"You two are going to help me."

At Suho's bold demand, Mark and Cash looked at each other for a moment.

Mark was the first to speak. He wiped the usual playfulness off his face and hung his head, like a man in an awkward spot.

"Uh… I really do want to help, you know? After everything you've done for me. But the thing is… honestly, my way isn't going to fit you."

Mark showed off his forearm with a rueful smile.

"Because I'm the type who just muscles it over the fence like an idiot."

Mark was what people call a natural-born power hitter. A frame that had been different since he was a kid, and the natural spring in his muscle fiber. Rather than agonizing over complicated mechanics, he was the type who instinctively smashed whatever came in. Crushing the ball with overwhelming physical tools instead of technical business like hip rotation and weight transfer—that was Mark's way.

"But technical hitting suits you, Suho. It's fundamentally different from me bludgeoning it over the fence."

Mark truly wanted to help. He wanted to do everything he could for the man he owed. But he knew this wasn't his moment to step forward.

His own feel was for men with strength. Pour that into Suho carelessly, and Suho's balance, delicate as it already was, could collapse completely. In baseball, form is a maze: take one wrong turn and there's no telling how long it takes to find your way back.

"That's the one thing I want to avoid, no matter what. What if I step up to help you and end up ruining you instead?"

Better to do nothing than to ruin a friend. That was the best kindness Mark could think of, and he meant it.

Instead, Mark pointed a finger to the side.

"Cash. He'll be useful to you."

Cash shot Mark a look—a glare that asked why he was being dragged into something annoying. But he didn't argue, either. Mark was completely right.

If Mark was strength, Cash was thorough technique. Bat path, wrist turn, balance in…