"Senpai, here's your cake."
"Huh?"
Fujiwara Takako blinked in surprise, covering her mouth.
"It's a thank-you gift for your help, Senpai," Kanzaki Ryou said with a grin. "You worked hard managing the cheer squad and the cheering section during the game. It's only right I show my appreciation."
He spoke casually, but his words carried sincerity. For Kanzaki, owing favors was something he wanted to avoid.
Fujiwara Takako accepted the small box, her cheeks flushing pink.
"It's fine. I'm happy to help, Kanzaki."
"Alright, then I'll go train now." Kanzaki turned to leave, then paused and looked back with a playful smile.
"Oh, by the way, Senpai — you can call me Ryou from now on. I like it when people use my given name."
"...Mm."
Fujiwara Takako lowered her head and nodded softly. Call him by his given name directly?
Before she could dwell on it, a teasing voice came from behind.
"Oh my, a little cake~"
Mita Yuka wrapped her arms around Takako from behind, smiling like a mischievous older sister.
"S-Senpai, stop messing around!" Takako yelped.
"Tsk tsk, it's just for you, huh? I want some too," Mita teased, poking her cheek.
"I'm not talking to you anymore!" Takako's face turned red as she quickly slipped away, putting the cake carefully into her bag.
That afternoon, training resumed.
After warm-ups came base-running drills. The continuous shuttle sprints had the first-years gasping for air in no time.
In contrast, the upperclassmen seemed completely unfazed — though they were breathing hard, their endurance and focus were on another level. True monsters forged by daily grind.
Once the basic training for freshmen ended, Kanzaki joined the first string's practice alongside Miyuki.
Out in center field, Kanzaki took part in fielding drills. The upperclassmen hit balls all over the field — sharp line drives, awkward bouncers, and high flies.
Kanzaki, lacking experience, struggled at first. His footwork was clumsy, and his throws occasionally went astray.
"Watch the ball, Kanzaki!" someone barked.
He was scolded repeatedly, sweat dripping down his face.
The upperclassmen, remembering how flashy his debut had been yesterday, began hitting balls toward him with deliberate intensity.
Show off too much, and this is what you get, they thought. A silent agreement formed among them — time to teach the rookie a lesson.
Even so, Kanzaki wasn't the most miserable one on the field. That honor went to Miyuki Kazuya, who stood before a basket full of baseballs, pitching them nonstop for batting practice like an emotionless machine. His face was pure despair.
After fielding came pitching training. Kanzaki approached the dugout, where Coach Kataoka stood reviewing notes.
"Coach," Kanzaki called.
Kataoka looked up. "What is it?"
"I have a request regarding pitching practice."
A murmur ran through the nearby players. A first-year making a request about training? Everyone turned to listen.
"Go ahead," Kataoka said evenly. "As long as it's reasonable, I'll consider it."
"I'd like to add a simulated game practice session," Kanzaki began. "I'll pitch, and the upperclassmen will take turns batting. Three pitches per person. There are eighteen people on the current first string, so it won't exceed sixty pitches."
Kataoka raised an eyebrow. "Your reason?"
Kanzaki looked around at the players who'd stopped what they were doing to watch. His gaze was steady.
"For me, facing different types of batters seriously helps me improve — my experience, my strategy, and my composure."
He paused before continuing.
"For the upperclassmen, my pitching — with its speed and control — provides valuable batting practice from a new angle. It helps sharpen timing and reaction."
"And since it's only three pitches per batter, it won't take too long. I don't think anyone would refuse."
A few players broke into cold sweat. This kid had guts. No one ever made requests about the team's training schedule — that was the coaching staff's domain.
Kataoka crossed his arms, deep in thought. It was, indeed, a good idea — beneficial for both sides.
But his expression remained unreadable, and Kanzaki could feel the weight of that silence. Still, his eyes didn't waver.
"Won't this be too much for you physically?" Kataoka finally asked.
That question caught Kanzaki slightly off guard. The coach's first concern wasn't the logistics — it was him.
"Less than sixty pitches. I can handle it," Kanzaki replied confidently, warmth rising in his chest.
Kataoka gave a short nod. "If you feel any discomfort, tell me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Satisfied, Kataoka stepped forward. The players instinctively gathered closer — the coach was about to announce something.
"You all heard what Kanzaki just said," he began. "I approve his proposal."
"Huh?!"
The upperclassmen exchanged looks of disbelief. He actually pulled it off!
But before they could react, Kataoka's next words froze them in place.
"Kanzaki is willing to do extra work to help you improve your batting. As upperclassmen, don't you feel ashamed?"
Kanzaki nearly choked. Coach, please—are you trying to make me public enemy number one?!
"Therefore," Kataoka continued, "anyone struck out by Kanzaki will voluntarily run five kilometers after training."
"...Huh?!"
Every upperclassman turned pale. Kanzaki's pitches were fast, precise, and vicious. Even Azuma and Yuki couldn't guarantee they wouldn't strike out.
"What? Any objections?" Kataoka's cold gaze swept across the group.
"No, sir!!" everyone shouted in unison.
In the dugout, the managers exchanged whispers.
"Kanzaki's made more enemies again," Mita Yuka said, amused.
"Won't that cause problems?" Fujiwara Takako asked worriedly. "Ryou should still try to get along with the upperclassmen…"
"Don't worry," Mita replied with a chuckle. "They're just playing along. For these baseball maniacs, getting a chance to face Kanzaki in a simulated game is something they've been hoping for."
Takako relaxed slightly but said nothing more.
That day, during the first simulated match, all eighteen first-string players were struck out — every single one of them.
Even Azuma and Yuki, the team's strongest batters, only managed to foul a few pitches.
When training ended, the eighteen upperclassmen began their five-kilometer punishment run under the curious stares of the other members. Every single one wore a face full of resentment — all directed at Kanzaki.
"Good thing I'm not on the first string anymore," Chris said with a rare smile.
Although he was no longer playing due to injury, his name was still on Seidou's active tournament roster, which couldn't be changed until the Spring Metropolitan Tournament ended. That was why Coach Kataoka hadn't promoted anyone new to replace him yet.
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