The harsh fluorescent lights of the ER buzzed overhead as consciousness slowly returned to me. My body felt heavy, disconnected, as if I were floating above myself. The steady beep of monitors and antiseptic smell grounded me back to reality.
I tried to move, but my limbs refused to cooperate. A dull ache radiated from my wrist where an IV needle pierced my skin. What happened? Why was I here?
Fragments of memory drifted back—the cold storage room where I'd been sleeping, the mandatory streaming session, the way the room had tilted sideways as darkness claimed me.
"Maddox?" I whispered, my throat raw.
He was there, sitting in a chair by the window, but he wasn't looking at me. His eyes were fixed on his phone screen, fingers scrolling rapidly.
"You're awake," he said without turning. His voice lacked warmth, as if my consciousness was merely an inconvenience.
"What happened?" I managed, struggling to sit up.
"You collapsed during the stream." He finally looked at me, but his expression was more irritated than concerned. "You scared everyone. Especially Nadia."
Of course. Nadia. Even here, even now, her name was the first on his lips.
"I'm sorry," I whispered automatically, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for—existing? Needing medical attention?
Maddox stood abruptly. "Nadia scratched her arm when you fell. She's terrified of blood."
I glanced down at my own body, noting the bruise forming on my forearm, the bandage wrapped around my wrist where the IV entered my vein.
"She needs antibiotic ointment," he continued, already moving toward the door. "I'm going to get some."
"Maddox," I called weakly. "Could you stay? Just for a minute?"
He paused at the threshold, his back to me. "The doctor said you just need rest. You'll be fine."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with machines that monitored vital signs he didn't care to check.
I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers.
Strike 89, I typed.
---
"I promise we'll do it someday," Maddox said, his voice soft with what sounded like genuine emotion. "Just us. No spectacle. No Nadia."
We were in his car, the rain drumming against the windshield. After weeks of sleeping in the storage room, of being treated like a ghost in my own team, this promise felt like a lifeline.
"You want to marry me?" I asked incredulously.
"Secretly," he clarified quickly. "At the courthouse. Just to make it legal."
I should have known better. Should have recognized the trap.
"I'll meet you at the courthouse steps tomorrow at noon," he said, dropping me off at the corner near my apartment. "Wear something blue. It's... it's traditional."
Blue. Always blue for Nadia.
The next day, I stood on those courthouse steps for three hours, rain soaking through my cheap blue dress. My phone remained silent until 3:17 PM.
"Can't make it. Nadia had a panic attack. Go home."
No apology. No reschedule. Just dismissal.
I scrolled through Instagram while waiting for a bus, my hands shaking as I found his story: Maddox and Nadia at an ice cream shop, her laughing as he fed her a spoonful of chocolate.
Strike 96.
---
The grocery bag cut into my fingers as I walked home through the quiet neighborhood. Two days before the World Championship qualifiers, and I was buying my own food because I'd been banned from team meals.
The alley was a shortcut I'd taken dozens of times. Tonight, it felt different—too quiet, too dark.
"Hey there, pretty girl."
Two men stepped from the shadows. I clutched my grocery bag tighter, heart hammering against my ribs.
"I don't want trouble," I said, backing away slowly.
"Neither does she," the taller one replied, gesturing to his partner. "But sometimes trouble finds you anyway."
They moved with purpose, not interested in my wallet or phone. One grabbed my arm while the other twisted my right hand—my mouse hand—backward with sickening precision.
"No!" I screamed as pain exploded through my fingers.
The first crack echoed in the narrow space. Then another. And another.
"Stop!" I begged, tears streaming down my face. "Please!"
"Nadia sends her regards," one whispered as they released me.
I crumpled to the ground, my right hand throbbing with blinding agony. The grocery bag lay spilled beside me, milk pooling in a white puddle on the concrete.
Somehow, I dragged myself to the clinic. X-rays confirmed what I already knew: multiple fractures, ligament damage, possibly permanent nerve injury.
Strike 97.
---
"You did this to yourself." Maddox's voice was cold as he paced the gaming house living room. "For attention."
I sat on the couch, my hand encased in a bulky cast, evidence of my "self-harm" visible to everyone.
"No," I whispered. "I was attacked."
"By whom?" Nadia asked sweetly from her perch on the arm of Maddox's chair. "What did they steal? Your wallet? Your phone?"
"Nothing," I admitted. "They just—"
"Exactly!" Maddox snapped. "Because it never happened."
Nadia leaned forward, her voice dripping with false concern. "Myla, honey, we're worried about you. First the fainting, now this... drama."
I looked around the room at my teammates—men who had once called me family—now nodding along with Nadia's assessment.
"I need you to issue a public apology," Maddox said, sliding his phone toward me. "For inciting violence. For careless behavior that's affecting team morale."
I stared at the pre-written statement, the words blurring through my tears.
"If you refuse," he added quietly, "I'll have to revisit those old medical bills. Your grandmother's care was expensive."
With my left hand, I took the phone. With my left hand, I typed my name at the bottom of the lie.
As I hit send, I felt something inside me finally break free.
Strike 98.
