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Furuya was waiting at the stadium exit.
There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek and Masamune hated how soft it made him look, like he wasn’t someone who could stare you down on the mound and pitch a fastball at such insane velocity the laces shrieked as they tore apart the air.
“Will you shake my hand now?” he said.
“What the fuck?” said Masamune.
“You didn’t last year,” Furuya said. “I thought it was because we’d lost.”
Masamune shoved past Furuya, closing his fingers briefly around Furuya’s hand, and thought about his smile on the return bus.