Four Straight Wins

Late in the season, certain teams start styling themselves as the chili-powder unit. Their place in the standings is already locked in the cellar, postseason hopes long since dead — yet somehow they keep pulling off random wins against clubs still fighting for a playoff berth, quietly wrecking everyone else's math like a hidden land mine.

This year, my team — the Flyers — had taken on that role exactly.

"Swing and a miss! Strike three! Han Doyoon escapes a bases-loaded jam in the bottom of the fifth!"

I kept pitching well in my next start, too. But unlike the previous two outings, it wasn't exactly smooth sailing.

The Busan Mariners hitters came in openly hunting the four-seam fastball I used to get ahead in the count, and because of that I allowed a few baserunners.

Even so, I carried a shutout through five.

My four-seamer topped out at 157 km/h, sitting in the low-to-mid 150s on average, with elite vertical movement on top of it. You could sit on it all you wanted — that didn't make it easy to hit.

The approach was solid. The gap in pure stuff was just too much to close.

"It's hit hard — a sharp line drive! Past the third baseman! Runner Park Taejeong scores from second, and batter-runner Kwak Daehwi settles in at second with room to spare!"

And then, after far too long, our captain Kwak Daehwi delivered the go-ahead hit.

That one swing tilted the whole game our way. The dugout exploded to its feet the moment the ball found grass. Kwak Daehwi yanked off his helmet, waved it, and pumped a fist toward our side from second base — and from the manager down to the youngest rookie, every last one of us roared like we were finally letting something out.

This. This is why you play spoiler.

I could feel the uneasy tension bleeding out of the other dugout. For teams still in a race, every single game is desperate. The fact that we were the ones ruining that desperation felt especially delicious tonight.

From the sixth on, I handed the mound over to the bullpen.

Their stuff wasn't particularly overpowering. There were hard contact moments — but every time, our fielders locked in with remarkable focus and snuffed them out one by one.

No matter how far the season had tilted against us, a strange, stubborn solidarity bound the players together: the will to drag a powerhouse down with us.

The seventh. The eighth. The ninth.

It wasn't crisis-free — but we clung to that 1–0 lead all the way to the end.

And at last—

"Ballgame! The Flyers land another blow against a contender today!"

We completed the sweep of the Busan Mariners. On top of that, the win stretched our team-record streak to four consecutive victories.

A winning series against first-place Seoul Wales. A winning series against second-place Daejeon Titans. And a full sweep of fourth-place Busan Mariners. As a chili-powder unit, our reputation had never been more secure.

The four-win celebration dinner was pure chaos. Meat sizzled on the griddles, soju bottles stood in formation on every table, and at least one guy already had a face so flushed he looked ready to tip over.

Right at the center of it all, of course, was captain Kwak Daehwi. Same fire he'd shown pumping that fist from second base — only now he was on his feet with a glass in hand, face pleasantly red.

"My beautiful rookies! Get over here a second."

The rookies gathered around their senior without needing to be told twice.

"First up — Daegeun."

Kwak Daehwi clapped Kang Daegeun on the shoulder and kept going.

"Without you, hyung would've blown out a knee playing shortstop this year. I'm serious. And that swing — that swagger when you take a cut… honestly, it was like watching myself as a rookie. Keep doing exactly that."

Someone at the next table called out, half-teasing:

"Hyung, as a rookie you hit .100 for a whole month and got sent to the minors."

Kwak Daehwi's eyes went wide. He pointed around the room.

"Yah. Who the hell just said that."

The words were a threat. The face was anything but. The rookies snickered, and Daehwi tipped his glass once before throwing an arm around the quiet Park Taejeong.

"And Taejeong. That play in the seventh today — if that wasn't you, the whole mood flips. You know what hyung always says, right? Baseball is about momentum. You did something huge out there."

He was thoroughly drunk, but the look in his eyes was pure captain — a man who genuinely loved this team.

"And last of all, our Doyoon—"

That was when it happened.

The door at the entrance swung open and someone walked in. A few of the coaches rose from their seats on instinct.

Clean black slacks. A crisp white shirt. A briefcase that had no business at a team dinner. Soft eyes that still carried real presence.

GM Kim Ihyun.

"Seeing you all enjoy yourselves like this puts me in a good mood."

The tables went quiet for a beat. Kwak Daehwi set his glass down and bowed at the waist.

"GM, sir. You came. The team's in a good place tonight, so… I was just giving the kids a little praise."

There was alcohol in him, but not a trace of disrespect. Just a senior in a good mood because the team had won and the juniors had played well.

