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.

Two days passed in a blur of whispers and sidelong glances. I'd barely seen Maddox since he'd carried Nadia away from our celebration. The team headquarters felt different now—hostile territory where I was the outsider.

I sat in the team's conference room, my hands folded neatly in my lap as I waited for the meeting to begin. The other players filtered in, their eyes carefully avoiding mine. Axe, who had once called me their "little support goddess," now wouldn't even look in my direction.

"Let's get started," Maddox's voice cut through the silence as he strode into the room, a folder tucked under his arm. He didn't sit beside me as usual, but chose a chair across the table.

I straightened my spine, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Maddox, before we begin, I wanted to discuss the lineup for the upcoming—"

"We're not discussing that today." His tone was clipped, final. "I've made some decisions regarding team composition."

The room went deadly quiet. Even our coach, who usually dominated strategy meetings, sat back with an uncomfortable expression.

"Nadia will be joining the active roster," Maddox announced, his eyes sweeping across the room before landing briefly on me. "She'll be taking over as starting Support."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "But the World Championship qualifiers start next week," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "We've been training together for months. My stats—"

"Your stats?" Maddox's eyebrow arched. "You think this is about numbers?"

I pulled up my performance metrics on my tablet, sliding it across the table. "I'm consistently at 300 APM in tournament play. My healing efficiency is 28% higher than league average. I've memorized every champion's skill cooldown—"

"And Nadia is dying." His voice cracked slightly. "This is her dying wish—to play with us again before she..."

The room fell silent. I looked around at my teammates, searching for allies, but found only averted gazes.

"Her wish doesn't have to be my demotion," I said quietly. "We could rotate positions, or—"

"How can you be so heartless?" Maddox's voice rose sharply. "She doesn't have much time left, Myla. Can't you understand that?"

I stared at him, stunned by the accusation. "Heartless? I've given everything to this team—to you."

"Then prove it," he snapped. "Be supportive. Be a team player."

I felt something crack inside me—not my heart, but something deeper, more fundamental. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and opened my private journal app.

Strike 1, I typed.

---

Three hours later, Maddox's assistant called me into his office. I stood in the doorway, hesitating at the threshold. The room felt different—colder somehow, despite the warm afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.

"Close the door," Maddox said without looking up from his desk.

I did as instructed, then remained standing silently until he finally raised his eyes to mine.

"We need to talk about the engagement party," he said, his tone businesslike.

My stomach twisted. "What about it?"

"It's canceled." He said it so casually, as if he were declining a lunch invitation rather than dismantling our future. "The venue and arrangements will be used for something else."

"Something else?" My voice sounded distant to my own ears.

"A commitment ceremony." He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "For Nadia and me."

The room seemed to tilt sideways. "I don't understand."

"Nadia doesn't have much time left," he explained, as if speaking to a child. "I want to give her this happiness before she—" His voice broke. "Before she leaves us again."

"So you're canceling our engagement to... what? Marry her?"

"Not a legal marriage," he clarified quickly. "A commitment ceremony. Something beautiful and meaningful."

I felt bile rising in my throat. "And what do you expect from me?"

His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of the man I'd thought I knew. "I need you to be there. To support this."

"Support this?" I repeated numbly.

"As Maid of Honor," he added, the words falling between us like stones.

I took a step backward, my hand finding the wall for support. "You want me to stand beside you while you promise yourself to another woman?"

"It would mean a lot to Nadia," he said, his voice softening into the persuasive tone he used for sponsor negotiations. "And it would show team unity."

"Team unity," I echoed hollowly.

"Myla." His voice hardened slightly. "Don't forget what you owe me."

The unspoken threat hung in the air between us. My grandmother's medical bills. The debt that could never truly be repaid.

"Fine," I whispered, pulling out my phone again.

Strike 10, I typed with trembling fingers.

As I turned to leave, Maddox called after me: "Oh, and Myla? Wear something blue. It's Nadia's favorite color."

I didn't respond. I couldn't. Because if I opened my mouth, I knew I would scream until there was nothing left of me at all.

