practically threatened Suho to get on base no matter what. And that idiot had gone and dived head-first again just to keep his word.

If he got hurt doing that…

Who would he even blame?

But Cash shook it off. He’d already heard Suho’s view of baseball from his own mouth.

Was that stupid? No.

Was it reckless, then? No.

Then… was it cool?

Cash asked himself, and the answer came right back.

…Yeah.

Damn cool, at that.

He had to admit it. Suho had something that Cash didn’t—that the minor leaguers playing today didn’t, and maybe that even major leaguers didn’t.

Romance… is that what you’d call it?

A raw, pure fighting spirit that wanted nothing but to win—a thing that had gone extinct in modern baseball, where everything ran on calculation, efficiency and the logic of money. And right now it was making Cash’s own heart race.

Cash stepped into the box. Facing a left-hander this time, he stood in on the right side.

“Whew.”

Normally he’d have broken down the pitcher’s repertoire and figured out how to get the ball onto his own swing path and drive it for extra bases. But not now.

I keep the line moving, whatever it takes.

That was the one thought filling his head.

Usually a hitter at the plate is caught up in reading the other man’s move. What’s this guy going to throw? What should I be looking for? But right now, Cash had dumped every one of those complicated calculations in the trash.

It’s a stupid thing to do.

Giving up on that reading and focusing only on putting the ball in play? As far as hitting mechanics went, it was a step backward. So if anyone asked whether he’d do it again next time, Cash would answer in a heartbeat:

“Are you nuts?”

But right now, at least, in this moment, it felt like the right answer.

Because that guy threw himself at it again.

The leadoff man had set the table by throwing his body on the line. So the next hitter owed it to him to throw away his own pride and greed and hand that table carefully to the next man without knocking it over.

The duel began.

The first pitch was a strike. The second was a ball.

1-1. The third pitch.

The pitcher threw a fastball running away off the outside corner, a pitch that usually turned into a weak ground ball if you tried to pull it.

Cash didn’t get greedy. He went with the pitch and flicked it the other way.

Crack.

With a soft crack, the ball dropped neatly in front of the right fielder for a single to right.

Suho was off from first at the sound and tore past second without slowing, all the way to third. By the time the right fielder had the ball, Suho was already standing on third and Cash had taken first.

Runners on first and third, nobody out.

On the board the Magician had laid out, the genius had just turned on the bright lights.

The number-three hitter, Luis Garcia, was stepping in, but Cash wasn’t done yet.

As the pitcher came set, Cash broke from first.

“Damn it! He’s going!”

The Giants’ battery was caught off guard. A three-run game, runners on first and third, nobody out—and the runner on first was taking off? If he got thrown out, it was a reckless play that would kill the rally cold.

Making the catch, the catcher sprang up out of his crouch and fired to second. The throw was quick. It was going to be close.

In that instant, Cash launched himself into the air.

The usual Cash would have gone in feet first so he wouldn’t get hurt, because that was efficient and safe. Even if it cost him the out, he never led with his head.

But now, without a flicker of hesitation, he went in head-first.

He crashed into the dirt.

The highest-paid player in the minors right now—the genius hitter they said came along once in a hundred years, if that—had just thrown his body into a pit of dust.

Getting hurt? His future? What he was worth? None of that mattered at all right now. Only one thing did: turning this damn game around.

“Safe! Safe!”

The second-base umpire made the call.

Cash stood on second without even brushing off his filthy uniform. His eyes weren’t on Suho at third. They were on Luis at the plate.

No double play now.

Luis hadn’t had his timing all day. There was a good chance he’d hit it on the ground. If Cash had stayed on first and they’d turned a double play, it would have poured cold water all over this rally.

Cash had thrown his body on the line to wipe out one way they could lose and bring those odds down to zero.

The fighting spirit of a genius who chose the least efficient way there was, all for the sake of winning. It was changing even the air in the dugout.

Sure enough, Luis jumped at the pitcher’s out pitch and grounded out to short. Without the stolen base, it might well have been a double play. Thanks to Cash’s call, the chance was still alive.

Runners on second and third, one out.

One hit would still bring two runs home. And stepping up to the plate to take a seat at the table set this nicely was the Quakes’ number-four hitter, Mark Williams.

Runners on second and third, one out.

The number-four hitter, Mark, stepped in. In his head, two big impulses were colliding.

Go for the big one?

Going for a home run here wasn’t personal greed at all. It might even be the smartest call. They were down three runs, and one swing would tie it just like that.

The pitcher’s already shaky.

So a sure extra-base hit could put even more fear into the pitcher—and the whole other team. More than anything, he felt it was on him, as the number-four hitter, to come through.

Or… go all in on hitting for the team?

That made sense too. Forget greed, just put the ball in play, and a hit meant two runs. Even at worst, a fly ball to the outfield would bring one in for sure and keep the comeback going.

What do I do?

He couldn’t make up his mind.

Mark looked over at the dugout on instinct.

Taylor stood with his arms folded and gave no sign at all.

A green light.

It meant your call—a silent vote of confidence that he’d swing away and drive them in the way a number-four hitter should. It was about as obvious a sign as there could be.

Still undecided, Mark turned his eyes back to the field.

On second base stood Cash in his dirt-caked uniform, breathing hard.

So he got to you too, huh?

Mark snorted a laugh. A first-rounder they called a genius, getting dragged around by an old rookie who’d washed out in Korea. Anybody watching might call that stupid.

But was it really stupid?

Nah.

If Cash Meyer, of all people, was an idiot, then Mark—who respected Suho and wanted to be like him—was an idiot too.

Sorry, but I’m no idiot.

Cash wasn’t either. So there wasn’t anything wrong with them.

Suho’s just right. The two of us only figured out the right answer late.

Mark broke into a grin.

Funny—letting his mind wander had made it clear what he had to do at the plate. It was pretty ironic, but so what? All that mattered was winning.

Is he going to come right at me?

The pitcher’s eyes were shifting nervously. First base was open. There was no way he’d risk giving up an extra-base hit by going right after a number-four hitter this locked in. He’d work him with chase pitches, or else pitch around him.

Which left only one answer.

No reason to let him drag me around.

The duel began.

“Ball!”

“Ball!”

“Ball!”

The pitcher kept picking at the outside edge of the zone, trying to draw Mark’s bat out. On a normal day, Mark’s number-four-hitter pride alone would have had him swinging at them. But he didn’t budge.

I’m taking the walk.

The momentum had swung their way. Suho had thrown his body on the line to keep the fire going, and Cash had poured gasoline on it. Mark didn’t have to play the hero and win it himself.

The guys behind me will get it done.

Wasn’t that what Suho had always done? Hadn’t he thrown himself around like that because he trusted the hitters behind him?

So I’ve got to trust them, too.

The five hitter, the six hitter—the rest of his team.

“Ball four!”

Mark tossed his bat and trotted down to first.

Bases loaded, one out.

It was a choice that handed the other side despair and the Quakes their best chance of the night.

In the dugout, Taylor tugged his cap down low. The bill hid his eyes, but he was grinning ear to ear and couldn’t stop.

That’s it.

It was the smile of a man who knew they’d won. A team that had thrown away its selfishness and started trusting each other—who on earth could stop that?

And the miracle really did come true.

Starting with an RBI single from the five hitter, the Quakes’ lineup exploded. Four hits came one after another, like a dam bursting.

Past the 7–7 tie, to 8–7 Quakes, then 9–7…

The Quakes had turned the game completely around.

Under the night sky over San Jose, Suho’s magic was complete.

End of Chapter 39