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The final out fell into the glove like a glorious sentence. Within seconds, the field at Chase Field filled with shouts, laughter, and embraces. The Dodgers had defeated the Diamondbacks in Arizona, securing their place as National League West Division champions. Shohei was the first to run toward the center of the diamond, arms wide open as the crowd roared from the stands. Yoshinobu reached him shortly after, wearing that restrained smile that gave him away more than any shout ever could. The rest of the players surrounded them in a whirlwind of joy, throwing their caps into the air, jumping on one another, letting the moment swallow them whole.
Within minutes, the chaos on the field moved into the visitors’ clubhouse. The air filled with the sweet smell of freshly uncorked champagne; the walls echoed with music, laughter, and the clinking of bottles hitting one another. The floor was already a sea of foam, and the white shirts reading “Division Champs – National League West” had been handed out among the euphoria.
All the players bathed themselves in clouds of champagne foam, shouting and singing unintelligible phrases—not because of alcohol, which was still minimal, but because of the sheer noise dominating the room. The metallic pop of corks flying mixed with the music and laughter. Some recorded videos for their social media; others posed or danced in front of cameras wrapped in protective plastic, while the floor sank under a shimmering layer of bubbles.
Shohei was jumping around like a kid in a splash pool, delighted by the atmosphere. He soaked everyone with a wide, shameless grin, drenched up to his neck and laughing whenever someone returned the spray of foam. He moved from group to group, tossing jokes between bursts of laughter, even with the reporters and cameramen trying to keep their equipment dry under improvised plastic covers. There was something infectious about his energy; his laughter was so genuine that, for a moment, everyone forgot the exhaustion of the game—the celebration was all that existed.
The party seemed limitless. Every uncorked bottle brought a new explosion of laughter, and the air grew thicker, heavy with foam, heat, and adrenaline. The music competed with the voices; the speakers vibrated, echoing against the now damp plastic sheeting on the walls. Shirts stuck to bodies, the floor grew slippery, and the smell of champagne mixed with disinfectant—everything was a delicious chaos.
Shohei had claimed the center of the clubhouse, cap tilted, shirt soaked. One of his teammates, a very cheerful Puerto Rican, tossed him an open bottle, and he caught it effortlessly, spinning it in the air before making it burst. A stream of bubbles shot toward a group of players, who responded with a collective shout.
Amid the noise, Yoshinobu watched from a bit farther back, leaning against one of the lockers. It wasn’t that he wasn’t enjoying the victory—his eyes held the same pride—but honestly, he had kept up with them for two hours already. Even so, every time Shohei laughed or yelled his name, Yoshinobu’s serene expression softened, just slightly, in a way only someone who knew him could notice.
Reporters and cameramen kept recording, dodging streams of foam while trying to get statements between bursts of laughter. However, little by little, their enthusiasm began to fade. The noise, the humidity, and the impossibility of getting a clean shot eventually wore them down. One by one, they started to leave the clubhouse, exchanging handshakes and quick smiles. Cameras turned off, the little red recording lights disappearing one by one. The locker room door closed for the last time with a dull thud.
The atmosphere shifted—almost imperceptibly. The music kept playing, but the tone became more intimate, more uniquely theirs. Without cameras, the laughter grew freer, the jokes bolder, the words more sincere. And there, amid all that noise, Shohei looked for Yoshinobu.
He pushed through the mess with an empty champagne bottle in his hand. The floor still slipped beneath his shoes, and foam dripped from his neck down his sleeve. His smile was wide, bright—one of those smiles that couldn’t be faked… but Yoshinobu knew it too well. That smile meant one thing: Shohei wanted something.
The younger man was now sitting on a chair beside one of the lockers, hair still damp and shirt soaked. Empty bottles lay around him and an old song echoed faintly from the speakers. Shohei stopped in front of him, leaning slightly to speak over the noise.
