The stadium buzzed with anticipation as Kairo stepped onto the pitcher’s mound, the roar of over forty thousand fans fading into little more than background noise. Beneath the bright stadium lights, he adjusted the brim of his cap before curling his fingers around the baseball, its familiar seams fitting perfectly against his skin. Years of repetition had made every movement second nature—the deep breath, the glance toward home plate, the subtle shift of his cleats against the dirt. For a brief moment, everything else disappeared. The crowd, the cameras, the pressure. It was just him, the catcher waiting behind the plate, and sixty feet, six inches between them.

Kairo stood alone atop the mound, the baseball resting loosely in his hand as the stadium settled around him. For a brief moment, the cheers blurred into nothing, replaced by memories that had followed him onto every field he’d ever stepped foot on.

Again.

his father had barked from behind the chain-link fence, arms folded tightly across his chest.

Talent means nothing if you can’t do it twice.

The memory shifted.

His high school pitching coach stood beside the bullpen, a hand on Kairo’s shoulder after one of the worst games of his life.

You’re thinking too much

he had said,

The second you start pitching to avoid failure instead of pitching to win… you’ve already lost.