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Shiro lifts the cage from his face. “Time out.” He doesn’t wait for the umpire to yell it for the diamond before he jogs up the the mound.
Keith is hiding—his right hand with the baseball hidden in his mitt on his left, both in front his face. Shiro holds his mitt in front of his own mouth. “Take a deep breath with me, Keith.”
Slow inhale for four beats.
Rushed exhale for two.
Shiro taps his mitt against Keith’s chest and holds it still. “It’s the bottom of the sixth with two outs and a runner on second. Count's three-to-two.” Keith nods once. “You know you can trust me. You know our fielders are reliable, even Lance over on first.” They both laugh when they hear Lance’s indignant, ‘I can hear you!’ from first base.
Shiro taps Keith’s chest again. “Your head knows it, but it doesn’t translate to your heart or your fingertips. That’s why your pitches don’t have any life right now. You’re our ace for a reason, but it’s okay to be intimidated—we’re against an amazing team, but that’s why there are nine of us on the diamond. The two of us can only take so much, so our fielders have our back.” Shiro motions for another deep breath for Keith to follow suit. “You’re not alone.”
Shiro drops the cage back over his face and jogs back behind home plate. He spreads his arms out and takes another deep breath, exaggerated to show through the catcher gear and the 18.44 meter distance to the mound.
Keith closes his eyes when he breathes and when he opens his eyes, they meet with Shiro’s—warm, passionate, and absolutely focused on Keith. Shiro punches his mitt and smiles, eyes never leaving Keith’s.
He huffs another exhale, kicking the dirt under his feet—the mound, his mound. His eyes shift to the signals under the catcher’s mitt, Shiro shifting closer to the batter for an inside pitch. He opens the mitt next to the batter’s chest, the batter unaware. It could easily be a deadball if Keith’s release wasn’t just right or if he failed to follow-through with his arm, but this is the trust within their battery; Shiro knows he can do it, this last out for the inning to change the tide in momentum. He always has.
Inhale.
His body turns, right arm starting the wind-up while his left leg rises to his chest, his thigh meeting his ribs, eyes never leaving the mitt.
Exhale.
Foot plants down, toes to home plate—to Shiro. His arm whips down. The ball releases from his fingertips.
The resounding echo throughout the diamond when the ball slams into the catcher’s mitt. The umpire calling the last strike. The scoreboard shifting from bottom of the sixth to top of the seventh.
Nothing’s over yet. With the start of this new tide, it’s just begun.