The Los Angeles hotel ballroom glittered with fairy lights and champagne towers, a perfect backdrop for what should have been my engagement party. Instead, I stood in a blue dress—Nadia's favorite color, as Maddox had reminded me—holding the train of her white gown as she posed for photos with my fiancé.

"Ready for the cake cutting?" The photographer adjusted his lens, gesturing to the elaborate five-tier masterpiece that dominated the center of the room.

I nodded mechanically, my fingers clutching the delicate fabric of Nadia's dress. The weight of her train felt like chains in my hands.

"Smile, Myla," Maddox whispered, his hand briefly touching my elbow. "This is a celebration."

A celebration of what? I wondered. The end of everything I'd worked for?

As we approached the cake table, Nadia leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. "Your grandmother was such a charity case," she whispered, her voice sweet as poison. "Did Maddox tell you he only helped her because he felt sorry for you?"

I stiffened, my grip tightening on her train. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Her eyes glittered with malice. "Why else would he keep you around? You're convenient, Myla. Disposable."

Before I could respond, her ankle twisted against mine—a deliberate movement so subtle no one else would notice. I felt myself falling forward, my hands reaching out instinctively to break my fall.

The cake exploded in a burst of white frosting and strawberry filling. The crowd gasped as I landed face-first in the destruction of what should have been my wedding cake.

"Oh my God!" Nadia's voice rose in perfect distress. "She pushed me! Did you see that? She pushed me into the cake!"

"I didn't—" I started, struggling to rise from the mess.

"Myla!" Maddox's voice cut through the chaos like a whip. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

His face was thunderous as he helped Nadia away from the disaster zone, cradling her as if I'd physically assaulted her. "Are you hurt, baby?"

"I'm shaking," she sobbed into his chest, her body trembling with what looked like genuine fear. "She's always been jealous of us."

Maddox's eyes found mine, cold with disappointment. "Clean yourself up," he ordered. "And apologize to everyone for ruining the party."

The room spun around me, faces blurring into a sea of pity and judgment. I stumbled toward the bathroom, frosting dripping from my hair and dress.

In the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, I stared at my reflection—a stranger covered in pink cake and humiliation. With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone.

Strike 25, I typed into my journal app.

---

Back in Seattle three days later, I rummaged through my locker at the team headquarters, searching for my grandmother's vintage silver locket. It was my most treasured possession—the only thing I had left of her besides memories.

"It's not here," I muttered, emptying the contents onto the bench. "It has to be somewhere."

A teammate passing by paused. "Looking for something?"

"My grandmother's locket," I said, not looking up. "A small silver one with filigree edges. Have you seen it?"

He shook his head. "Try the lost and found."

But it wasn't there either. For two days, I searched everywhere—my apartment, the training rooms, even the gym locker area. Nothing.

On the third day, I got a notification from my banking app. A charge from a local jeweler I'd never visited before.

Something cold settled in my stomach as I walked into the shop, the bell above the door tinkling softly.

"Can I help you find something?" The jeweler smiled politely.

"I'm looking for a silver locket," I said. "With filigree edges. It might have been brought in recently."

His eyes widened slightly. "Oh yes, the vintage piece. It was beautiful work—antique silver with intricate detailing."

"Where is it?" My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.

"I'm afraid it's been melted down," he said apologetically. "The gentleman who brought it in commissioned a custom setting for a diamond ring."

The door opened behind me, and I turned to see Maddox standing there, a small velvet box in his hand.

"Myla," he said, surprise evident in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"My locket," I whispered. "Where is it?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I took it."

"Took it?" The words felt foreign on my tongue.

"The silver was perfect for what I needed," he explained, opening the velvet box to reveal a stunning diamond ring nestled in an intricate silver setting. "Nadia wanted something with history, with meaning."

I stared at the ring—at the melted remains of my grandmother's locket now holding a diamond for another woman.

"You weren't using it anyway," Maddox added, as if that justified everything.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I simply walked past him and out into the street.

Strike 67, I typed into my phone as the door closed behind me.