—Shishi… Kiké, well… they want to keep the party going somewhere else— he said in a low, almost timid tone, a stark contrast to his imposing figure and the leftover euphoria crackling in the air.
Yoshinobu looked up at him, raising a single eyebrow. In his eyes was that amused, patient glow he used only with Shohei.
—It’s late— he replied calmly, yet firmly enough to cut through the noise of the celebration.— We will travel early tomorrow.
Shohei smiled again, tilting his head. Around them, teammates kept laughing and spraying foam, but he only saw him.
—Dave said it was fine. As long as we show up on time and-...
—Will Dave have a headache tomorrow morning when he has to get on the plane?— Yoshinobu interrupted, without changing his tone in the slightest.
Shohei froze, and a burst of laughter exploded a few feet away. Kiké, Banda, and Pages exchanged looks—they knew exactly what had just happened. Their grins turned conspiratorial, and someone finally said, between laughs:
—Sho, just go to sleep already.
A chorus of laughter followed, and Shohei rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed but still smiling.
The dark-haired man looked at the younger one from across the room again and, with a childlike smile that needed no words, raised his left hand, showing five fingers. Five minutes—that’s what he was asking for. Yoshinobu met his gaze for a second before sighing softly and giving a small, resigned nod. It was impossible to deny him everything.
Shohei beamed and spun on his heels immediately. The moment he turned, he was already searching for another bottle of champagne. He found one, shook it enthusiastically, and made it explode over the teammates still laughing at him. Foam flew in all directions, soaking hats, shirts, and even parts of the ceiling—if that was even possible.
Laughter grew louder. Shohei jumped, ran, sprayed streams of foam into the air. He shouted phrases lost between the music and the laughter. He seemed like a child allowed to break every rule for one night.
In a corner, Rojas slid across the wet floor, skating atop the foam as if on an improvised rink. Shohei saw him and immediately tried to imitate him. He took a running start, slid, and his body barely moved a few inches before hitting the floor with a solid thud. The entire clubhouse burst into laughter.
—Sho, you can’t even do that! someone shouted between laughs.
Shohei laughed too, lifting a hand in victory even though the impact had hurt a little. He kept laughing, singing, hugging anyone who passed by. The noise was deafening, the room still crackling with joy and sweat.
But five minutes had turned into twenty.
Yoshinobu was already standing, shirt stuck to his skin, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He didn’t look angry, but his expression had changed. His mouth formed a firm line, and his calm yet penetrating stare followed the older man across the room. There was no anger—just fatigue. He wanted a shower, dry clothes, and silence. The sticky humidity of the champagne clung uncomfortably to him, and the patience he had spared Shohei was reaching its elegant limit.
Shohei felt that stare even without looking for it. It pulled at him—soft but inevitable—calling him to stop.
He stayed among the laughter for a few more seconds, still holding the empty bottle. The floor was a minefield of foam and plastic, the shouting nowhere near ending. When he finally looked up, he found him. The shorter one stood in the same place, now upright beside the lockers, watching him with that blend of calm and determination that already served as an answer.
Shohei let out a sigh that disappeared into the music. He set the bottle on a table, ran a hand through his wet hair, dried his neck with a towel, and began moving through his teammates.
—Heading out already, Sho?— Kiké asked with a mischievous smile as he approached the exit.
—Looks like it—Shohei replied, trying to sound casual as he scratched his neck.—Boss’s orders.
Laughter erupted again. Pages, sitting on top of a water cooler, lifted his empty bottle in a toast.
—Better listen, man! You don’t wanna sleep on the hotel couch again.
—Take him carefully, Yoshi… he’s fragile!— Kiké added, laughing again.
Shohei passed by each of them, receiving pats, sprays of champagne, and a couple of sticky hugs. There was no embarrassment in his steps; it was part of the game. Yoshinobu could take him away whenever he wanted, and Shohei accepted it as naturally as he accepted a win.
