Liam Vale

Liam had read the blog three times before practice.

Not because he needed to.

Because it was good.

FRESHMAN PHENOMS: THE VALE TWINS MAY BE THE MISSING PIECE FOR BASTIAN’S TITLE RUN.

Missing piece.

That was new language.

For the last three seasons, Bastian College had come close—painfully close. Two regional finals. One conference championship appearance that ended in a ninth-inning collapse. A super regional loss that still got replayed in preseason hype videos like a scar.

Close didn’t hang banners.

Close didn’t erase the drought.

And now the program had decided the solution was two eighteen-year-olds.

Liam lay across his dorm bed, phone above his face, scrolling through the NCAA baseball blog while Ethan sat at his desk tightening the laces on his cleats. The late afternoon sun lit the posters rolled against the wall—unused extras from the marketing department that someone had “accidentally” let the twins keep.

Vale & Vale
The Future Is Now
Chasing What’s Ours

Subtlety had left the building months ago.

The blog explained it plainly.

Bastian’s alumni collective had poured money into its NIL program this year—Name, Image, and Likeness deals that allowed athletes to earn income for endorsements, sponsorships, social media promotions, and appearances. Technically, the NCAA wasn’t paying them. The school wasn’t paying them.

But boosters were.

Local businesses were.

A regional sports apparel startup had signed Liam and Ethan to a joint deal before they’d even moved into their dorm. They filmed promo shoots. Signed baseballs at a car dealership grand opening. Recorded a “day in the life” for the athletic department’s social channels.

It wasn’t professional money.

But it was real.

Enough to matter.

Enough to create expectations.

The blog didn’t say it outright, but the subtext was obvious: Bastian hadn’t just recruited them.

They’d invested in them.

“The Vale twins are not just a recruiting win,” the article read. “They represent Bastian’s aggressive shift into the NIL era—leveraging star power to build championship momentum.”

Liam grinned.

Star power.

Across the room, Ethan adjusted one hearing aid absentmindedly and looked up.

“What?” Ethan asked.

Liam flipped the phone around. “We’re momentum now.”

Ethan stood and walked over, reading the screen carefully. His eyes always tracked left to right with deliberate focus. Not because he couldn’t hear Liam. He could. The hearing aids were in, calibrated.

But Ethan liked certainty. He liked confirming tone with text.

“They’re putting pressure on us,” Ethan said.

“They’re putting pressure on everyone,” Liam corrected. “We’re just the headline.”

Bastian’s championship drought hovered over everything. It was in the locker room. In the weight room. In the way Coach ended every speech with some version of finish what they couldn’t.

Upperclassmen had carried that weight for years.

Now it was being transferred.

Liam didn’t resent it.

He wanted it.

In the locker room, a TV replayed last season’s elimination game—again. Bases loaded. Two outs. A line drive that should have been caught.

It wasn’t.

The senior shortstop looked away from the screen when Liam and Ethan walked in.

“You guys see the blog?” someone asked.

“Hard to miss,” Liam said, tossing his bag into his locker.

“They’re calling you the missing piece.”

Liam shrugged. “Guess we better not be missing.”

There were chuckles. Some tight.

NIL had changed things.

It wasn’t just about earning money. It changed hierarchy. Freshmen used to enter quietly. Earn stripes. Wait their turn.

Now, if you brought visibility, if you brought endorsement value, if your name trended on recruiting boards—you started.

Or you were expected to.

Bastian’s athletic department had leaned into it hard. Media days before fall ball. Custom graphics. Sponsored posts. A coordinated release when the twins signed their NIL deal with Champion Baseball Collective—a booster-backed brand that funneled appearance fees and marketing partnerships to high-profile athletes.

Liam didn’t pretend to be above it.

He liked seeing his name attached to things.

Ethan approached it differently.

He showed up to the appearances. Shook hands. Signed gear. Filmed the content. Then he went back to the cage and hit until his palms blistered.

He didn’t perform confidence.

He built it.

At practice, the energy felt sharper.

Reporters stood beyond the fence. Not many—but enough. Phones angled. Cameras ready.

“Get used to it,” Coach had said on day one. “You wanted big-time ball. This is what it looks like.”

Liam took the mound during bullpen, rolling his shoulders once before firing the first pitch.

Pop.

Ninety-five.

The catcher’s glove snapped loud enough to draw attention from the next field.

Liam fed off it. The whispers. The eyes tracking his mechanics. The knowledge that every throw was data now—velocity charts, spin metrics, breakdown clips uploaded before dinner.

He struck out three of the first four batters in live rotation.

When he stepped off the mound, he didn’t look at the radar gun.

He didn’t need to.

Ethan took center field during scrimmage reps. Light on his feet. Reading the ball off the bat like it offended him personally.

A line drive sliced deep left-center.

Ethan was already moving.

Full sprint. Perfect angle. Glove up.

Out.

He didn’t celebrate.

Just tossed it back in.

Coach watched them both with something close to relief.

That was the unspoken truth.

Bastian wasn’t just chasing a championship.

They were chasing relevance.

The conference had grown brutal. Two rival programs had already reached Omaha in the last five years. Bastian had stalled just short, season after season.

Close.

Almost.

Not enough.

Now the banners around campus didn’t say “almost.”

They said:

This Is The Year.

As practice ended, a small group of students lingered by the fence.

“Vale!” one called.

Liam jogged over easily.

“You signing stuff?”

He flashed a grin. “Depends. You buying the sponsored merch?”

Laughter.

Ethan joined him a moment later, quiet but present. A kid handed him a ball. Ethan signed it cleanly, focused, then met the kid’s eyes and nodded once.

No theatrics.

Just assurance.

On the walk back to the dorms, Liam checked his phone again.

Another repost.

Another comment.

Championship or bust.

He felt that settle in his chest—not heavy.

Charged.

“They think we’re the solution,” Liam said.

Ethan walked beside him, steady pace, hands relaxed.

“Are we?” Ethan asked.

Liam didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He believed it.

Not because the blog said so.

Not because boosters were paying.

Not because their faces hung from light poles around campus.

But because pressure never scared him.

It sharpened him.

Bastian had been close for years.

Close was done.

This season, they weren’t here to be promising.

They were here to finish it.

And Liam intended to make sure everyone watching got exactly what they paid for.