Believing She Has Been Reincarnated into a Baseball Game, My Little Sister Is Aiming for the Koshien, While I Give It My All to Keep Her from Finding out That It’s Actually an Ntr Game

To be honest, I was in big trouble.

As expected, Netora Academy’s offense didn’t score any additional runs, and we entered the bottom of the ninth inning with a score of 2-1. The lead was a single run.

The lineup was set to start from the second batter. Even though it was the top of their order, up to this point, I had perfectly handled every batter. They couldn’t keep up with my rising fastball and sharp sweeper at all.

Normally, this wouldn’t be something to fear. If it were me from the previous eight innings, I would have had no problem. A one-run lead wouldn’t have fazed me in the slightest.

But I wasn’t the same person anymore. The me from a few minutes ago and the me now were completely different.

Because, well, I had just ejaculated. Byururururu! Byuru! Byur… Byu!! Byurururu!

The fatigue I felt was far beyond what I had imagined. The dopamine that had been masking the damage from my pitching had now worn off, and the exhaustion hit me like a flood.

And on top of that—

“I forgot… I didn’t prep my semen infusion…”

With all the shocking things happening one after another, I had completely forgotten something crucial. Now, I was just a guy who snuck off to the bullpen mid-game, fooled around with his girlfriend, and spilled his load there.

Sure, I could try to discreetly reach into my pants and squeeze out whatever was left inside the foreskin while I was on the mound… No, that’s impossible. If I were capable of such a feat, I wouldn’t have bothered applying semen to the brim of my hat in the first place.

Damn it. No sticky substance, and physically, the extra month’s weight training wasn’t enough to cover for this level of fatigue. The defense behind me was full of holes, nothing like my previous life’s solid teammates. This wasn’t some overpowered NTR game, this was real life—hard mode, even worse than reality.

“………..”

I glanced toward the bench.

Of course, Maika wasn’t there. She had an important job to do right now—preparing the ice for my arm and shoulder recovery after I finished pitching. That’s what I believed, anyway. I trusted that the cooler box was for that purpose.

What met my gaze was our chief manager, Sakura Miyakotna, with her calm, composed eyes.

Her expression wasn’t one of expectation, nor was it one of disdain. It was neutral. Right now, she was observing from a fair, objective standpoint, trying to judge whether I was someone who could be trusted. Was I a man who could keep his promises? Could I be the leader this team needed?

I had declared that if we didn’t win this game, I would leave the team and the school. Even if we lost, Sakura probably wouldn’t demand my resignation or expulsion. But I would be betraying her trust. Even if it didn’t bother her much, it would be an unbearable reality for me.

I hate men who can’t keep their promises. I never want to be that kind of man again. A man like that isn’t worthy of being Maika’s husband.

This wasn’t the time to talk about going to Koshien or becoming a pro. I had just one inning left, three more outs. No matter what happened, I had to keep the scoreless streak intact, or my life might as well be over here…!

The second batter stepped into the left-handed batter’s box, and the umpire called the play to resume.

The sign from catcher Yogi was for a high four-seam fastball.

Well, that made sense. This batter, in particular, couldn’t handle my fastball. As for the sweeper, without the sticky secretion, it was just an average slider with decent speed and break.

In this inning—the last inning—I’d have to rely almost entirely on fastballs. And I’d have to do it without the semen cheat, all while I was dead tired.

Man, this was rough.

But there was no other choice. Right, I had always been a top-tier pitcher, even without cheats. I wasn’t about to let these guys with shallow squats get a hit off my fastball!

“――Hmph!!”

I threw my first fastball of the day without the sticky substance. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel too bad. In fact, the muscles I had built over two and a half years in my previous life, plus the extra month of training here, delivered power right to my fingertips, even without any artificial assistance—

“What the hell!?”

The fastball, which sailed high and to the middle of the plate, tapped quietly against the softly held bat of the batter and trickled weakly down the third baseline.

It was a safety bunt.

Kaneko, our third baseman, rushed forward awkwardly to field it. This was the second time today they’d used a safety bunt toward third! Come on, Kaneko, stay sharp!

“Let it go, Kaneko!”

At my shout, Kaneko screeched to a halt.

Even if he picked it up, he wouldn’t make the throw in time. And if he forced it and threw it wild, it would be a disaster. There was still a chance the ball might roll into foul territory—

“Damn it.”

I couldn’t help but click my tongue.

The ball rolled straight and weakly, eventually stopping right against third base. It was fair. It was an absolutely perfect bunt.

The batter had already dashed past first base by the time the ball stopped. The opposing bench erupted in cheers. Kaneko, sticking his tongue out playfully, wasn’t cute at all.

Damn it, these guys spent time practicing bunting? They should’ve been squatting instead!

