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.

I watched from the sidelines as Nadia's Soraka danced recklessly across the map, positioning herself exactly where the enemy team could see her. Our ADC, Rocket, had been yelling into his headset for the past ten minutes.

"Support, where are you? I need heals!"

Nadia ignored him, chasing after an enemy champion who was clearly baiting her. The result was predictable—Rocket's Lucian went down in flames for the fourth time that scrimmage.

"What the hell, Nadia?" Rocket slammed his keyboard. "You're feeding them my kills!"

I bit my lip, knowing what would happen next. Sure enough, when the team gathered for the replay analysis, everyone's eyes turned to me.

"Your positioning was terrible, Myla," Axe said, his voice cold as he pointed at the screen. "You were distracting comms."

"I didn't say anything," I replied quietly. "I wasn't even playing."

"Exactly!" Nadia chimed in, her voice dripping with false concern. "She was sighing really loudly in the background. It threw me off."

I stared at her in disbelief. The recording showed nothing of the sort, but the team was already nodding in agreement.

"Maybe if you weren't so negative," our coach added, avoiding my eyes, "we wouldn't be struggling."

I looked around the room at the faces of men who had once called me their "little support goddess." Now they couldn't even meet my gaze. I'd seen the way they clustered around Nadia after practice, how they laughed at her jokes that weren't funny, how they accepted the "family tech stocks" she'd promised them.

"Whatever you say," I murmured, gathering my things.

As I left the training room, I heard Nadia's voice drop to a whisper. "She's just jealous because Maddox chose me."

I found myself eating lunch alone in the stairwell, away from their whispered conversations and meaningful glances. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone.

Strike 68, I typed into my journal app.

---

The call came at 2:17 AM.

"Myla." Maddox's voice was barely recognizable, thick with pain. "I need you."

I found him curled on his bathroom floor, hands pressed against his temples. The migraine had hit him hard—his face was pale and sweaty, eyes bloodshot.

"Where's Nadia?" I asked, kneeling beside him.

"She can't..." He gasped as another wave of pain hit him. "She doesn't know how to..."

Of course she didn't. The specific acupressure technique that eased his migraines was one I'd learned over months of practice, memorizing the exact pressure points that could break through the pain.

I positioned my fingers at the base of his skull, applying steady pressure. "Breathe with me," I instructed softly.

As the tension began to ease from his body, Maddox's hand caught mine. His eyes, usually so distant lately, focused on my face with an intensity that made my heart stutter.

"I miss you," he whispered, his voice rough. "I miss us."

For a moment, I allowed myself to believe him. His hand slid up my arm, his lips hovering near mine. The air between us charged with something I'd thought was dead.

Then the intercom buzzed.

"Maddox?" Nadia's voice was small and frightened. "I had a nightmare. Can you come?"

Maddox froze, the connection between us snapping like a thread cut by scissors.

"That's enough," he said, pulling away from me. "Thank you for your help."

I watched him walk out, his steps already quickening with urgency to reach her. The door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed in the empty room.

Strike 75, I typed into my phone.

---

I stood in the doorway of the gaming house, staring at the pile of my belongings on the front lawn. My clothes, books, and gaming equipment had been unceremoniously dumped on the grass, still damp with morning dew.

"What's going on?" I asked as Maddox emerged from the house, his face hard as granite.

He thrust his phone toward me. "Explain this."

The screen showed photos of me entering a hotel room—specifically, the hotel where our rival team was staying.

"That's not what it looks like," I said quickly. "I was visiting my cousin. She's sick with pneumonia."

"Your cousin who plays for Team Apex?" His voice was cold with disgust.

"She's not on their active roster. She works in their content department."

Maddox's jaw tightened. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Look at the timestamps," I pleaded. "I was there for less than twenty minutes. If I was sharing strategies, wouldn't it have been longer?"

He refused to look at the timestamps. "You're a traitor, Myla. Get off my property."

The security guard approached, keys in hand. "Ms. Hill's access has been revoked," Maddox informed him. "And she's banned from all strategy meetings until further notice."

I gathered my things from the lawn, dignity the only possession they couldn't take from me. That night, I made a bed for myself in the equipment storage room, surrounded by boxes of team merchandise and spare gaming chairs.

As I curled up on the hard floor, I pulled out my phone one last time.

Strike 77, I typed, tears blurring my vision.

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.