—See you on the flight, guys— he said with a wide smile, though his voice came out a bit softer than usual. Applause and whistles followed him as he reached Yoshinobu. His stride was heavy—not with laziness, but with a hint of shyness that contrasted with his imposing frame. His shadow almost engulfed the younger man as he stopped in front of him. Yoshinobu looked at him in silence, expression neutral, though something like satisfaction glinted in his eyes. Shohei ducked his head a little, a barely-contained smile on his lips.
—All set— he murmured. —Five minutes… more or less.
Yoshinobu exhaled quietly and shook his head, unable to stop the slight curl at the corner of his lips. Shohei followed him out of the clubhouse as the team sent them off with laughter and cheers. The door closed behind them, muffling the noise until only distant echoes of music and jokes remained.
The noise faded as soon as they stepped into the hallway leading to the parking lot. They walked together beneath the stadium’s dim lights, their footsteps echoing against the concrete. Shohei, as always, adjusted his pace to match Yoshinobu’s, shortening his long, relaxed strides into a calm, steady rhythm.
Chase Field—loud and overflowing with music just a couple of hours earlier—now slept. The hallways were empty, doors closed, and somewhere in the distance came the faint scrape of a broom on the floor. The opposing team had left long ago; only a few cleaning and security staff remained, greeting them respectfully as they passed. The air smelled of champagne, sweat, and disinfectant—that scent that only a victorious clubhouse left behind.
In the parking lot, a black car waited for them. The driver straightened when he saw them, quietly opening the trunk to store their bags. Shohei stepped ahead almost by instinct and opened the back door for Yoshinobu. The younger man paused, giving him a brief, soft smile—one Shohei felt more than anything else—and got into the back seat. He greeted the driver with a gentle murmur.
Shohei remained outside for a moment, glancing back at the door they had come through. He thought of his teammates—of the laughter, the music, the jokes probably still bouncing off the walls—and a distracted smile escaped him. Leaving early didn’t sting. In fact, part of him knew he preferred it this way. He chuckled to himself and climbed into the car, closing the door carefully.
The interior smelled of leather and cool air, the exact opposite of the chaos they had just left. Yoshinobu looked out the window, his profile lit by the parking lot lights. Shohei watched him for a few seconds before turning toward the front and greeting the driver with that calm smile he used when he felt exactly where he was meant to be.
The engine hummed softly, and the car slid out of the stadium. Behind them, the lights of Chase Field continued to shine over the parking lot they were leaving behind.
_
The elevator stopped with a soft ding on the eleventh floor. The doors slid open and both stepped out in silence, each carrying a small bag with their belongings: phone, headphones, a towel folded over the zipper. The hallway was nearly empty; only the constant hum of the air conditioner and the distant murmur of the elevator descending again broke the stillness. As always, the older one tried to take Yoshinobu’s bag, but the younger shook his head silently, without a word—just that slight movement that allowed no argument. Shohei lowered his hand with a discreet smile, already used to that gesture.
When they reached the room, Yoshinobu slid the card into the lock, and the door opened with a mechanical click. He entered first, placing his bag on a light wooden table by the window. Shohei followed closely behind and closed the door, the soft sound of the latch reminding them that now they were truly alone. The room was lit by a warm lamp—just enough to create a calm atmosphere after the stadium’s noise. Yoshinobu didn’t say anything; he simply took off his cap, ran a hand through his damp hair, and began undressing with measured movements.
Shohei watched him from the center of the room, leaning slightly against the door. He didn’t know whether he should say something. Yoshinobu’s calm could be enigmatic, and although there was no sign of anger, the silence made him nervous. When the younger ended up wearing nothing but his boxers, with his back turned, he walked toward the bathroom unhurriedly, barefoot, leaving a faint trail of footprints on the carpet. Shohei followed him with his eyes, hesitant, until the words escaped him without thought.
—Did I do something wrong?—he asked, his voice barely a murmur.
Yoshinobu turned just before entering the bathroom. He looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if assessing whether answering was worth it. Then he let out a small, low, almost inaudible laugh and shook his head before disappearing behind the door. Shohei blinked, surprised.