Now, the tying run was on base. No outs, runner on first. The next batter was the third in the lineup, a prospect who had caught the attention of pro scouts.

The sign from Yogi came again: another fastball. Of course, I nodded. I pitched quickly toward the high spot—

“He’s running!!”

Yelled first baseman Kinashi. The runner at first had taken off. A stolen base attempt.

The batter, sly as ever, swung under the ball, lifting his bat. Yogi caught the pitch and, with his usual clumsy motion, prepared to throw to second—

“Tch!!”

I extended my left arm and caught the ball in my glove, cutting off the throw. And that was it—way off the mark. No way it was going to make it in time. Completely pointless.

The opposing bench erupted again in excitement, while Yogi scratched his head sheepishly. Hey, Yogi’s dad in heaven, never mind the catcher’s mitt, you should’ve bought this guy some skincare products. That acne-ridden face is just irritating to look at. Not cute at all.

Now we had no outs with a runner on second. The tying run was in scoring position, and with our outfield, there was no way we could throw out a runner at home. That meant if the ball slipped through the narrow infield, the game would be tied instantly.

I guess the only option now was to aim for a strikeout…

But I didn’t have that rising fastball with the sticky cheat anymore. The only thing left was to pinpoint the corners of the zone.

Yeah, I’ll be fine. You’ve always had excellent control, right?

“Hnnngh!“

I threw a fastball inside, high, just barely skimming the strike zone. Yes! That was a good one! Even if he’s a draft prospect, a high schooler shouldn’t be able to easily hit a 140+ km/h high inside fastball—

“Ugh!”

“………”

The batter crumpled to the ground, and I stared in disbelief. The umpire called out, “Hit by pitch!” while pointing to first base. Yogi made a face like, Oh well, but it wasn’t cute.

It was a dead ball. My pitch had hit the batter’s left elbow, a right-handed hitter.

No, no, no! He clearly stuck his elbow out! Sure, the ball drifted out of the strike zone a bit, but it wouldn’t have hit him if he hadn’t leaned into it! And it hit his elbow guard—why’s he acting all dramatic and collapsing like that?! Do your job, umpire!

“Tch!“

I clicked my tongue hard and took off my cap, bowing slightly to the theater actor masquerading as a baseball player. He waved it off with a light hand gesture, as if saying, Don’t worry about it, and jogged to first base with a smug smile. Not cute.

These guys… They’re dead serious about winning… Even in a practice game against a no-name weak school, they’re playing all-out! They’ll use any trick to win!

Now, it was no outs, runners on first and second. The tying run and the potential walk-off run were on base. And just when I thought the cleanup hitter was coming up—

“A pinch hitter?”

Instead of the big, hulking fourth batter, a small, slender player wearing number 14 stepped up to the plate.

Damn, so that’s their play.

I exchanged a quick glance with the infielders. They knew what to do. Or at least, they better. They weren’t skilled enough to mess this up.

Once again, I threw a high inside fastball, hoping for a mistake on their part.

“Tch!“

Another click of the tongue. And just as I feared, another bunt. This time, it was a perfect sacrifice bunt rolling directly toward third base.

They had benched their power hitter for a guy who could lay down a bunt. They were so determined to move the tying run to third and the winning run to second. It was the textbook choice, really. They weren’t even trying to hide their strategy.

If I’d had my old teammates from my previous life, our infield would’ve executed a beautiful bunt shift and possibly thrown out the runner advancing to second.

But I wasn’t going to ask these guys to do something beyond their capabilities. I didn’t even want them to try.

“Kaneko, first base!”

“Fii!”

Just as we’d drilled into him beforehand, Kaneko, our third baseman, ignored the runners and focused entirely on making the play at first. He threw the ball to first, a bit off-target as usual, but our first baseman stretched out and managed to catch it. The batter-runner was out.

Stop making everything so nerve-wracking, Kaneko! And your little yelp when you throw isn’t cute!

Now it was one out, with runners on second and third. If the ball slipped through the infield, both runners would score, and we’d lose in a walk-off.

Honestly, if they scored even one run to tie the game, it’d be game over for us. Because—

“…Damn it…!”

Because I was exhausted. There was no way I could pitch in extra innings. Meanwhile, the other team still had pitchers at the national level ready to take the mound. The only way to win was to close out this inning without allowing any runs.

There was only one strategy left.

“Coach, intentional walk!”

We weren’t going to face their fifth batter. We opted for the bases-loaded strategy.

As I’d instructed, the coach signaled for the intentional walk, and the fifth batter was sent to first base.

The image of me, the captain with boundless composure and a broad, forgiving personality that I’d carefully built over the past month, was falling apart. But I had no choice. I didn’t have the luxury for anything else.