Kim Ihyun smiled and nodded.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"I'm not so tone-deaf that I'd plant myself in the middle of a party like this."

He drew a card from his wallet as naturally as breathing and handed it to Kwak Daehwi.

"Eat as much as you want tonight. All of you worked hard."

"Woooooooo!"

"Kim Ihyun! Kim Ihyun! Kim Ihyun!"

The dinner erupted. Kim Ihyun cooled the overheated room with a laugh and added:

"Haha. I'll be on my way. No, no — stay seated, stay seated. You all keep enjoying yourselves."

With that, the GM slipped quietly out of the restaurant. What he left behind was one corporate card and a Flyers roster suddenly roaring even louder than before.

Cheon Ihyun was reclining once again in the plush leather chair at the center of the GM's office, a community forum window open on his monitor. The roar of the players from the night before — the moment he'd handed over the corporate card and turned to leave — still seemed to echo faintly in his ears.

This room wore the name "GM's Office," but almost no real baseball decisions were ever made here. From the outside he looked like the club's final authority. In truth, that was little more than an illusion manufactured by the title printed on his business card.

Then—

Bang!

Without so much as a knock, someone shoved the office door open and walked in.

"Are you on the forums again? I told you to stop already…"

It was Cheon Sojin — the Flyers' real general manager, and Cheon Ihyun's younger sister.

In practice, running the club was entirely her job. Scouting, roster construction, trade negotiations, salary arbitration, the operational direction of the entire organization… every core function that kept a baseball team ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠moving was handled by Sojin.

And Cheon Ihyun's role?

Their father — the owner — had decided that putting a young woman like Cheon Sojin out front would be awkward, so he'd installed Ihyun as the public face instead.

Put simply: stamping the documents Sojin prepared was Cheon Ihyun's primary job.

"Anyway, you said you had something to say. Spit it out. I'm busy."

Thirty seconds into the office and she was already hustling him. Whatever she was late for, it was apparently urgent.

Cheon Ihyun stretched theatrically in the chair and muttered,

"Yah. Anyone listening would think you were my boss…"

Sojin didn't even pause for breath.

"What are you talking about. I am your boss. What exactly do you even do?"

Normally Ihyun would have let it slide. Not today.

Without a word, he turned the monitor so the community window faced her.

"…Uh."

The moment she saw the screen, Sojin's eyes flickered. Ihyun caught the expression instantly, grinned, and said,

"What was it you said back then again…"

He propped his chin on one hand, glancing at her, drawing it out. Then he mimicked her old tone perfectly.

"…I'm going to remember this. Clearly."

Sojin's eyebrows twitched. Ihyun, thoroughly enjoying himself, raised his voice a notch and pressed on.

"If this goes wrong, you take responsibility. Whether it's even something you can take responsibility for, I don't know—"

"Kyaaaaaah!!!"

Slam!

Cheon Sojin let out a single strangled scream and brought her hand down on the desk. Her ears had gone bright red — whether from anger or embarrassment, even she didn't seem sure.

Ihyun glanced at her and let the corner of his mouth curl up.

"So what's the actual business? Did you just call me in here to mess with me?"

Sojin bit down hard on her lip and glared at him. Ihyun just looked at his fuming little sister like she was adorable.

"You remember what I told you back then?"

"…What."

"You don't know people. Not even a little."

Cheon Sojin had nothing. She shut her mouth.

And in the end—

"…So what."

Cornered, Cheon Sojin opted to eject her brain entirely. The cool, razor-sharp Operations Team Leader Cheon Sojin was nowhere to be found — just little sister Cheon Sojin, throwing a tantrum because she refused to lose to her older brother.

"Why are you getting so worked up again. Calm down."

"…Whatever. Just say what you need to say. I'm actually busy."

Her tone softened by a fraction. The edge was still there.

"Why didn't you come to the dinner last night."

At Ihyun's question, Sojin's voice jumped.

"Did you go barging into the team dinner again without reading the room?"

"I went, dropped off the card, and left immediately. I do have some social awareness, you know."

Ihyun said it flatly. Sojin cleared her throat, looking faintly sheepish as her expression eased.

"Anyway, why didn't you go. The other team leads all showed up."

At that, Sojin's eyes wavered — just slightly. Ihyun knew exactly what that look meant.

"…I was busy."

"…"

Older brother Cheon Ihyun stared straight into younger sister Cheon Sojin's eyes. She quietly looked away.

Confirming it, Cheon Ihyun sighed and said,

"…Sojin. You didn't go because you were scared."