It was supposed to be a regular Tuesday.
Grey clouds hovered above the schoolyard. The cherry blossoms had already shed their pink. The excitement of the last win still lingered, like warm air trapped inside a dugout after a game.
But inside the staff room, tension was building like a pitcher's shoulder before the wind-up.
Coach Inoue stood with arms crossed, his old tracksuit folded at the wrists, listening quietly as Principal Nakamura, stern and silver-haired, sat across the desk with narrowed eyes.
"We let you help out as a faculty member, not to act as the team's full-time coach."
Inoue said nothing.
"You've been reported speaking out of turn, shouting from the dugout, adjusting strategies mid-game without administrative permission."
He finally spoke. "Is it illegal to teach kids how to think?"
The principal adjusted his glasses. "This isn't about thinking. It's about control. Regulation."
"They're not robots," Inoue said softly. "They're boys who built their own team with tape and borrowed dreams. All I did was… give them structure."
"Exactly. Structure that didn't come from the school. And now, media is sniffing around, the board is questioning our budget reports, and worst of all—" He slammed a paper on the desk. "—you've made them believe they have a chance."
Inoue's jaw clenched. "They do."
The principal stood up. "I'm pulling you from club activities. Effective immediately."
There was a silence—one that stretched past the walls of the room.
"You can stay on as a P.E. teacher. Nothing more."
Inoue looked out the small window toward the field. He saw them—Miracle Nine—stretching, joking, tossing each other pop flies. Kids who had no idea that their fragile miracle was already under threat.
He gave a small nod.
"If that's what you want."
But inside, something quiet cracked.
---
The players noticed it the next day.
Inoue didn't show up to practice.
"Maybe he's sick?" Shu offered.
"He never misses practice," Jun said, tossing his glove down. "Something's wrong."
Sōta eyed Haruto, who still wasn't pitching full-time but had been stepping more into leadership.
"Any idea what happened?"
Haruto shook his head, though part of him already feared the truth.
Reina, notebook in hand, showed up with stats and energy drinks, trying to keep the atmosphere light. But the absence of their mentor left a shadow even sunlight couldn't erase.
They trained anyway. Because that's what they knew how to do now.
But it wasn't the same.
---
Later that evening, Haruto slipped into the teacher's lounge. He didn't knock.
Coach Inoue sat alone, grading papers. His face looked older than it had last week. More tired. More distant.
"You're not coming back, are you?"
Inoue looked up. "Can't."
"Why?"
"They said I crossed a line."
Haruto lowered his voice. "You didn't cross it. You built it for us to stand on."
Inoue chuckled. "You've gotten good with words."
"I've gotten tired of losing people."
That stopped him.
"I know you're not supposed to be our coach. But if you stop showing up altogether, we'll break apart again. Not because of a rulebook. But because we finally had something worth believing in—and it walked away."
Inoue closed the notebook slowly.
"You're pitching again soon?"
Haruto nodded. "A few more days."
"Then lead them. The way we practiced. The way I would've. Just… maybe don't get expelled doing it."
Haruto smiled. "No promises."
---
News trickled to the team slowly.
"He's not banned," Reina clarified, scanning messages on her phone. "He's just not allowed to act as an official coach anymore."
"Same thing," Takeshi muttered.
"Not exactly," Haruto said. "He can't give us plays. But he can sit in the stands. He can still watch."
That realization sparked something.
And sure enough, during the next game—against Tokusei East—the boys kept glancing toward the third row of the bleachers.
There he was.
Coach Inoue. Not in his tracksuit, but a windbreaker. Arms crossed. Sunglasses hiding his gaze.
A silent anchor.
When Takeshi looked shaky in the second inning, Haruto stepped up.
"Breathe. Inside. Watch for the slider."
"How do you know they're using a slider?"
"I watched game tape. Reina's been tracking patterns."
Sōta chuckled. "Haruto the analyst. What's next? Broadcasting?"
Reina grinned. "Actually, if this falls apart, I've got a podcast name ready."
Jun laughed. Even Takeshi smirked.
They won again. Not easily—but they won.
After the final pitch, they all looked to the stands.
Coach Inoue didn't wave. But he gave a slow nod.
The team knew what it meant.
Keep going.
---
Back at school, the principal passed by Haruto in the hallway.
"You're the one who keeps shouting from the dugout now."
"Yes, sir."
"You should know—it's being monitored."
"Understood."
The principal looked at him, a long, unreadable glance.
"You remind me of someone I used to believe in," he said quietly, then walked away.
---
The next morning, new chalk appeared on the practice field.
White lines—sharper than ever before.
Someone had cleaned the bases. The storage room had extra bats.
No one knew who did it.
But they all did.
Coach Inoue never returned to the dugout.
But they no longer needed him there to feel his presence.
The team had absorbed him.
Not as a coach.
But as a compass.
And the whisper around the town grew louder.
They weren't just watching the boys now.
They were following them.
From behind fences.
From café radios.
From school windows.
From the shadows of those who had once given up.
The Miracle Nine was no longer a story whispered.
They were becoming something harder to define.
Not a team. Not yet a legacy.
But a reason to keep showing up.
And somewhere in the clouds above Inashiro, the summer stirred quietly—watching the storm it had seeded begin to rise.