Knock, knock.

After a short knock, Suho opened the door and went in. Cold air-conditioned air hit him.

"Suho Oh. Have a seat there."

Behind the desk sat a sharp-faced white man in glasses.

"First, my name is Thomas. I'm a data analyst with the Dodgers."

He was also the coordinator who would set the direction of Suho's hitting over this AFL.

He tapped at his tablet without even lifting his head. Dry, businesslike.

Suho scanned him on instinct as he sat down.

Textbook type, clear as day.

The neatly squared stacks of paper on the desk. The unrumpled clothes. And a way of speaking with the emotion surgically removed.

This type hates adventure. They loathe variables that aren't in the manual, and they take the guidelines handed down from above and the numbers in the data on faith, like religion.

Well, that's probably why he's an analyst.

A faint smile crossed Suho's mouth.

The truth was, what had let Suho survive in the barren farm-team world back in Korea—while his name floated on and off the release list—wasn't ability. For a guy with no connections and no money, there was only one weapon: reading people. Working out exactly what the coaching staff wanted and what kind of report the front office liked, and keeping them happy. That skill had bought Suho another year in the farm system.

Thomas turned the tablet toward Suho and spoke.

"The game starts soon, so I'll get to the point."

On the screen, Suho's spray chart from Low-A and all sorts of data were laid bare. Red dots bunched up in the infield and the shallow outfield—the data of a textbook slap hitter.

"Your data is clear. Your contact rate and exit velocity are respectable, but your launch angle is all over the place."

Suho had been first in exit velocity in Low-A. But that was Low-A. Thomas talked as if it were because Low-A pitchers didn't have enough stuff.

Then he pushed his glasses up and looked at Suho.

"You're going to need to shrink your dream."

"My dream, sir…"

"That uppercut swing…