from the first catch since the initial shock of pain, miyuki knows there’s something not good with his shoulder, but he’s the captain. as captain, he is the immovable fortress, a one-man pillar of invincible strength. if the captain should fall, then who is to say the rest of the team will not follow his lead? he’s scared, no doubt in fear of fucking up his shoulder forever, but he can’t fall. he can’t rest for a single second - not when everybody’s counting on him, not when everybody’s watching him like this.
time-out gets called and he’s by himself in the dark, taking deep breaths. he’s okay. he’s going to be okay. he just has to get through this game. and the next. and the next and the next and the next until he doesn’t have anything much of a shoulder anymore.
thank god for kuramochi. thank god for physical therapy.
obviously, he’s annoyed. three weeks have to go by before he’s allowed to play again, the doctors say. well, thank god for his bones. as long as nobody aside from kuramochi figures it out, he’ll be okay. he’ll get better, nobody’ll know, and he’ll go on as expected.
he turns, clinging to composure - he’s even got a disguise. fool-proof really. like an idiot, he just smiles, waving an idle hand. “ah, no, sorry!” he apologizes, suddenly thankful for his sunglasses. “you’ve, uh, got the wrong guy. but i’m told i bear a striking resemblance, haha ...” what’s sanada shunpei doing here? there’s only one reason for baseball players to be at physical therapy.
“miyuki kazuya!” the desk calls, “you need to sign here.”
yikes. and there goes his cover. “well, well, well, sanada shunpei, huh?”
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