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“Are you alright, Miyuki-sempai?”
The boy’s smart – he tested into Seido unlike the rest of the team. Of course, he’d notice the restrained movements, the grimaces, the sweat. Fucking hell, all of the sweat.
“You were knocked down hard.”
He’s got a towel on his neck and a fake smile on his face as he cackles, “Seiko doesn’t know that they’re better suited for rugby than baseball—“
“You’re hurt.”
Miyuki Kazuya -- the genius catcher that brought him to Seido and idiot captain that somehow led them here -- tips his head back, gaze narrowing on the first-year pitcher. Right now, he hates the pitcher’s earnestness, all of the sincerity seeping through his typical stoicism, voice softer than usual.
“Y’know, Furuya,” Miyuki begins.
Furuya’s eyes widen, air socked out of him by words like a fastball—his fastball, powerful and precipitous—slamming into his stomach.
“I like you more when you’re selfish.”