Chapter Three: The Last-Place Club's Secret Adviser

Cheng's new badge still said International Affairs Interpreter. But when Lin Wan threw a tablet onto his desk, she did not ask about Japanese. “Why did you know the catcher would throw wild?” The Tides' analytics room had been converted from a closet. Pitch charts covered the walls; bottled water crowded a corner. At twenty-seven, silver-rimmed glasses over sharp eyes, Lin was the youngest chief analyst in the league. “The third baseman had to recover after charging. The catcher's throwing window narrowed,” Cheng said. “That explains urgency, not certainty.” “Luck.” She froze the video on the moment his nose bled. “Does your luck usually rupture blood vessels?” “I don't recall a nasal-health clause in my contract.”