The roar of the crowd still echoed in my ears as the last of the digital confetti fell from the ceiling, glittering like stars against the darkened ceiling of our team headquarters. We'd done it—secured our spot in the national championship with a near-perfect run through the regional qualifier.
"You were amazing out there," I said to Maddox, my fingers instinctively reaching for his hand. "That final Baron steal was—"
"Unbelievable, right?" He squeezed my hand, his eyes still bright with the rush of victory. "I knew we could do it."
The rest of The Titans swarmed around us, their excitement infectious. Axe, our tank player, lifted me into a bear hug that nearly crushed my ribs. "Our little support goddess!" he shouted, spinning me around before setting me down.
I laughed, catching my balance against Maddox's solid chest. For a moment, I allowed myself to believe this was real—that I belonged here, that I was more than just a debt to be paid.
"Champagne for everyone!" Maddox announced, gesturing to the team manager who was already wheeling in a cart laden with ice buckets and bottles.
I watched as he moved through the room, clapping shoulders and exchanging high-fives with our sponsors and staff. This was his element—the victorious team owner, the star player, the man who had built The Titans from nothing into one of the most formidable teams in North America.
My phone buzzed with a notification. Strike 23, I typed into my private journal app, recording another small humiliation. Maddox had forgotten to acknowledge my contribution to the winning strategy during his impromptu press conference. Not that it mattered. I was used to being overshadowed.
"Everyone gather around!" Maddox called out, his voice cutting through the celebratory noise. "I want to toast to our victory!"
The team formed a loose circle, champagne flutes in hand. I stood slightly apart, as always—close enough to be included, but never quite at the center.
"To The Titans," Maddox began, his voice warm with pride. "To the best team in—"
A soft knock at the door interrupted him.
"Probably another reporter," muttered our coach, moving to answer it.
But the person who stood in the doorway wasn't a reporter.
She was a ghost.
A slender woman with pale skin and dark hair stood framed in the doorway, her hand pressed against the frame as if to steady herself. Even from across the room, I could see how fragile she looked—how the light seemed to pass through her almost translucent skin.
"Nadia?" Maddox's voice cracked, his champagne flute slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor.
The name hit me like a physical blow. Nadia Morris. The woman Maddox had loved and lost. The woman whose supposed death had haunted him for years.
"Hello, Maddox," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry to interrupt your celebration."
She took a step forward, and I watched as her knees buckled beneath her. Without thinking, I moved toward her, but Maddox was already there, catching her before she hit the floor.
"Nadia!" The panic in his voice was raw, primal. "What happened? How are you here?"
"I never died," she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed as she collapsed against his chest. "I had to fake it... to protect you..."
Maddox's face had gone white with shock. "Protect me? From what?"
"From watching me die." Her voice was faint, each word seeming to cost her tremendous effort. "The doctors gave me months to live... but I found an experimental treatment... in Switzerland..."
I stood frozen, watching as Maddox cradled her against his chest like something infinitely precious. The confetti that had been falling for our victory now seemed to mock me as it settled on his shoulders, on her dark hair.
"You need to rest," he said urgently, lifting her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. "The VIP lounge—it's quiet there."
Without a glance in my direction, he carried her away, leaving me standing alone in the midst of our celebration. The champagne in my glass trembled slightly as my hand shook.
"Myla?" Axe's voice was uncertain beside me. "You okay?"
I nodded mechanically, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat.
"She looks just like her photos," someone whispered nearby. "I thought she was dead for sure."
"Maybe she came back because of the engagement," another voice replied. "You know, to stop the wedding."
The engagement. Our engagement. The one Maddox had proposed just three weeks ago in front of the entire team.
I watched as he disappeared down the hallway, carrying his lost love away from me, away from everything we'd built together. The confetti continued to fall around me, each piece a tiny dagger of light against my skin.
Strike 24, I typed into my phone with numb fingers.
But this felt different from all the others. This felt like the beginning of the end.
