The huddle formed slowly.
Not ordered. Not rehearsed. Players moved in small circles toward Jake, some kneeling, others crouched, heads bowed against the cold. Steam curled from their mouths, and breath fogged the air like smoke from something still burning.
Silva leaned forward on his thighs, hair stuck to his forehead. Roney sat in silence, his bottle crushed halfway in his grip. Lowe sat cross-legged, staring straight ahead as if still scanning passing lanes. Chapman bounced once but didn't speak. Walsh stood behind them all, hands clasped behind his back.
Munteanu remained just outside, pacing. Gloves tucked under his arms, his eyes were distant.
Jake stepped into the middle, slowly. No clipboard. No shouts.
Just silence.
He looked at each of them.
Rojas glanced up, then looked away. Costa scratched his knee, his face unreadable. The wind pushed softly through the dugout, and even the crowd seemed to quiet—not silent, but waiting.
Jake let the moment linger.
