The game ended without much drama. Team A won going away.

Suho, Cash and Mark each took exactly two at-bats before they were replaced. With so many players on hand, everyone had to get a fair chance.

But the air in the dugout after the game was strange. It wasn't the cheer of a win or the sting of a loss—just an awkward silence hanging over everything.

Most of Team B's players were gloomy, of course. They'd lost without showing anything.

And was Team A satisfied with the big win? Not in the least. The score had been lopsided, but every moment anybody would remember had been made by the Low-A guys. The leads had been somewhere else, and they'd filled in the background like scenery.

We wrote them off as Low-A.

They'd figured they could at least walk over those three. That hadn't been true. They'd been wrong.

There was a queasy feeling that came from having witnessed talent. It had sunk in for them that these three weren't simply a backdrop—they were real competitors who could threaten their own plates.

Harry, the manager, was the one who settled that delicate mood. He came into the locker room and said:

"Here's tomorrow's schedule. Morning workouts, then lunch. In the afternoon you work on your own routines, but there'll be a meeting with the coordinator in the middle of it. The schedule will be posted at your housing, so check it."

The players nodded.

Harry went on.

"You had a long day traveling and then playing. Go rest, all of you. Staff are waiting outside to show you to your housing. Dismissed."

The place Suho and the others were assigned to was a high-end apartment complex, ten minutes by car from the ballpark.

The moment a staffer let them in and they stepped through the door, Mark let out a whoop.

"Whoa! Holy crap. These facilities are unreal. This is the Dodgers for you."

Mark threw himself onto the living room couch.

It was fair enough. The floor was laid with expensive marble tile, and one side of the living…