Flames (2)
Since I wrote this continuing from chapter 44, if you've read chapter 45, there might be some overlapping parts.
After the game ended, I headed to the locker room to cheer on the players. They could have been down in the dumps with the manager's suspension, but instead, they showed even fiercer determination. They say baseball is all about management—once you raise them right, they take care of themselves.
"Ji-seung, good work out there. You were on fire today."
"Manager... thank you..."
Lee Ji-seung's voice trembled as he approached and bowed deeply. I patted his back reassuringly, and suddenly he threw his arms around me, bursting into tears. I was caught off guard by the guy hugging me like that—a man, no less—but I kept patting his back. The other players nearby joined in, stroking his head and back.
He'd made his first-team starting debut, delivering a quality start—no, an elite one—shutting them down for 7 scoreless innings. The emotion must have hit him hard. A ninth-round pick with no prospects, now molded into this by his manager and coaches—he was pouring out his gratitude.
After encouraging the team, I headed back to the hotel. As manager, I'd booked a separate room, of course. To be with Seon-ah.
...
"Puhahaha! Oh man, that's hilarious! Puhahaha!"
Back at the hotel, Seon-ah was rolling on the floor, clutching her stomach and laughing uncontrollably.
"Ah! Stop laughing already!"
I yelled, my face burning bright red as I glared at her.
"Wha... Jin-ho, my prince. The pics came out great, though? Puhahaha!"
Seon-ah ignored me, still doubled over in hysterics.
It was all my fault. After the win, we'd come back to the hotel and were scrolling through our phones when the community feeds were flooded with me.
[Jin-ho Prince hiding his face meme.]
[Jin-ho Prince beaming at chicken meme.]
[Jin-ho Prince cheering with chicken in hand meme.]
[Jin-ho Prince dancing with chicken in one hand, beer in the other meme.]
[Jin-ho Prince shaking his hips to the cheers meme.]
I'd thought no one knew who I was, but nope—the community was plastered with my photos and recaps from fans at the game. Pics of me munching chicken legs, chugging beer, dancing around—who even took these? Someone had dubbed me "Jin-ho Prince" and uploaded a ton. At this point, it felt like stalker-level fandom.
I hadn't realized my face had even made it on broadcast. The caster and commentator mentioned the suspended Lee Jin-ho watching from the stands. And I kept popping up on camera without a clue. There I was on national TV, chicken in hand, grinning like an idiot.
My phone was blowing up with messages from friends in the group chat. I'd nearly died of embarrassment. Luckily, the reactions were mostly "cute" and positive—otherwise, my career might've taken a hit. Thank God we'd crushed them 12-0.
I approached Seon-ah, who was still writhing on the floor, dying at the memes.
"Agh!"
I scooped her up princess-style and plopped her on the bed with a thud. Before I knew it, I was on top of her.
Sizzle! Our eyes met, and sparks flew. And this was a hotel. The mood thickened instantly.
...
Was it the passionate night with Seon-ah? Morning came, and my body ached everywhere.
"Haa... I just wanna sleep."
Away game meant boarding the bus at 2 PM for the stadium. Plenty of time left. I ordered room service while Seon-ah slept soundly—her favorites, kimchi jjigae and bulgogi set. Even after my shower, she was out cold. I shook her shoulder gently.
"Seon-ah, go wash up. Room service is coming."
"Mmm... what?"
The foodie perked up at that, asking what I'd ordered before anything else.
"Kimchi jjigae and bulgogi."
"Ughhh!"
She stretched dramatically, then flopped forward into my arms. I held her up, patted her back, and half-dragged her to the bathroom. So damn cute.
While she showered, room service arrived and set the table. She emerged in a robe, glimpses of skin peeking through making her irresistibly sexy. But after last night, I barely had the strength to lift a spoon.
We ate across from each other, then lounged on the bed bingeing dramas. We often watched shows or movies at home—similar tastes made it twice as fun. Seon-ah leaned on my chest, chattering away: the protagonist this, wanna travel there, little everyday stuff. I stroked her hair, responding softly. These moments were precious.
Drama time flew, and soon it was bus time. I dressed and headed out first. Seon-ah would leave an hour later—we hadn't gone public yet.
The bus was full of coaches and players.
"Manager's here!"
The players greeted me loudly. I'd won them over completely. Even the coaches showed respect. I'd proven myself. Regular season had just started, but they trusted the skills I'd shown in the stove league. Our young squad felt vibrant, unbreakable. A loss or two wouldn't faze us.
...
We took the series from Diners on the road. Friday's game was home against Incheon Wyverns. We'd won the opener; now, game two, and my suspension was lifted. Back to managing officially.
A pre-game press conference was set. Rare for anything but interviews—probably due to the Kim Geun-seong drama.
Flashes exploded as I entered. Attention was good; my job was to spin it positive.
5-1, leading the pack—a young manager cussing out the league's elder statesman on opening day? Yeah, that drew eyes.
I sat, and an older reporter, looking like a longtime fan, stood first. Oldest in the room.
"Hello. Kim Seong-hak, Daejin Daily. On March 28, Saturday's game, you went to the opposing dugout and cursed at Kim Geun-seong, 49 years your senior—a grave disrespect. Have you apologized? And what efforts will you make to prevent repeats?"
His tone was prickly, assuming I was at fault.
"First off, you're misinformed. No apology from me. If it happens again, I'll pay the fine and curse him out myself."
Flashes erupted.
"What? You'll curse a league elder again? Such insolence!"
Kim Seong-hak exploded.
"Find your manners at home. I'm managing to protect Heroes players. A 1941-born manager ordering a beanball at a 1996-born kid, 55 years younger—is that okay?"
"Proof he ordered a beanball?"
"I saw it clear as day. Ask Talbot. Oh, he's on their team—might not talk. How about this?"
I pulled up the tablet from ops—broadcast clips of Kim Geun-seong's hand signals and chats with the pitching coach. No audio, but his lips clearly formed "Hit him." Twice. First to Kim Kang-jun: fist to ribs, "Hit him." Kang-jun dodged on my signal, so second: harder fist, "Hit him for sure."
"Still no proof?"
Kim stammered, then yelled.
"Those gestures aren't proof of beanball orders! No audio—lip-reading isn't conclusive!"
He wouldn't admit it.
"One-strike count, first pitch—Kang-jun bails back. That was my call, seeing the gesture. Ball comes at him again. If you side with that on circumstantial evidence, join Eagles. Bribe?"
My sharp logic shut him up; he stormed out. The conference shifted from beanballs to how Heroes became contenders.
Public opinion, already on my side, boiled over. Beanball news and shows proliferated. Beanballs had to go—from our team or theirs. Injuries hurt everyone. Baseball needed revolution.