—If I didn’t do anything wrong… why aren’t you talking to me?—he whispered, waiting for a reply that never came.
On the other side of the bathroom door, only the sound of running water could be heard, mixing with the murmur of the air conditioner. He pouted, cheeks puffing briefly before he sighed. He walked to the center of the room and dropped down onto the carpet, crossing his legs. His uniform was still damp and sticky, but he preferred that over staining the hotel sofas. He rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the bathroom door with patient resignation. His face held a mix of tenderness and exhaustion, and although he knew Yoshinobu wasn’t angry, he couldn’t help feeling like a child waiting to be forgiven for something he didn’t quite understand.
Minutes passed slowly, heavily—marked only by the constant sound of water behind the bathroom door. Shohei didn’t look away, his chin resting in his hand, eyes half-closed with fatigue. Steam began to escape from beneath the door, filling the air with the clean scent of soap and hot water.
Finally, the handle turned, and the door opened. A dense cloud of steam drifted into the room before slowly dispersing, revealing Yoshinobu. He wore a white towel around his waist, and his brown hair—darkened by moisture—fell messily over his forehead. He ran a hand through it calmly, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. The older, still sitting on the floor, followed him with his eyes. He watched him walk barefoot to the suitcase already packed for their morning flight. The younger crouched down to open it and began taking out clean clothes with the same serenity he always carried.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but Shohei felt the need to fill it.
—Do you want me to sleep on the couch?— he asked softly, almost a whisper.
Yoshinobu lifted his gaze, raising a brow.
—Do you want to sleep on the couch?—he replied in a tone that needed no explanation.
Shohei shook his head quickly, shoulders shrinking a little.
—No… but if you’re upset… I can.
The younger exhaled softly—something between a sigh and a contained laugh—while pulling out a thin shirt and a pair of gray boxers.
—I’m not upset.— His voice came out firm but not harsh, simply direct.— Go take a shower. It’s late, and I want to sleep.
Shohei opened his mouth to respond but froze when he saw him untie the towel. The gesture was natural, unintentional, but enough to leave him speechless. Yoshinobu let it drop to the floor before grabbing the boxers and slipping them on with the calm of someone who wasn’t in any hurry. There was nothing provocative in the movement, but from where he sat, Shohei felt something settle inside him: not desire—admiration for the ease, the trust Yoshinobu had… with him.
—Shohe i— the younger said without turning around as he got dressed. — I’m tired.
The older blinked, snapping out of it.
—Ah-... yeah, yeah… I’m going.
He stood up, stretching his numb legs a little, and walked toward the bathroom with a silly smile he couldn’t suppress. Before closing the door, he glanced back one last time at Yoshinobu, who was now arranging his clothes in the suitcase and checking his phone on the table. There was something comforting in that simple routine. The sound of running water filled the room again as Shohei turned on the shower. The younger sighed, grabbed the TV remote but didn’t turn the television on. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bathroom door for a moment before letting himself fall backward onto the sheets, closing his eyes.
He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until a dull thud woke him. Something had fallen to the floor. He sat up abruptly, frowning, eyes squinting against the soft light still on.
He blinked a few times, trying to focus, until he saw him. Shohei was crouched beside the glass nightstand, wearing only dark boxers, his hair still damp and messy from the shower. He was moving clumsily, trying to reach something on the carpet.
—Sho… what are you doing?—Yoshinobu murmured, voice rough and raspy with sleep.
Shohei looked up slowly, frozen like a kid caught stealing cookies.
—Sorry for waking you— he whispered with a tiny smile. —I… dropped a vase, but the vase is okay.
He stood carefully, holding the porcelain vase in his hands, examining it with the seriousness of someone who had just avoided a disaster.
—See?— he added, lifting it slightly so Yoshinobu could see it from the bed.
