Coach B clicked.
The screen didn’t change all at once. It layered.
Heat maps merged with payroll data. Umpire assignments aligned with broadcast schedules. Internal memos surfaced—nothing damning, nothing criminal—just language about “maintaining competitive narratives” and “protecting marquee moments.”
Baseball wasn’t fixed.
It was managed.
Coach B felt something crack—not outrage, but grief. He thought about the speeches he’d given rookies. About earning everything. About the purity of failure.
A week later, the league office called.
Friendly. Polite.
“We like how your team plays,” the voice said. “Very… marketable.”
Coach B stared at the field through his office window while they talked.
Marketable.
That night, he realized the knowledge wouldn’t leave him alone.