The younger let out a soft, low laugh and shook his head while shifting to get comfortable on his side of the bed. The sheets rustled softly as he pulled them up to his chest.
—If the vase is okay… leave it and come sleep. Turn off the light— he said in a calm, half-asleep tone that still carried its natural authority.
Shohei nodded quickly, almost relieved.
He gently placed the vase back on the nightstand, making sure the flowers looked more or less the same. Then he turned off the lamp, and the room fell into dimness, lit only by the faint glow from the window. He approached the bed slowly, feeling for the edge with his fingers before slipping under the sheets. The mattress dipped under his weight. The air was warm, filled with the scent of soap and leftover steam, and silence was broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioner.
Shohei turned toward the other body in the bed, finding his silhouette barely visible in the darkness. He scooted closer, openly seeking his warmth. When his knee brushed against his, Yoshinobu just murmured something unintelligible—a brief sound that didn’t resemble a complaint. Shohei smiled to himself and let sleep take him. He completely forgot about the small puddle he had left by the nightstand, already being absorbed by the carpet.
For a moment, everything was simple again: the quiet hum of the air, the steady heartbeat of his Yoshinobu on the other side of the bed.
_
The morning sun bathed the asphalt of the private airfield in warm, golden tones, sleepy and soft. Shohei walked beside Yoshinobu toward the team plane, both wearing dark sunglasses and their caps pulled low over their faces. Each carried a backpack slung over one shoulder, unhurried. Unlike the rest of the team, they looked impeccable—almost too awake for the hour.
The air smelled of fuel with a faint hint of coffee weaving through it. In the distance, a few staff members chatted while checking luggage and documents. Their teammates were slowly climbing the steps into the plane—some in silence, others holding their heads with expressions of regret. Kiké’s sunglasses were crooked, Rushing yawned without shame, and Rojas was trying to revive someone who had clearly lost the battle against last night’s party. The older one greeted them with a bright smile, raising a hand in the air. The Puerto Rican answered with a tired gesture and a half-empty bottle of water. Mookie yawned, and Banda tried to hide a pained wince behind his own sunglasses.
They climbed the plane’s steps and, the moment they set foot inside, the air filled with tossed-out comments, half-baked sentences, yawns, and raspy laughter.
—Look at him! The great Shohei Ohtani! Fresh as lettuce after sleeping a full eight hours-shocking!— Pages joked, his voice rough from sleep. Shohei scratched the back of his neck, a bit shy, unsure whether to smile or hide behind Yoshinobu.
—Hey, Ohtani! Sleep well, champ?— someone shouted from the back seats. —We expected you to sneak out, but you never showed up! Guess someone sent you to bed early!
A few laughs rose among the rows—soft, harmless. Shohei tilted his head, amused but silent. He was used to these kinds of jokes, though the faint smile that slipped onto his face didn’t go unnoticed by Yoshinobu. Until then the younger one had been checking his phone with his usual calm, but now he lifted his gaze.
—Well— he said, placing his phone on his lap, —if I sent him to bed early, it worked, didn’t it? You guys have hangovers and he doesn’t.
A burst of laughter rippled through the cabin—even from those who could barely sit upright. Shohei lowered his head, hiding his smile behind his hand, while Yoshinobu slid into the window seat as if nothing had happened.
—Seems like someone slept well—. one of the team interpreters murmured as he walked past them.
—Very well— Shohei replied, glancing sideways at the younger man.
Yoshinobu looked back too, saying nothing, but the small curl at the corner of his mouth was enough for Shohei to understand the message. Outside, the sun kept climbing. The plane began to taxi slowly down the runway while the rest of the team surrendered to sleep or to their hangovers. Shohei settled into his seat, subtly leaning so his shoulder brushed Yoshinobu’s. The younger one closed his eyes, intertwining his fingers with Shohei’s. Silently, Shohei turned his head just enough to look at him.
Shohei smiled to himself. Yes, he thought. Maybe leaving early hadn’t been such a bad idea.
_